48 onwards…
1
Blackmailed by the Boss
By Raye Morgan
3
2*
Getting to Yes
By Allie Pleiter
25
3*
Dirty Secrets of Daylily Drive
By Stephanie Bond
42
4
Falcon's Revenge
By Rita Herron
69
5
The Promise
By Debra Webb
95
6
The Last Chance Lord
By Miranda Jarrett
124
7*
The Cinderella Valentine
By Liz Fielding
139
8*
Rosa
By Maggie Cox
150
9*
When Do the Fireworks Start, Anyway?
By Stevi Mittman
167
10*
Welcome to Tulips
By Tina Leonard
193
11
Tomorrow's Baby
By Tara Taylor Quinn
221
12
Snow Emergency
By Laura Iding
246
13*
In the Event of My Death
By Michele Hauf
260
14*
Unwound
By Rhonda Nelson
282
15*
Sorsha's Secret
By Deborah Hale
307
16*
Sweet Refrain
By Felicia Mason
326
17*
Knight of Passion
By Margaret Moore
345
18*
Hope in a Handbag
By Annie Jones
365
19*
Midnight Reunion
By Anna DePalo
390
20*
False Idols
By Jenna Mills
409
21*
The Hunt Begins
By Dana Marton
427
22*
The Diamond
By Diane Gaston
453
23*
Jury Duty
By Ariella Papa
480
24*
Before Blue Twilight
By Maggie Shayne
500
25*
Hooked on a Feeling
By Colleen Collins
523
26*
Ill Met by Moonlight
By C. E. Murphy
546
27*
Asylum Hunter
By Erica Orloff
563
28*
Miss Independence
By Susan Meier
576
29*
Bedtime Battles
By Meredith Efken
599
30*
Spicing It Up
By Wendy Etherington
645
31
Miss Personality
By Leslie Kelly
670
32*
End Game
By Loreth Anne White
684
33*
The Laws of Love
By Debra Salonen
709
34*
Season of Wonder
By Marta Perry
731
35*
A Home for Christmas
By Laura Marie Altom
754
36*
The Wild's Call
By Jeri Smith-Ready
771
37*
The Christmas Crush
By Pamela Toth
804
38*
A McCabe's Valentine
By Cathy Gillen Thacker
822
39*
Cowboy to the Rescue
By Dianne Castell
853
40*
Shadows of Blanchard Manor
By Lenora Worth
877
41
Puppy Love
By Victoria Pade
906
42*
The Wrong Side of the Law
By Mallory Kane
931
1
43*
Promises Kept
By Kristi Gold
957
44*
Never Too Late
By Brenda Jackson
980
Till 91
* eHarlequin, US
rest of them Mills and Boon, UK
2
Blackmailed by the Boss by Raye Morgan Chynna owes everything she has to her older sister, Melinda. So when Melinda asks her to sneak into Trent Payton's office one night to retrieve a file she left behind, Chynna can't say no. When Trent unexpectedly returns to the office, catching Chynna red-handed, he offers Chynna a choice — agree to his terms or face arrest for burglary. His request seems simple enough — accompany him to a party, pretend to be in love with him, and he'll forget all about the incident. Trent just needs an escort for one night, to convince his mother that her attempts to marry him off to an heiress of her choice won't work. Finding Chynna in his office offers him the perfect opportunity. Imagine their surprise when they find it easy to pretend to be in love — so easy that it's difficult to stop when the night is over... Chapter One Chynna Braden stopped and listened, her heart beating wildly. Had she heard an elevator stop? She waited in the gloom of the empty room, but she didn’t hear another sound. She was all alone in an executive office at Kane Haley, Inc., and it was definitely after hours. The building was deserted. She squinted into the dim light. Did they call this breaking and entering? Well, entering, anyway — entering handsome director of legal services Trent Payton’s office when she shouldn’t even be on this floor. "Oh, Melinda," she muttered, half in despair, half in amusement. Her irrepressible sister always managed to put her into sticky situations like this. It happened all the time. Melinda got into messes and Chynna got her out of them. "Just look for a green folder with a plastic clip at the top," Melinda had told her, anxiously wringing her hands. "If you can manage to bring that folder to me, you’ll save my life!" "And risk losing my own in the process," Chynna murmured after bumping into a sharp corner and bruising her knee. She clicked on the little flashlight she’d brought along and shined the feeble beam around the walls, looking for the filing cabinets. A ray of light fell on a picture of Trent Payton with Kane Haley, the owner and president of the accounting firm and she paused for a moment, studying it. The two had been college roommates, from what she’d heard, and they looked like men who had a strong bond of affection between them. They were both tall, dark-haired, and good-looking, but something in Trent appealed to her in an inexplicable way. Something in his eyes, something in the way his mouth twisted, something in his face, all told her he didn’t trust life to be fair — that he didn’t give his heart easily. But it was silly for her to be thinking that way. She’d seen the man from a distance, but she didn’t know him at all. And from what her sister, who had worked as his administrative assistant for a short time, had told her, he was as vain and arrogant as they came. Still, there was something in his eyes.… A small clicking sound made her jump, but it was just the air-conditioning system coming on and she collected herself. She had to get this done! Quickly, she moved toward the wooden filing cabinet, hoping the drawers weren’t locked. The first drawer pulled open with no problem, but the orderly files didn’t include any hint of green. She tried the second drawer, then the third, and finally hit pay dirt. There it was, right at the back behind the tightly packed folders. She reached out to take it and her fingers actually touched the clip for a fraction of a second. And then a larger, darker hand grabbed hers. Her flashlight went flying and she let out a shriek.
3
"Looking for something, Melinda?" The lights came on and the room spun as she whirled. Her gaze rose, taking in the impeccable Italian suit, the crisp white shirt, the extravagantly wide shoulders, the smooth, tan skin…and finally stared up into Trent Payton’s cool blue gaze. There was certainly nothing appealing in his eyes now! Chapter Two The beautiful intruder had stunning green eyes and Trent saw the startled look in them change with quick intelligence as she got her bearings. "Melinda?" she said innocently, blinking at him. "Sorry, I’m not Melinda. You must have the wrong office." And she turned to go, head in the air. His flash of original anger faded, replaced by a sense of grudging admiration for her cheek. But he wasn’t about to let her get away with it. She brushed past him, leaving a trail of rose-flavored scent as she moved, but he reached out and took possession of her upper arm before she got out the door. "Nice try," he said, pulling her back and speaking in a low voice very near her ear. "But not quite good enough." She glanced up at him and he noted once again that she did look a lot like a certain Melinda Braden who had worked in this office with him for a couple of months. Where Melinda’s beauty had been all flash and no substance, this one had a softer, quieter charm; still, they looked very much alike. He had no doubt that had been Melinda’s file she had been reaching for. Most likely, she was cut from the same con-artist cloth. "Who are you?" he demanded. She hesitated, gaze flickering toward the doorway and escape. "I’m not accustomed to giving my name to strangers," she began, but he cut her off with a rude oath. "I just caught you burglarizing my office." "I was not burglarizing your office," she said indignantly, her eyes shining with offended innocence. "Now please let me go." "Not so fast," he murmured, his gaze trailing down the graceful curve of her neck and back again. Her eyes were wary, hiding any emotions behind a calm facade. The thick curls of her blond hair were rebelling against the professional twist she’d tried to tame them with and wiry strands were escaping all around her pretty face. Despite everything, she had a look he liked. For just a moment, he almost felt as though a part of him yearned for something he saw in her. But that was pure fancy and he shrugged it away. Sentiments like that didn’t fit with his cynical view of relationships. "Yearning" was for chumps. Still, he knew she was more his type than the women he was going to be meeting tonight at the cocktail party his mother had arranged. Margaret Payton wanted her son married and she was sparing no expense. She was also forcing him to deal with an endless string of eligible yet unappealing women and demanding he choose one to spend his life with. If only more of them looked like this one. "I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait here while I contact Security." He reached for the telephone with his free hand. "I’m sure they’ll want to notify the police about an intruder in the building."
4
She caught her breath, her eyes luminous, visions of her job going down the drain creating nightmares in her head. "Please…please don’t." He gazed at her coolly. "Give me a reason not to." She hesitated and he shrugged and resumed punching in the number. Mercy wasn’t in the cards, no matter how much her soft curves and pretty face appealed to him. Chapter Three Chynna grabbed Trent’s hand, stopping him before he’d finished the number. "I’m not an intruder," she insisted. "I…I work here." He cocked a skeptical eyebrow. A face like this he would have noticed. "Identify yourself." Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze. "I’m Chynna Braden. I’m a designer, doing the decorating in the new day care center. I just started this week." "Ah." He replaced the receiver, his dark eyes scanning hers. "You’re related to Melinda, aren’t you?" She nodded, looking stubborn but resigned. "I know she worked for you." "For a few weeks, yes." His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were still filled with the wary cynicism she’d noticed in the picture. "I suppose you were just sightseeing then? Taking a look at where your sister once worked?" She looked into his face with hope, but immediately saw that he was mocking her. "I’ve told you who I am. You can see that I’m not a threat to you in any way. Why don’t you let me go?" The fingers that held her arm moved, feeling more like a caress than a punishment. A tiny shiver slithered down her spine. Suddenly his smile seemed dangerous in a whole new way. "We’re all alone, you know," he said softly. "The night cleaning crew hasn’t even arrived. Except for Security down on the first floor, there’s only you and me." "That’s exactly what’s worrying me," she retorted, giving him an impudent frown. "You do have a reputation, you know." He stared at her for a moment, and then he laughed aloud. "I have a reputation," he said, chuckling. "You’re the one I caught rifling through my files." He grinned at her. "Are you trying to say we’re a pair of reprobates? Birds of a feather?" She wasn’t trying to say anything at all. She was still too busy trying to recover from the stunning effect his laugh had on her nervous system. He was just too sexy for his own good…well, for her good, at any rate. She could see why her sister had been tempted into having an affair with the man. But that very fact made it doubly imperative that she not do the same. "Well, don’t worry, my fastidious little burglar," he said, his laughter dying away. "I’m not attempting a seduction. I’m only considering a little blackmail." That startled her. "Blackmail?" "Yes." His hand slid down to catch hold of her fingers. "Here’s how it works. Do what I want you to do — or go to jail."
5
She scoffed at him. "No one is going to throw me in jail for visiting your office uninvited," she told him, tugging to get her hand free but having no success. "You think not? Even though the local authorities happen to owe me a favor?" Her shoulders sagged. She knew very well he came from a wealthy and influential family and she had no doubt what he said was true. If he wanted her inconvenienced for a while, she would be inconvenienced. "What do you want me to do?" she asked, glaring at him. "Nothing very terrible," he said soothingly. "All I need is that you come with me to a party I have to attend tonight." She searched his eyes, looking for the catch. "That’s it?" His slow smile reappeared. "No. There’s one more thing." He raised her fingers to his lips. "You have to pretend to be in love with me," he said, just before he kissed them. Chapter Four "You’re crazy," Chynna said breathlessly. She could still feel the kiss on her skin and the area tingled. "I…I can’t do that." "Then you’ll go to jail." Trent finally let go of her fingers and she backed a step away. "Why?" she asked simply. "Why do you want me to do this?" "Because I’m about to walk into the lion’s den," he told her smoothly. "And it occurs to me I could use a shield." She shook her head. "I’m afraid I’m not very good at deciphering riddles. Why don’t you just tell me?" "You’ll figure it out soon enough. But first things first," he added, looking her up and down. "You’ll need to change." "Sorry," she quipped, tossing her head. "I kind of like me the way I am." "Your clothes," he explained patiently. "The party is at the Cascade. Your skirt and sweater aren’t dressy enough." Reaching into a closet at the back of his office, he pulled out a dress and held it up for her to see. "What do you think of this? I’ll bet it will fit." She gasped softly. Turquoise silk as soft as gossamer floated over a royal blue sheath with a snug, beaded bodice. Involuntarily, she reached out to touch it. "Oh," she said softly. "Here. Put it on." She looked up into his eyes and then her chin lifted rebelliously as she backed away. "I haven’t said I would do it yet," she reminded him. He sighed. "You’ll look fantastic in this thing and you know it. Certainly it will look better than prison stripes. Come on, Chynna." His mouth twisted cynically. "Be my love."
6
She flashed him a glare but then bit her lip, thinking. "Tell you what," she said at last. "I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do it if you promise…" She paused. Should she admit what she’d been after? But he probably already had guessed. "If you promise to let me have Melinda’s letters." His eyes were suddenly flat and expressionless as tinted glass. "You mean the contents of the folder you were reaching for?" She nodded. He looked at her quizzically. "There is only one letter in that folder," he said slowly. "And you don’t want to see it. Though I can understand why Melinda might want to get it out of my hands." A wry smile played with the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were cool. "What’s the matter? Doesn’t she trust me?" Chynna flushed. "She would like to have her letter back. If you were a gentleman…" "But I’m not, so the question is moot." He shook his head. "Sorry, Chynna. That folder must stay here in my office. And we need to get to the party." "But…" "Get dressed, Chynna," he said quietly, touching her cheek with his forefinger, setting off a trail of sensation. "We’re late. And I plan to make quite an entrance." Chapter Five The Cascade was a swanky private club and Chynna was very glad she’d worn the blue silk dress — though she assumed it must belong to one of Trent’s many rumored paramours. He had been right — it fit like a glove. And when she’d seen the look in his eyes as she came out of the ladies’ room all ready to go, she’d felt the kind of thrill she used to get as a kid at the fair when the roller coaster went into a steep dive. She glanced at him as they made their way toward the lobby, noting that he looked awfully good himself. Then she had to smile. What a hypocrite she was! After all, if Trent were a troll, she probably would have called his bluff and opted for the cops. But he was attractive. In fact, he was downright gorgeous, and here she was, wondering how a small expedition to retrieve her sister’s love letters had turned into this. They hesitated just outside the entrance. Trent had explained that the party was being given for him by his mother, and Chynna was just a little nervous. Mrs. Payton was famous for her philanthropy — and for her tough exterior. A small orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz against a background of the clinking of expensive crystal mixed with light conversation. Chynna shook her head. The party even sounded upper crust. "Ready?" he asked, folding her hand into the crook of his arm. She looked up into his blue eyes and wrinkled her nose. "I don’t know," she said impishly. "Pretending to be in love with you won’t be easy." He laughed softly and she felt a warm glow spreading deep inside. Funny, but he’d been laughing a lot and she found she really liked it. His humor had improved ever since his eyes had lit up at the sight of her all dressed up. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her like that. It had been a long time since she’d made any attempt to produce that sort of reaction. Her last romance had left her with so much pain, she’d pretty much decided relationships weren’t worth the risk, and she’d dressed accordingly. But Trent was reminding her of what it was like to be admired by an attractive man — how delicious it could be.
7
"If we try real hard," he said, leaning close so that his warm breath tickled her ear, "I think we can work something out. Practice makes perfect." She heard the sensual promise in his tone and she spared him a fleeting smile, though a voice inside was scolding, "You should not be flirting with this man!" and she knew it was right. But she told herself they were just getting in the right mood for the parts they were about to play. And she almost believed it. They swept into the room. For a moment, Chynna was blinded by the flash from the chandeliers, but as her vision cleared, she realized they were strolling into a small crowd that parted like the Red Sea at their approach. And then they were standing in front of a tall, regal woman with iron gray hair and proud blue eyes. "Mother," Trent was saying. "I’d like you to meet someone very special. This is Chynna Braden. She has graciously consented to be my wife." The woman had to be shocked by the news, but she didn’t let it show. "Well, Trent," she said softly. "You might have let me know." "I wanted it to be a surprise," he told her smoothly. "Oh, I’m surprised," Mrs. Payton said, fixing him with a steely glare. "Surprised and utterly unconvinced." Chapter Six Despite her harsh words, Mrs. Payton stretched out a hand and took one of Chynna’s. "Come sit with me, my dear," she said firmly. "I want to get to know you. And I want to hear every detail of your supposed love for my son." Chynna’s heart began to race. She hadn’t been prepared for quite this hostile a reception and she looked to Trent for a rescue. Luckily, he obliged. "Later, Mother," he said, just as firmly as his mother had spoken. "Right now, I think Chynna and I should lead the others in a dance." Chynna noted the look between the two of them and instinct told her she was being thrust into an argument that had been going on long before she arrived. But there was no time for analysis, as Trent was taking her into his arms and she was immediately intoxicated by his clean male scent. For a few minutes the rhythm of the music and the power of his body against hers threatened to send her reeling. But she regained her senses slowly, and as she did, she realized they were the only ones dancing, and that all the others had formed a circle around them and were staring intently. "It’s almost all women," she whispered as she looked around the room. "Trent, what is going on?" "It’s a marriage mart," he told her with a grimace. "My mother’s idea. She’s brought in every eligible woman she could find — daughters of her friends, mostly. I was supposed to pick a bride from among them." She stared up at him. "You’re not serious!" He shrugged lightly, as though it was nothing really out of the ordinary. "I have certain responsibilities, according to my mother. One of them is to marry and procreate. Carry on the family name." His mouth twisted. "Something I have resisted for a good long time. She’s almost as disappointed in that as she is in the fact that I went into law instead of medicine."
8
She let herself relax a little closer to him. "Partial to doctors, is she?" "Definitely. I come from a long line of them." "I see. So you’re a rebel." "I prefer to see myself as an independent thinker." He gave her a quick smile. "But since I failed her there, she thinks I owe her a wife and family. And she is annoyingly proactive about it." Chynna finally thought she understood. "So that is why we’re pretending…." He quickly stopped her words with a kiss and she gasped. "Quiet," he reminded her with a significant look. "The point about pretending is that you do it secretly." Then his gaze dropped to her lips and his eyes darkened. "But to be convincing, we really ought to do more of that kissing," he murmured, and immediately followed through on the suggestion. Chapter Seven This was the pretending part, Chynna reminded herself groggily, yet it was hard to keep that in mind when Trent’s mouth was so hot and his tongue was searching for a response from hers. The room faded and all she could concentrate on was the sense of him, so large, so strong, and so very delicious. But all that came to an end as the music died away and those watching crowded closer. A tall, redheaded woman with a superior air was the first to speak. "Is this true, Trent?" she demanded, stepping forward. "Are you really engaged?" Trent draped an arm around Chynna’s shoulders in a protective gesture. "It’s true, Karyn. I’m finally spoken for." The woman was furious. "I flew all the way out here from Boston for nothing!" "You poor dear. Your arms must be killing you." A pretty woman in scarlet joined them, giving Trent a grin and the complaining woman an arch look. "And you really ought to go wash those bugs off your teeth, Karyn. Such an ugly sight." She pretended to shudder, but all the time she was looking Chynna up and down. The woman named Karyn retreated, outraged, but the newcomer stayed, offering her hand. "Hi. I’m Julie. And I must say, you look almost as good in my dress as I do." "Your dress?" Chynna turned to Trent in alarm, but he was smiling at the woman named Julie with obvious affection. "Meet my kid sister, Chynna," he said. "Sorry about the dress, Julie. It was an emergency situation. I shanghaied her to come to this party and she didn’t have time to go home and change." "You mean, this is your sister’s dress?" Chynna was finally getting the picture. Julie laughed, reading her mind. "You thought it belonged to one of his old girlfriends, didn’t you? It’s mine. I keep a few items of clothing at Trent’s office for the times I’m in town and need a quick change." She patted Chynna’s arm. "Don’t worry, Chynna. His reputation as a womanizer is highly overrated. I’ve seen him home with a book to keep him warm many a night and…"
9
"Julie is quite a little storyteller," Trent interrupted, taking Chynna’s arm and maneuvering her away from his sister. "Which reminds me. It’s about time to tell some stories to my mother." "Do I have to?" Chynna dreaded this. "We really didn’t plan anything and..." "Just tell her the truth," he said. She frowned, not sure what he meant by that. "That we met tonight and fell madly in love?" she asked helplessly. His crystal-blue eyes were hard to read. "Is that the truth?" She hesitated, not sure if he was mocking her, or just teasing. But it was too late to find out. He was presenting her to his mother again. Chapter Eight "Tell me, my dear," Mrs. Payton said as she patted the seat next to where she was sitting signaling for Chynna to sit beside her. "Who are your people?" Chynna blinked as she sat. "Well, I’m an American, if that’s what you mean." She heard Trent stifle a laugh and knew she’d made a faux pas. But Mrs. Payton went on calmly. "No, dear. I’m asking about your family. Your parents. Your grandparents." "She grew up in a little sod house on the prairie," Trent began in a tremulous voice. "Her father toiled in the fields while her mother…" "My son is quite the comedian," the older woman said tartly. "But I’m sure he will remember his manners soon and let you speak for yourself." "My father was an electrician," Chynna said quickly, giving Trent a look. "And my mother was a housewife. They were killed in a car accident when I was 13. My sister, Melinda, dropped out of school and got a job so that we could stay together. She put me through college." She glanced at Trent again, wondering if he knew that about Melinda. It was the background behind why she felt such a debt to her sister. "I see," Mrs. Payton was saying, looking slightly stunned. "And where did you attend college?" "Oh, State, of course. I got a degree in design there." "State," she echoed faintly, making it sound like something she’d found wrapped in greasy newspapers. "Mother prefers the Ivy Leagues," Trent said, his mouth thin with barely suppressed annoyance. "Or something small and northeastern in the liberal arts." "Trent!" his mother said warningly. "In fact, I believe your maid’s daughter is going to State, isn’t she?" he asked. "I hope she turns out as well as Chynna has." Looking from one to another of these two, Chynna had a sudden flash of insight. Obviously, Trent had spent a lifetime warding off his mother’s clumsy attempts to take charge of his life. And after the way Mrs. Payton had treated her, ordinarily Chynna might have felt resentment and gone completely to Trent’s side. But looking at the man who’d brought her here, she saw frustration and annoyance, and an underlying sense of guilt that complicated matters.
10
And looking at his mother, she saw the bitterness, but she also noted the sad bewilderment of a mother who saw the ones she loved best slipping from her in some deep, emotional way. Trent’s mother would be the inevitable loser in this fight. For some inexplicable reason, Chynna’s heart went out to the woman. Acting on impulse, she took her hand. "Mrs. Payton, please don’t be upset about this," she told her earnestly. "Our engagement is very new and we are going to need some time to decide if it will stick. Please don’t consider this an inexorable march toward the altar at this time. Anything could happen." Oh, dear. Now she’d done it. She looked at Trent, then his mother, expecting them both to be angry. But Trent was looking baffled and his mother was staring at Chynna as though she weren’t quite sure if she were sane or not. Had she blown the whole charade? Chapter Nine The city streets were slick with a cold rain that had fallen an hour or so earlier, and the streetlights were reflected in the puddles that had formed, making for a night almost as full of sparkle as Las Vegas. Trent directed his low sports car according to instructions Chynna gave him, his pace slowing as he realized he didn’t really want to take her home. They’d stayed until after midnight. Kane Haley, his boss and old college roommate, had showed up and danced with Chynna and with Julie and the four of them had laughed and talked for a long time. Some things about Chynna had surprised and intrigued Trent. He just had to remind himself Chynna was the same sort of operator her sister had turned out to be. Which was the reason he’d asked for her help in the first place. "Do you think in the end your mother believed it?" Chynna asked him. "It doesn’t really matter. I think she’s finally starting to accept the fact that I’m not marrying anyone, especially not someone she pushes at me." Chynna was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "She loves you, you know." He glanced at her pretty profile. "Of course she loves me. That’s just the problem." "Be kind to her." She sighed. "You’re lucky you have a mother." He didn’t answer, but he did insist on accompanying her to her door. As they waited for the elevator to arrive, she turned to him and smiled. "I just want to thank you for this evening." "Thank me?" Her face looked so lovely in the dim light, he found himself wanting to stare, to fix a copy of her picture in his mind forever. "Yes." Her quick grin looked impish. "I actually had a lovely time, despite all the ups and downs. It’s been so long…." Her voice trailed off and her grin faded. He caught the note of pain in her voice and looked at her curiously. "I assume you’re not married," he said casually. "Are you dating anyone special?" He hated to admit how closely he was watching her face for her reaction to that question. "I’m not dating anyone at all," she said firmly, her chin high. "And I don’t plan to. I gave all that up a long time ago."
11
Turning toward her, he couldn’t resist touching her cheek. "Who hurt you, Chynna?" he asked softly, searching her eyes. "What happened?" She lowered her gaze, avoiding his scrutiny. "That was a long time ago. It’s irrelevant now." He frowned, wondering why he felt such a strong, irrational desire to get revenge for her. The impulse was ridiculous. She wasn’t his. And the elevator had arrived. "I’m glad you had a good time," he told her as he escorted her aboard. "Even though I had to blackmail you into going with me." She laughed, her mood changing like a summer day. She led him off and into a hallway. "Here’s my apartment." "I guess this is it." His smile was lopsided. "Shortest engagement on record." The urge to kiss her grew in his chest and he started toward her, hungry for another taste of her warmth. But something in the look on her face, some fear, some warning stopped him. Looking away, she quickly fumbled for her key and fit it into the door. "Well, good night," she said brightly, gave him one last smile, and disappeared into her apartment. He stood staring at the closed door, uttered a low oath, and finally turned back toward the elevator. Chapter Ten Chynna let herself into her apartment with a sigh. She felt like Cinderella coming home from the ball. "Goodbye Prince Charming," she murmured to herself. "Hello boring old life." "Chynna?" "Oh!" She jumped, then saw her sister getting up out of a chair in the darkened living room. "Melinda! What are you doing here?" she cried, her hand over her heart. "Do you have it?" Melinda’s gaze raked over her. "Did you get the folder?" Chynna sighed. "Melinda, I told you I’d call you first thing in the morning." Her sister’s eyebrows came together as she realized what her answer was. "That’s some dress. I didn’t know you had a date tonight." Date! Chynna groaned silently. And suddenly she realized she couldn’t tell Melinda about what had happened. She just couldn’t talk about Trent with her. "Melinda, I do have a life," she said, avoiding her sister’s gaze and already hating herself for not telling the whole truth. "And as for the folder, no, I wasn’t able to get it. I’ll have to try again." Melinda sulked, but it was late and she left soon after. Chynna carefully took off the beautiful dress and got ready for bed, but she lay awake for a long time, mulling over all that had happened. The time she’d spent in Trent’s arms had been magical. She felt the thrill again as she went back over each scene. He was a wonderful man in many ways. If only things were different…
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But things were the way they were. She’d been in love before. Robert had been just as handsome, just as charming, and he’d turned out to be a liar and a cheat. That realization had stunned her, because she considered herself a fairly intelligent woman and she hadn’t caught a hint of it on her own. If she could be so wrong once, how could she ever trust her heart? And then there was Melinda. Everything that was good in her life seemed to have come at her sister’s expense. There had been a time when Melinda had given up everything to make Chynna’s life easier. She owed her so much. And all Melinda wanted was her love letter to Trent back so that she could put an end to that episode of her life. Instead of getting it back, Chynna had spent a wonderful evening with the man who was holding on to it. Why couldn’t she tell Melinda the truth? After all, she’d been blackmailed into going out with Trent. And it was all Melinda’s fault. And yet, here she was, unable to tell her. That should prove to her how impossible it would be to even dream of any sort of relationship developing with him. You've barely known the man for a few hours, she reminded herself. It was a Cinderella adventure. But you didn't leave any slippers behind, and no prince is going to come looking for you. Grow up! Chapter Eleven No slippers perhaps, but Chynna had forgotten the little flashlight she'd used to look for the folder the night before. It was the first thing Trent saw when he went into his office in the morning. He picked it up and stared at it. His mind went back over the previous evening. Such a short time ago, and yet somehow things had changed because of it. He knew he felt different, had a new sense of restlessness. Was it all because of Chynna? Tossing the flashlight into the air, he caught it handily and smiled, then set off to find her. He finally located her in a conference room she'd taken over for her work. The table was covered with sketches, and a half-painted mural sat propped against one wall. Chynna herself was bending over a plan she was editing at her easel. She jumped up when she saw him, her eyes wide, a smudge of blue paint on her nose. He looked at the way the sun lit her upturned face and he realized she made him smile for no reason at all. "Hi," he said, looking down into her green eyes and holding out the flashlight. "Hi," she said back, taking the flashlight and murmuring her thanks. "Oh, I dropped the dress at the cleaners on the first floor. Here's the claim ticket for it." He pocketed it and looked around at her work, his attention drawn especially to a long mural with fluffy animals cavorting toward a pond where a cute frog waited for them. "It's just an idea for the day care center walls," she said. "I'm meeting with Matt Holder, the director of human resources, after lunch to give him my thoughts and see how he likes them." The drawings looked darn cute to Trent. "You seem to know a lot about babies," he said casually, glancing at her sideways. "I'm thinking of specializing in day care centers and preschools," she admitted. He frowned at her curiously. "You don't have any children of your own. What makes you so interested?" She shrugged. "That may be why. I don't expect I'll ever have any of my own. Marriage isn't in my plans."
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For some reason, that sounded immoral to him. Someone as beautiful and downright nice as Chynna should reproduce in kind. She saw the skepticism in his face and decided to try to make him understand. "I almost got married once," she told him as she untied the apron she wore to protect her sweater and skirt from the paints. "Then when I found out the truth about the man I thought I was so crazy in love with, I realized I wasn't a very good judge of character. So I doubt I'll risk making a mistake like that again." He frowned, partly to cover up the fact that just watching her take off an apron was giving him a bit of a buzz. "That seems a little simplistic. One bad experience and you sign off on marriage forever?" She turned and laughed at him, pushing her curly mass of blond hair back behind her ear. "Look who's talking! You're the one who's blackmailing people to avoid having to commit. You pretended to be planning to marry me, and you don't even know me." Suddenly, he wanted to kiss her in the worst way. "I know you now," he said, leaning closer, looking at her lush, beautiful mouth. She shook her head. "You hardly know me at all." Her eyes darkened and she took a step backward. "I may be tougher than you think." She stared at him sternly. "Tell me. Have you reconsidered giving me my sister's love letter?" Chapter Twelve "Love letter?" Trent's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Who said it was a love letter?" Chynna blinked, startled by his reaction. "What else could it be?" He snorted, turning from her. "What your sister and I had together could hardly be called an affair of the heart." Of course. She knew that. He didn't have love affairs. He had sexual encounters. That was what everyone said. Suddenly she felt a surge of sympathy for a man who couldn't find someone to love. Reaching out, she put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face. "Has your heart ever been touched in any meaningful way?" she asked him softly. His mouth hardened and so did his gaze. "Sure." She searched in the shadows of his blue eyes. "I don't believe you." His own hand covered hers, lacing fingers. "Then I'll prove it to you," he said huskily, and he leaned toward her again. This time she couldn't move. Frozen to her spot, she closed her eyes and felt his mouth come down on hers, felt her own lips part to accept him, felt him slide inside her, felt the urge to melt against him, hold him close, hold him dear. But it was all a sham and she knew it. Balling her hands into fists, she shoved hard and pulled herself away from him. "That's not your heart," she said a bit breathlessly, staring up into his dark face. "That's your libido." She licked her lips, trying to deny her own reaction to his seduction but her hands were trembling. "Besides, the
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blackmailing period is over," she insisted. "I don't have to pretend to love you anymore. And you don't have to pretend to love me." Their gazes met and locked but in seconds, the spell was broken. The door swung open and six people streamed into the room. "Oh, there they are!" one of them called out. Maggie Steward, Kane Haley's assistant, was leading the group. She'd become quite friendly with Chynna over the past week or so. "Hey!" she cried. "Your secret is out. It's all over the office. Congratulations, you two!" They looked at the newcomers, slowly realizing what was going on. Obviously, someone who had been at the party the night before had spilled the beans. "I didn't even know you knew each other!" said Lauren Connor, a secretary at the firm. "This is so great," Maggie said, smiling at them. "Have you set the date yet?" Chynna tried to smile back. This had to be countered right away, but she wasn't sure how to do it. "Well, not exactly," she said. She turned to Trent, waiting to let him do the explaining. He hesitated, gave her a hapless smile, took her hand, and held it tightly against his chest. "We're thinking about June," he said brightly. "Or maybe a Christmas wedding, if we just can't wait." "What?" she said with a gasp, but her exclamation was drowned out by the general cries of celebration and well-wishing from the others. Chapter Thirteen Trent put an arm around Chynna's shoulders and pulled her close, but he did give her an apologetic look. All he got from her was a glare of outrage. "How did this happen?" she asked him fiercely, pulling away from his embrace as the others began to file happily from the room. "I didn't say a word to anyone," he protested. "But Kane was there last night. And my sister, Julie, is good friends with Jennifer Martin, the Benefits Manager…." "I guess we should have known it would get out," Chynna admitted. "But you didn't have to compound the problem the way you did!" He hesitated, looking just a little sheepish. "Well, actually…one of the reasons I was looking for you was to ask if you would mind carrying on this pretense a little longer." So it was ask now. No more blackmailing? She looked at him quizzically. "Why?" "Well, you see…" He coughed awkwardly. "My father heard about it and he's coming to town just to meet you." "Your father?" From what she'd heard Matt Payton was more likely to be on a jet flying to an international medical symposium or advising foreign governments on how to manage their health care than to be in Chicago with his family.
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"My mother is planning a dinner party next Friday night to introduce you to him, and to the rest of our family." His smile was engaging, as usual. "Will you come?" She shook her head, the push and pull of wishes and fears tearing apart her confidence. She was dangerously attracted to this man. The longer they stayed together, the harder it was going to be when they had to part at last. "Trent, what's the point?" she asked him worriedly. He looked at her and scratched his head in an uncharacteristic way. "I don't know," he said, and his sincerity was obvious. His dark eyes softened with something that looked an awful lot like affection. "But I want you there. And it's making everyone so damn happy." "Including you?" she asked softly, more in wonder than in exasperation. He nodded slowly, looking puzzled, as though he couldn't figure it out himself. She was going. Of course she was going. What else could she do? Oh, stop playing the tragic heroine, a voice inside her chided. You know you want to go. You know you want to be with him every minute you can. And that was true. Still, she knew she ought to be resisting all of this. She was falling in love again. Falling in love with a playboy who didn't know what love meant. How crazy was that? Chapter Fourteen The Payton mansion was just as impressive as Chynna had imagined it would be, and yet it had a homey, lived-in quality that surprised her. Even the help was friendly and accommodating, more like family members than servants. She was nervous, clinging to Trent's arm as he escorted her into his family home. What was she doing here? It was a little hard to say for sure. The past few days had been like a dream. Everyone thought she was engaged to Trent, and he had fulfilled expectations by staying near her most of the time at work. At first she'd thought the whole thing was ridiculous, but as time went on, she had to admit, she'd grown to like it. A lot. They had coffee together in the morning, looking over the newspaper and schedules for the day. They went out to long lunches, eating in lovely restaurants with views of the lake or of the Magnificent Mile. They held hands and gave each other significant looks and even stole a kiss or two in the hallways. It was almost as good as being in love. Almost. The dream had an abrupt wake-up every evening. She couldn't allow him to visit her apartment and she avoided going out with him, as well. She hadn't found a way to tell Melinda about what was going on, and until she got up the courage to do that, she couldn't risk her sister finding out on her own. And the guilt from that was eating away at her. She'd tried to reconstruct those old conversations with her sister from a few months before. What had Melinda said exactly? She'd been hired as a temporary worker while Trent's administrative assistant was on maternity leave. Chynna remembered how excited she'd been, how she'd raved about her new boss. Chynna had been so happy for her because her work history had been spotty at best, filled with disappointments and unfair treatment. It looked as though she'd finally found her niche, and when Melinda began to hint that the boss was doing more than just flirting with her, she'd worried, afraid her sister was falling into the same old trap she'd fallen into before.
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Suddenly, the job was out the window and Melinda was in the depths of despair once again, telling Chynna that her heart was broken, that Trent had turned out to be just another rat in a whole long line of rodents in her life. When Melinda told her about the love letters he was keeping as a way to manipulate her, Chynna had been outraged. She'd wanted to confront him right then and there. Melinda had taken another job right away but she hated it and she'd been strangely obsessed with the letters, as though she couldn't get her life back on track until she got hold of them and had them destroyed. So when Chynna had been assigned to do the planning on the day care center at Kane Haley, she'd promised her sister she would get those letters back for her, one way or another. Trent had told her there was only one letter, which had made her wonder. Still, he had shown a propensity to using blackmail to get his way, hadn't he? That seemed to fit with the rest of the story. She looked up at him now as he led her into his family estate and wondered if he could really be the same man who had treated her sister so badly. Catching her gaze, he smiled and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. Her lips tingled, but a small circle of dread began to grow in her chest. She was very much afraid she was, once again, in love with the wrong man Chapter Fifteen Rich people were supposed to be snooty. But someone forgot to tell the Paytons. The entire family couldn't have been nicer to Chynna. She was a bit intimidated at first. There were just so many of them, and she wasn't used to large families. She was introduced to so many people, she quickly lost track of who was who. But she would never forget Trent's father, who looked like an older version of his son, though a little thicker, a little gruffer. He'd greeted Chynna with a long look and then a big hug, and when he drew back, she thought she saw tears in his eyes. When dinner was served, she found herself sitting at a long table that had been set up on an enclosed terrace and looking up and down at all the aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews and at Trent and his sister and mother and father.… And felt uncharacteristically tongue-tied. They were all so noisy! It wasn't at all what she'd expected. There was nothing upper-crust and formal about this bunch. Even Mrs. Payton seemed to have loosened up. The jokes were flying and Trent was the object of more than his share of them. She looked at him, studied him for a moment. His handsome face was tanned and lean and his nose classical in profile. She liked the humorous gleam in his dark eyes, liked the way his strong fingers held the stem of his wineglass, liked the way his collar opened to his muscular chest. A rush of pride filled her. She was proud to be engaged to this man. But wait. That wasn't right! They weren't really engaged at all. Grabbing her water glass, she took a deep swallow and cleared her mind. This was just getting too confusing. "Everyone is being so nice to me," she said to Julie after dinner as they sat watching the younger children performing a very funny lip synch routine. "Of course they are," Julie said with a laugh. "You're the girl who finally caught Trent and turned him into a human being. The man has been resisting this for years. Most of us thought it would never happen. We should erect a statue for you in the rose garden." She grinned. "Who knows? Mother may be commissioning one as we speak."
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Chynna studied Julie's face, realizing that Trent hadn't confided in his sister any more than she had confided in hers. Were she and Trent the only people in the world who knew that this was all a hoax? "Everyone has noticed how much happier he is since he met you," Julie went on airily. "Really?" "Oh, yes. His old caustic sense of humor has been softened. He and my mother are getting along better. And he actually called my father to tell him about you." "Was that unusual? For him to call your father, I mean." "Definitely. They've had their moments. And I've always thought that part of Trent's resistance to getting married was because of our parents' relationship. They barely ever see each other, and I know Trent resented that as a kid. He saw how little time a physician had for his family. And once our father got involved in international medicine, he was almost never home again. I'm sure Trent didn't want to end up with a marriage like that." Chynna turned and looked toward the shadows where Trent was sitting with his father. He'd been watching her and their gazes met. Electricity flared between them. She could almost see the arc of sensual fire in the dark. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart began to beat as though a wild bird were trapped in her chest. Oh, no, she thought. Oh, no! Chapter Sixteen Everyone had gone. Even Trent's parents had gone to bed. But he and Chynna were still in the house, strolling slowly from room to room as he showed her everything. She was enchanted. The place was like a palace, only more user-friendly. She loved the music room, filled with instruments, and the garden room, a porch that had been walled-in with greenhouse panels and grew tomatoes in the winter, along with orchids and flowers of all sorts. There was a fully supplied arts and crafts room and a sewing room and a computer room with printers and scanners. "I love this place," she said, smiling at him as they looked in on the various computers. "It would be perfect for me. Everything I love to do is here." "If we were married, we could come out here to stay whenever my mother took one of her frequent trips to Europe," he told her casually. Turning, she looked into his face. "You almost talk as though you think we are really going to get married." He looked down into her eyes. "I've been thinking about it," he said simply. "You haven't!" "Yes, I have." "You know you haven't." He shrugged, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. "It might not be so bad." Suddenly she was uneasy. "Stop it, Trent. You know this is all pretend."
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He leaned close, one hand against the doorjamb, the other reaching where his fingers could tangle in her hair. "It started out as pretend, but I feel a real case of reality coming on," he murmured, bending close enough to touch her ear lobe with the tip of his tongue. "Trent…" She wanted to push him away, but her hands wouldn't seem to do what she told them to. "Hmm?" His breath tickled her neck, and then his lips were pressed there, making her gasp at the tantalizing sensation. He pulled her closer and she melted against him, sighing with the pleasure summoned up by his male power, unable to resist the way her body responded to his. "If you knew how much of my day is spent dreaming about making love to you," he whispered against her cheek, "you'd probably check into a nunnery." "Trent…" she tried again, but it came out as a whimper as his mouth took hers and his hands slid down her curves, exploring, sampling, molding her into a mass of trembling urgency. "Oh," she gasped, shocked at how quickly he'd taken her from pleasure to sizzling need. "No, Trent!" She gathered the strength to pull away and this time he let her, his eyes dark with passion. "I'd better go home," she said, turning away and avoiding his gaze. "All right," he told her calmly. "I'll take you home." Reaching out, he cupped her cheek with his hand. "But I think you should know that I'm becoming obsessed with you, Chynna," he said softly, his eyes glowing in the dim light. "And I know you're not indifferent to me. Sooner or later, we're going to act on those feelings." Chapter Seventeen Chynna was in love with Trent and she was miserable about it. The never-ending "shortest engagement on record" had been extended once again. Now that Mrs. Payton had given a party to introduce her to the family members, she was ready to do the same with friends and business associates. "My mother likes you," Trent told her in explanation. "Are you sure?" Chynna joked. "How can you tell?" Mrs. Payton had been kind, in her way. And it was getting easier every time to say yes to things that kept the engagement going — and harder to think of stopping this crazy merry-go-round they'd jumped aboard. Still, it had to end. And at the same time, Chynna was facing an unhappy truth. The engagement might end, but the way she felt about Trent wouldn't. The way she felt about Trent was so overwhelming, it ate up her day, muscled in on her nights and generally crowded out all other considerations in her life. Her supposed love for Robert had been nothing like this. Loving Trent consumed her. She ached to see him and when she saw him, she ached to touch him and when she touched him, she ached for much more.…
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And yet, she was wracked with guilt at all times because they were living a lie. And most of all because she was lying to her sister. She'd been "engaged" to Trent for almost three weeks when she finally found the courage to confess. She'd been avoiding Melinda's calls, but this evening she made her way to her sister's apartment, ready to reveal everything and take her punishment. She dreaded doing it. Although she doubted that Melinda had ever been as in love with Trent as she was herself, her sister had claimed him first. She'd had no right to go falling in love with someone her sister liked and still cared for. It made her feel like a rat. And she was afraid that telling was only going to make her feel worse. But it had to be done. "Melinda, I have something I have to tell you," she said without preamble once she'd arrived at her sister's elaborately decorated place. She dropped to sit beside her on the overstuffed couch. Quickly she explained the circumstances, how Trent had caught her, the price he had exacted through blackmail. "And ever since, I've been sort of…dating Trent." She looked guardedly into her sister's face, expecting anger, pain, outrage. Instead, she saw the crafty look Melinda had when she was hatching one of her plots. "Then there's still a chance you could get your hands on my folder," Melinda said hopefully. Chynna blinked. "Melinda, don't you understand? We're seeing each other. And…and we're getting rather close." "Great." Melinda's mind was on other things. "Then he should be happy to give you my folder. Work on him." Chynna sat back and stared at her. "You mean to tell me you don't care?" "About what? Trent?" She made a face. "I think he's an arrogant SOB, but if you like him…" Chynna threw out her hands in exasperation. "I thought you were crazy about him." Melinda shrugged and wrinkled her nose. "Maybe I said something like that once. But I didn't really mean it. I was just trying to get you to see how badly I needed my…my letters back." She went on talking, devising different scenarios by which Chynna could get this done, but Chynna wasn't listening. She was stunned to find that all her worrying had been for nothing. So Melinda and Trent had never been an item in any way? Was that the truth? If so, it was a big relief. And yet, things didn't really add up. There was only one way to get to the bottom of this. She had to see what was in that folder — see it for herself. Chapter Eighteen Trent looked up with a welcoming smile when she barged into his office early the next morning. He looked so clean and cool in his impeccable wool suit, she fell in love with him all over again. But she had no time for romance. "Trent, I want to see what's in that folder," she said, leaning down on his desk with both hands. His smile faded. "I don't know that I can let you, Chynna. I made an agreement with your sister…." "Oh, come on, Trent." She was very near to losing it. "You've embroiled me so deeply into this by now — I think I have a right to see what it's all about."
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He frowned at her, not saying a word, and she groaned and began to pace the room. "Why don't you just look the other way and let me steal it? Then we'll be done with it." He shook his head, his blue eyes hooded. "I can't do that. That folder is part of a bargain I made with your sister. I need to hold on to it." "Trent…." She stopped before him and shook her head, her eyes filled with a tragic appeal. Looking into those eyes, his resolve melted away. "Okay," he said quietly, opening the file drawer. "Read the letter. But don't take it away." Handing her the folder, he turned and left the office, giving her privacy. Her hand shook as she lifted the folder. Slowly, she opened it and looked at the paper inside. Trent had been telling the truth. It was surely no love letter. One sheet of paper, typed formally — a legal document, signed by Trent and Melinda and witnessed and notarized at the bottom. She read the first line, then skimmed the rest, trying to get the gist of it quickly. There was something about Melinda admitting guilt, something about Trent holding her to a promise, something about the threat of bringing in the police. A lump rose in her throat and her eyes filled with tears and she couldn't make out the words any longer. Inside, she felt hollow and very much alone. She sat for a long time trying to clear her vision enough to read more, but the tears wouldn't stop coming. And then Trent opened the door and leaned in. "Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded, but he'd seen the tears and he came to her quickly, gathering her in his arms and rocking her against his chest. "Hey," he said, his voice warm with comfort. "Don't, Chynna. It's okay. It's all taken care of." He dropped a kiss on her nose. "You really didn't know about this, did you?" "No," she said brokenly. "Explain it, please. I couldn't see well enough to finish reading it." Chapter Nineteen Trent held Chynna close, burying his face in her hair and breathing her light, delicious scent. He didn't want to explain. He only wanted to make love to this woman who was beginning to mean so much to him. "We hired Melinda as a temp," he said at last, stroking her hair, "because she'd had experience in legal offices and my assistant was out on maternity leave. It turned out your sister wasn't really well suited for this job. I blame myself in that I didn't pick up on that right away and transfer her to another department. I was gone a lot during that period, and she was left on her own too much. And when I got back from one trip, a colleague contacted me and told me she'd tried to extort money from him in my name." Chynna's heart sank and she pulled out of his arms and sat back, watching him as best she could through her tears. "Oh, Trent!" "If you like, I can show you the evidence." "No." She shook her head. It wasn't as if Melinda hadn't been in trouble before. She'd made it a practice to live very close to the edge ever since Chynna could remember. "I believe you." "At any rate, I didn't want to call the police, so I offered her a deal. If she would leave Kane Haley without a fuss, I would get her a position with a friend of mine who does legal aid work with immigrant groups. I got her to agree to work for him for peanuts for eight months, during which time I would be keeping an eye on her, and as long as all went well, I would keep the police out of it."
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Chynna winced. "She hates that job." "I know. That's why she sent you to get the agreement so that she could destroy it and not have the threat of arrest hanging over her any longer. Then she could quit." He grinned. "But as I've told her a number of times, this work she's doing is going to benefit her in the long run. It will give her valuable work experience." Chynna closed her eyes. Trent was a good and decent man, the best, probably, that she'd ever known. And she…she was the one who wasn't good enough for their relationship. She was the liar, the cheat, the one who came from a family who used others instead of treating them like real people with real feelings. Trent's mother's original instinct had been the right one. Chynna wasn't good enough for her son. Her sigh came from deep within her soul. It was time this charade was ended. Reaching out, she took his hand and looked directly into his crystal blue eyes. "Trent," she said, a catch in her voice, "our engagement has to end." He stared at her, alarmed. "Why?" he asked softly. "Because it's a sham." She squeezed his hand tightly. "And I can't face you any longer, knowing what I know now about what Melinda has done." His face hardened into an emotionless mask. "That has nothing to do with you and me." "Don't you see? It has everything to do with us." Dropping his hand, she rose. "We wouldn't have even met if it hadn't been for Melinda. And then to find out she'd done something so awful… This would always be hanging over us." Turning resolutely toward the door, she glanced back and winced. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "So sorry." And she was gone. Trent watched her walk away, listened to the door close, and thought to himself, Well, here it is. The breakup. Every relationship got to this point sooner or later. The only difference was, it was usually him walking away. "It was bound to happen," he told himself stoically. "This is what always happens. It's just the way things are meant to be. Story over. The end." Chapter Twenty Trent's acquiescence lasted about 15 minutes. As he sat at his desk trying to get work done, he got progressively more and more angry, and he wasn't sure what he was angry about or whom he wanted to punch out. He only knew he was beginning to feel as though a pressure valve had blown and he was about to explode into some sort of terrible rage. What is it? he thought. What is the matter with me? The answer came easily. It's simple. You're in love. He choked. The words came to him like a real voice talking briskly into his ear. In love? No. In like, definitely. In quite a bit of lust. But love? Yes. You might as well face it. You're in love.
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If he was in love, that would mean he wanted to have Chynna as his wife — that he wanted to sleep by her side, to make love with her every night, to share her hopes and fears, to hear her laugh, to hold her when she cried, to have children and grow old together.… To his surprise, it all sounded pretty good. In fact, it sounded darn good. Sitting where he was, he began to smile. Yes. I'm in love. Bounding out of his chair, he headed for the elevator, then changed his mind and jogged to the stairs. Bursting into the conference room where Chynna had her work set up, he found her talking to a pretty young account assistant named Sharon Davies, and Julia Parker, another employee. "Excuse us," he said as he stepped between them and took Chynna into his arms. "We have an unfinished kiss to take care of." Chynna was too surprised to put up much of a fight and he got her in a deep bend and began to kiss her with passion and gusto. The two women were stunned for only a moment, then Sharon laughed and said, "Hey, this is a place of business, you know." Trent looked up and said, "Don't mind us. We're on break." And he went back to kissing the woman he loved. "Oh, I see." Sharon gave Julia a comical look and nodded toward the door. "We get the picture. Catch ya later." And they departed, chuckling as they went. "Trent!" Chynna struggled, coming up for air and laughing at the same time. "What are you doing?" "Kissing you," he told her helpfully. "I'm going to kiss you into submission, and then I'm going to make you agree to marry me." "You…what?" She felt dizzy. He smiled at her lovingly. "Chynna, I can't let you go. Don't you see that?" "Trent, I thought I explained. There's too much…" He didn't let her finish. "You're wrong, Chynna. This is between you and me. This has no more to do with what your sister has done than it does with the fact that my mother wants me to get married." She squinted at him. "Trent, I have no idea what you're talking about." "I want to marry you. And not because of my mother. In fact, I want to marry you in spite of my mother. And in spite of your sister. If my mother turned against you tomorrow, it wouldn't make any difference in how I feel about you. If Melinda robs a bank today, it won't matter. No one else matters in this, Chynna. It's you and me." "You and me?" That sounded so good. Could she trust it? "You and me." He slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out an antique diamond ring that caught the light and sent sparks around the room. "My mother noticed I hadn't given you a ring yet. She wants me to give you this one. It's been in our family for over 100 years."
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Chynna drew in her breath, staring at the beautiful piece of jewelry. "Oh, Trent, I can't.…" "Yes, you can." He slipped it on her finger. "You realize what this means, don't you? My mother believes in you. She believes in us." He dropped a soft kiss on her lips. "How about it, Chynna?" he said softly. "Do you believe in us?" She looked at the sparkling light on her finger, then looked into his sparkling eyes. "Oh, yes," she breathed, sinking into his embrace. "I believe." She said it like a promise and he sealed it with a long, loving kiss.
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Getting to Yes by Allie Pleiter I have faith. Adam is the man God picked for me, I just know it. And I just know that when Adam finally pops the question, we'll get married and live happily ever after. I say "when" because I'm an optimist. And because I believe that God is a mighty God — even mightier than Adam's paralyzing fear of commitment!
Chapter One The silky ballad fades into my show's theme music. "And that does it for me today. I'm your host, Suzann White, and I'll see you right here bright and early Monday morning on WRXR, your prescription for light rock at 102.9 FM. Until then, make your day a great one." Your prescription for light rock. Trust me, I didn't write that one. Since this is L.A., a city where people really utilize their pharmaceuticals, evidently the guys in marketing thought it might stick. It did, so who am I to argue? I bet it sounded clever the first time. Try saying it twenty times a day for four years, and you can see where it might wear on a soul. I balked when someone suggested we ought to hand out little promotional pill boxes. I thought that was pushing it (pun intended). Well, I tried not to hold it against management when they did it anyway. I pull my headphones off and exhale. It's harder than you think voicing a sunny disposition from six to ten a.m. everyday. There's only so much perkiness coffee and protein shakes can give — you've got to manufacture the rest. Sure, there are days when I want to go around sticking my tongue out at the world after four hours of on-air cheeriness. I'm only human. But for the most part, my job's pretty wonderful. Today, though, I can't wait to get off the air. It's Friday, and my weekend starts at 12:01 p.m. Off the air at 10:00 a.m., two hours in the office, and I'm a free woman until the dastardly hour of 4:00 a.m. Monday morning. Forget late-night TV — I'm yawning by 8:00 p.m. Good thing Adam's a morning person. It takes a special guy to date someone who can't stay out much later than your average twelve-year-old. And Adam is one special guy. He even got up to drive me to work the week my car was in the shop. Okay, he loaned me his car after the second day, but it's the thought that counts. He still had to pay for a cab to get his own adorable self to work for the rest of the week. When we get married, I'm going to invest in one of those vibrating alarm clocks that fits inside your pillow so that I can get up and still let him sleep in. I say "when we get married" because I am an optimist. And because we've been dating seriously for almost a year now. And because I believe Adam's the guy God's got picked out for me. And because God is a mighty God, mightier than even Adam's near-psychotic fear of commitment. And because we're going out to a fancy dinner for our one-year anniversary tonight. I may even stay out past nine to celebrate. If he pops the question. Question is, how big an "if" is that?
Chapter Two "So do you think he'll propose?" my friend Lindy asks over iced teas after work. She voices an animated television character, so she gets off work in the middle of the day, too. I just found the most perfect pair of
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shoes to go with the dress I'm planning to wear tonight. And, I just happened to get my nails done this afternoon. Really. Yeah, well, Lindy didn't believe that, either. Hey, a smart gal prepares. If I'm going to be thrusting my left hand under people's noses all weekend, it's only fitting that my nails be nice. "If he has any sense of timing at all," I reply, "this weekend would be the perfect time." Lindy, whose picture should be in the dictionary under the words "control freak," gives me the look I know far too well. That you're-looking-on-the-bright-side-when-you-should-be-worrying look. "You have been ring shopping together, haven't you?" she inquires in a low, suspicious voice. Ring shopping is for control freaks like Lindy. I trust Adam's good taste. The guy has a natural sense of style. Sure, I augment it occasionally, but that kind of collaboration is what will make us a great couple. I am 100% certain I will not be standing in my bedroom three years from now looking at Adam and saying, "You're not really going to wear that, are you?" "I've pointed out rings that I like," I reply. "He gave me a gorgeous bracelet for Christmas. Adam knows his hardware, trust me. I predict a classic Tiffany setting in platinum." We joke about it, Lindy and I, but the truth is that if Adam asked me with a plastic ring from a bubble-gum machine, I'd say yes. I'm so in love with this man it hurts. I can see our children when I close my eyes. I can see the kind of man he'll be in twenty-five years and I want to be there so badly it takes my breath away. When I look at him, I see the person I've prayed about since I was fifteen years old. I see God's perfect mate for me. "You're doing it again." Lindy waves her hands in front of my face. "What?" "You went to that dreamy married place again. Honestly, Suz." She mimes a phone next to her ear. "Propose, Adam, and put the poor girl out of her misery." I sigh. "Oh, from your mouth to God's ears," I quote my grandmother's favorite phrase. "Get on your knees tonight for me, Lindy. Adam's going to need your prayers to propose, or I'm going to need your prayers if he doesn't." After Lindy and I say goodbye, I walk home, still in my "dreamy married place." I want so much for tonight to be special that I'm afraid I'll mess it up with all my expectations. I'm walking down my block, praying over the evening with each step, when I'm shocked out of my stupor by the sight of my dreamy soon-to-be-fiancé sitting on my front steps. Looking awful.
Chapter Three "Adam?" "Oh," he says, almost distractedly, as if I'd been here for a while and hadn't just walked up to find him slumped on my front steps. "Hi." "Adam, it's three o'clock in the afternoon. I know we're having dinner tonight, but why aren't you at work?" He looks like something horrible has just happened. I sit down beside him. "Honey, what's wrong?" "Jacob."
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Jacob is Adam's boss at the public relations firm where Adam works. Jacob's generally a nice guy, but a bit of a soap opera. Loves emergencies. Works best in crisis mode. That kind. I've had many dates go up in smoke because Jacob concocted a crisis at 4:30 p.m. I'm trying not to be bitter here, but if this guy ruins tonight it'll take three months of prayer to get me to forgiveness mode. Maybe four. "What'd Jacob do now?" "Actually, it's not Jacob that did the doing. It's sort of what got done to Jacob." I'm just going to pretend like I understood that. "What happened?" Adam looks at me, very serious. "His wife left him." "Huh?" Not good. Definitely not good. "Barb came into the office this afternoon, ranting and raving. She called him all kinds of names in front of everyone. Nobody knew what to do. Then she threw a suitcase at him and told him not to come home. That she was leaving for the Virgin Islands for the next few days, and that she'd had the locks changed on their house this morning. She told him he'd have to call her lawyer to let him in, and that he was to have his things cleared out by the time she got back. Man, it was ugly." It does not matter that you could barely place Adam and Jacob in the same male species. It doesn't matter one bit that I am nothing — nothing like this Barb woman. You can just see it in Adam's eyes. In his mind right now, this is how marriage ends. Public humiliation, predatory lawyers and ugliness. He's got reason to react this way; Adam's parents had the ugliest divorce in the history of…well, married people. Lord, would it be too much to ask for Ruth and Billy Graham to walk down the street this very minute? Our pastor and his wife? Anyone happily married for over four months? Battlestations! Commitment path destabilizing! Evasive maneuvers! "I love you, Adam Torrence, and I am not going to hurl luggage and insults at you, ever." "I know," he says, sounding thoroughly distracted and unconvinced. "Do you?" I say, fighting the urge to take his face in my hands and force him to look at me. "Do I what?" He looks at me. "Do I still want to go to dinner tonight? I dunno. Do you?"
Chapter Four He didn't. Tell me he didn't just ask me if I still want to go to dinner tonight. Do I want to go to dinner tonight? What kind of question is that? Actually, that isn't the real question at all, is it? Because I wouldn't care if Adam proposed in the bathroom, on my rooftop or in the high-occupancy-vehicle lane of the freeway so long as he just popped the question. I want to go to dinner tonight. I want to go anywhere that will get me to "Yes!" As in "Yes, Adam Torrence, I will marry you!" I sit next to the man I love, my hand on his slumped shoulder, vaulting every prayer I can up to heaven on his behalf. Come on, Lord, I need a brilliant answer here…. "I want to be with you tonight, Adam. Celebrating our anniversary. If that means ham sandwiches on my living room floor because that's where you are, then okay." I kick the shoebox with the absolutely adorable cream sling-backs out of view behind my handbag. "But," I say as gently as I know how, "I had kind of looked forward to celebrating."
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Adam turns and looks at me. He has the most astounding blue eyes I'd ever seen. Almost turquoise, but shot through with flecks of deep sapphire. I see heaven when I look into them. Most of the time. Today they looked clouded and strained. He grabs my hand. "I love you," he says, and I have the same catch in my throat that I hear in his voice. "I love you so much." If he produces a ring now I won't care if we eat at McDonald's tonight. "Is it enough?" he says, breaking away from my gaze. "I mean, Jacob and Barb were crazy in love only months ago." Barb is…was Jacob's third wife. Would it be wise to point that out right now? Adam holds my hand tighter. "I want it to be forever with us, Suz. When I stand in that church, I won't ever go back on those vows. Never." When. He said when, not if… Hang on to that, Suz. It's lilting through my head like the lyrics to Stand by Your Man. I say the only thing I can say: "It will be forever with us, Adam. I feel it. We're not Jacob and Barb. We're not anything like Jacob and Barb. And not just because we are different people, but because God will be in our marriage." Adam's sigh is so heavy I swear he's sinking into the concrete. "I know that here," he says, nearly banging his head with his hand. "But I need to know it here." He places his hand over his heart. "I can't stand the doubt. It makes me crazy." "I don't think you ever get to know for sure," I reply. "Not at first. Marriage is a leap of faith. You love someone, you commit your life to them and you trust love and God to do the rest." I grab Adam's hand. "I trust us. And I trust God. Sure, I'm scared, but it's not enough to stop me from walking down any aisles." Adam pulls in a deep breath and straightens up. "You know, we should go out to dinner tonight. I mean really out, to someplace nice. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty. I've got a few things to do before then." With a quick peck on the cheek, Adam trots off down the street. Can you hear that? That chorus of cherubim and seraphim singing "Halleluiah?" I bounce up my steps, sling-backs at the ready, humming What a Mighty God We Serve. It'll be tonight. I just know it.
Chapter Five Oh, if you could see me now: perfect red dress, the aforementioned adorable cream sling-backs gracing my feet, demure blush-pink nails resting atop the tablecloth. It's more than perfect. It's our night, I know it. One year ago today, when I saw that hunk of a guy hammering nails at the "House the Homeless" fundraiser, I knew then what I know now: Adam is the guy for me. It wasn't love at first sight — Iconfess to something a little more at first sight. Really, Adam's bare arms could raise an eighty-year-old woman's blood pressure. But over time, that first shock of wild attraction deepened into something warm and solid and worthy of a lifetime. Seeing Adam dressed up a bit tonight, in that blue shirt I gave him for his birthday and slate-gray slacks, my temperature's definitely on the rise. Do you think the bottom will still drop out of my stomach after I've seen him dressed up fifty times? A hundred and fifty? Will I still think he looks amazing in his retiree-white leather loafers and Bermuda shorts? Adam sighs and gazes at me. Oh, yep, he'll be the senior center hottie, all right. It's dessert. We never stay for dessert — Adam's a get-an-ice-cream-on-the-way-home kind of guy. But we're staying for dessert. He orders the gazillion-layer chocolate cake because, you know, guys can get
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away with those kind of weapons-grade desserts. Me? I'm playing with fire risking a crème brûlée, knowing full well my "skinny jeans" won't fit tomorrow. Who cares? No one's going to be looking at my thighs — they'll all be sighing at my left hand. Who wants to tell their children "I splurged and ordered the fat-free frozen yogurt the night your father proposed"? This is a crème brûlée kind of moment. Adam clears his throat. "I think you're right about needing to celebrate tonight. We have something, you and I. I thank God every night for you, because you make me feel like… Well, like I could do anything. Be anybody. God could ask something huge and impossible of me, and if I could be sure you'd be at my side, then I'd know I could do it." Thumping. Not just beating, thumping. My heart is thumping in my chest. If time could sparkle, it'd feel like this. "This year has been great." He takes my hand. My left hand. He's not getting down on his knees or anything, but who really does that anymore, anyway? "I love you, Suzann White. More than I ever thought I'd love anyone. And I know you love me, too." I'm going to cry, I just know it. I'm having trouble breathing. "Suz, I don't think you realize how huge that is. I don't just think you love me, or guess it, I know it. For sure. Every day. I can't get over that. I don't want to get over that." Breathe, Suzann, breathe and take in every nanosecond of this moment… "So," he says, his voice full of importance, "I've got something for you."
Chapter Six It's a black velvet box. It's an oblong black velvet box. Oblong as in not square or round or small. As in Not. Ring. Size. Breathe. No, don't breathe, pray. For wisdom. For strength. For mercy. How could anyone produce an oblong-shaped box after a speech like that? You heard that speech. Proposal material. This was supposed to be a proposal. This sure sounded like it was going to be a proposal. I bet every woman in Los Angeles thought this was a proposal! I know I did…. For one sick, twisted moment, my brain plays with the notion that Adam is pulling a fast one, that he's hidden the ring in a diversionary box. Right. Adam, who doesn't pull pranks. Ever. The tiny shred of hope fizzles and disappears. There is no ring. No proposal. But there is a box. Sitting, alone and awkward, defiant in all its blackness against the fancy-dinner-promisewhite of the tablecloth. A study in contrast. Hang on, you ridiculous woman, you just heard a speech most men would never utter. The man poured his heart out to you. Now you're stomping on it? What's the matter with me? He just told me he loves me, just spoke the equivalent of wanting to spend the rest of his life with me. And I'm griping?
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I love this man. I already know I want to spend the rest of my life with him, and he just told me he wants the same. So now I need hardware to seal the deal? It feels like two hours have just gone by, but Adam seems unaware of the tiny war raging in my brain. He's just sitting there, smiling, waiting for me to open the box. He probably thinks I'm savoring the moment. Yes, there was a lot going on in that moment, but I don't think you could qualify any of it as "savoring." More like "unsavory," as a matter of fact. Greedy, ungrateful, biological-clock-crazed ugliness. I confess to God that I'm disappointed, and beg him to change my heart fast enough so that Adam will never know all that just shot through my brain. I take a deep breath. I open the box. You know there are those moments that make you so sad and so happy at the same time? When you know God is doing something huge in your life and part of you is thrilled and another part of you is buckling under the burden? That would be now.
Chapter Seven "A cross?! Adam takes you to a fancy restaurant, gives you a Hollywood-worthy declaration of love and then hands you a necklace?!" Lindy is stomping around her kitchen, her hands flying wildly. "You're joking. Tell me you're joking." Maybe coming here was a mistake. Lindy's not exactly the calmest person God ever created. I've almost got a grip on this whole non-proposal scenario. "You're not helping." I don't need her whipping me into the frenzy I've almost got squelched. I yell into an imaginary megaphone, "Cue the supportive friend!" Lindy slams a hand onto one hip. "I am supportive. I value you. As a person, as a friend, as a woman who ought to be getting married." Lindy starts yanking open cabinet doors, getting out stuff to make coffee. "You guys are nuts about each other. Totally, hopelessly in love. If I didn't like you so much it'd be nauseating. What is this man's problem?" You should see this woman make coffee when she's angry. I never knew coffee could be a weapon until I met Lindy. I'm flattered she's so outraged on my behalf, but I'm not really sure I want to drink whatever she's brewing right now. I'm not even sure I should be here. I feel my dander getting back up just listening to her. I've stuffed this disappointment back down so many times in the last twelve hours I'm not sure it'll stay down much longer. I head to the living room mirror in self-defense. It's a beautiful cross. I've never owned one with tiny diamonds sparkling on it like this one. It catches the morning sun and sends a smattering of tiny rainbows on the wall. "It beautiful," I declare, as much to myself as to Lindy. She comes up behind me. "It's gorgeous. It's expensive. It looks great on you." She turns me by my shoulders. "But it's not what you wanted." Look at me. I spent half the night finding the bright side and carefully building a wall around this disappointment. How can Lindy knock it down in two minutes? Because she is my friend. And she knows me and loves me too much to pretend otherwise. I will not cry. I have a handsome man who loves me and I will not cry.
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Lindy merely hands me the box of tissues. "Oh, just cry, will you? I'm not going to think you an ungrateful hag or anything. It's not wrong to want to marry someone you're crazy in love with. Just get it all out and then we'll figure out what to do next." "I'm not going to…" Oh, who am I kidding? I'm already sobbing. Fifteen minutes later, I'm still sobbing, only now it's into my coffee mug. "When do you see Adam again?" Lindy says, bringing a second box of tissues over to the couch where I have been single-handedly solving L.A.'s drought problem for the last quarter of an hour. "Tonight. There's a thing at church. I'm supposed to call him at two to figure out what time we're meeting." "Okay," pronounces Lindy in a brisk voice. "So now we know step one…" Step one of what?
Chapter Eight Step one was what it should have been all along: seeing Adam. Actually, step one wasn't a step of anything — thanks to all those prayers for wisdom, I think. Lindy had a sixteen-stage battle plan drawn out by the time I left her place. I stopped her when she offered to make a subliminal message tape of "Ask Suzann to marry you" and slip it into Adam's stereo. She voices an animated cartoon character, and they've got all kinds of audio toys up there at the studio. I don't doubt she'd have done it if I gave her the go-ahead. Which, of course, I didn't. Actually, after about ten minutes of thought and prayer, I ignored all of her suggestions. I love Lindy, but she's more of a control freak than she knows, and I need to cope with this my way. Actually, not my way, but our way. "Our way" being the one Adam, God and I use to work things out. Why didn't I realize that one look at Adam in the light of a calmer day would help far more than anything else? Well, yes, the fact that he's holding a red rose does help, I admit. But he's adorable even without the rose. Did I mention how much I love red? And roses? See what I mean about this guy? I accept the beautiful flower. "Why the rose?" "It's the first day of our second year together. I thought we ought to start it off right." I give him a kiss and the world falls back into place. Mostly. There's still the whole host of people we'll see in church in ten minutes, many of whom were thinking I'd be sporting precious metal today. Well, I am sporting precious metal. It's just around my neck instead of around my finger. And that's okay. Mostly. Almostly. Hey, I'm in broadcast communication, I can make up a word. And don't tell me you don't know exactly what I mean by "almostly." Because if you're female, and you've been within ten feet of a decent guy, you know exactly the sort of semi-satisfied at-least-we're-getting-somewhere compromise I'm talking about. "I'm liking year two very much so far." That's almostly true. Will Adam and I talk about what our future holds? Yes, we will. But not today. Today I'm going to remember that I have a wonderful, faith-filled man who loves me. That I'm holding my favorite flower, that a sparkling, lovely cross now graces my neck. I won't forget what I want, but I won't forget what I have, either. "Me, too," Adam replies, gazing at the cross he fastened around my neck a mere twenty-four hours ago. "Me, too."
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It's going to be okay. I know that now. "Hey, guess what I remembered this morning?" Adam says as we walk up the sidewalk to the church's activities center. "What?" "It's Valentine's Day in three weeks." All that lovely contentedness, that blissful almostlyness, evaporates in the space of seven seconds. Valentine's Day. Ground zero for serious relationships. Now? He brings that up now? Where do guys learn to mess with our minds like that?
Chapter Nine An open letter to bridal magazines everywhere: Stop it. Don't flirt your lovely, white-silked lushness at me from the magazine rack at the convenience store. Take your rose-petaled happiness and keep it to yourself until I ask you for your help. I do not need to hear about how French tulips make the elegant statement I've been looking for. I can't bear to know what this year's "must have" bridesmaid's dress is. I don't need to know which colors are "in" — I've already been planning that sort of thing for years and it doesn't matter that I won't admit that to anyone. How dare you thrust your buttercream frosted layers at me when I'm just trying to innocently browse a copy of Newsweek! And you, television shows, no fair ganging up on me, either. Don't think I haven't noticed the astounding number of weddings and proposals popping up on my favorite shows. What's the matter with you people? Can't a self-respecting single woman get through the first half of February without seven thousand dousings of marital bliss? Does every single soap opera on the planet have to involve a wedding just because it's the second month of the year? And, oh, you, shameful jewelry stores. You are the cruelest of all. Must you tempt us with sparkling, glittering trinkets until we're ready to hiss "my precious!" like Golem in Lord of the Rings? Do you not realize that healthy, serious relationships can exist — for years at a time, even — without the inclusion of diamonds? Not every man can look stunning and romantic as he proposes to his wife-to-be on the Tuscan cost with a ring that would send most of us into cardiac arrest. Keep your impossibly attractive tableaus — the gorgeous men in the fairytale settings uttering the things every woman longs to hear — away from our vulnerable imaginations! We've been fed Prince Charming since we were three. We know the deal. We already want it (even when we say we don't need it). Don't make it worse. Don't feed the frenzy. And, if it's not too much to ask, would every engaged woman in Los Angeles please hide her left hand for the next three weeks? Come on now, be a sport. You got yours. You know it. We know it. Enjoy it with your friends, but leave the rest of us naked-fingered women to our struggles with the men we love. To our almostlyness. Thank you. I'm done now.
Chapter Ten
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"What do you want to do for Valentine's Day?" Get engaged. "Oh, I don't know, something nice." Adam puts down the book he's holding as we browse our favorite bookshop. "Oh no you don't." "Don't what?" "Don't do that thing. That 'read my mind' thing women do. Men are terrible at it, and it always gets us into trouble. 'Something nice' is the minefield of relationships." He extracts me from the mystery novels I've been scanning by pulling both of my hands toward him. Then he plants my hands around his waist and pulls me close. Wow, I love it when he does that. I just melt. "I'm not brave enough to venture out into that minefield. C'mon, Suz, what do you want to do?" How would you answer that in my position? Do I go for brutal honesty? Do I respect the Universal Guy Commitment Fear as the unopposable force that it is? I stall. "I want what every woman wants. I want to feel special and to make a big deal about being in love. You know, a nice dinner, flowers, that sort of thing." Adam furrows his eyebrows. "I think I need more detail than that. You know me — a nice dinner could mean a really great cheeseburger. Tell me which restaurant you'd like." He attempts a bow. "Your wish is my command, madam." He looks up and winks. "Within budgetary reason, of course. This is Hollywood and some wishes go far beyond my means." My brain shuffles through proposal-worthy-but-not-too-pricey restaurants. I can drop a big hint here if I name somewhere famous for proposals but someplace still within Adam's non-movie-star price range. Bingo! That wildly romantic fondue restaurant, Grotto. There was just a piece in the paper about how the restaurant averages six proposals a weekend. The place should be filled with guys popping the question on Valentine's Day. Adam will get safety in numbers and maybe even moral support in the men's room or something. Don't balk — I'll employ any means necessary here. "Grotto," I declare. "Let's get really romantic and go to Grotto. There was even something about it in the paper this week so you can go dig up the info." That wasn't too blatant, was it? Like I said, any means necessary. "Grotto." His eyes light up. "Hey, I read that article. It sounds like just the kind of place I've been looking for." He read the article? The one about how many people get engaged there? And he wants to go? He's eager to go? Oh, don't go there, Suz. Don't get your hopes all whipped up. Too late…
Chapter Eleven Did I mention Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday? All that red, all those roses, all that love and happiness; it just makes my heart swoon. And I am so in the mood to swoon. I was practically gushing on the air today, playing all my favorite love songs, taking requests and dedications. It's Valentine's Day and baby, love is in the air. Adam looks sharp tonight. He has a tie on — that's got to count for something. It's a red tie, too. Did I mention red is my favorite color? I'm repeating myself, aren't I? Well, cut me a bit of a break, I know perfectly well why I'm jittery tonight. I've tried and tried not to get my hopes up, but they went up without my consent. Come on, getting engaged on Valentine's Day is almost a no-brainer — the whole day's built around love, you just fill in the blanks. It can't be wrong to think that tonight might be the night, could it?
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Okay, fine, I know it could. God and I even had a long talk about my expectations this afternoon. Yes, it counts even if you're doing your nails while praying. I'm female and all females know how to multi-task. Lindy knits while she prays. Monks and nuns have walked while they prayed. That Brother Lawrence guy peeled potatoes while he prayed. What's a little nail enamel between the faithful? I admit it, I was openly begging God to get Adam to propose. I figure He knows what I'm thinking anyway so why try to hide it? I didn't get a whole lot back in response. "My timing is perfect" was all I kept receiving. My head knows this. I understand the concept of God's perfect timing. My heart, however, is fond of jumping the gun. Like Lindy said, it's not wrong to want to marry the man you're crazy in love with. When we got out of the car in the restaurant parking lot tonight, I got a kiss that pulled the world out from underneath my feet. That man can kiss. He's no poet, and he's not really much of a communicator (which is okay since I communicate more than enough for the both of us — I'm a professional, after all), but the man's non-verbal skills speak volumes. The way he touches my cheek, the way he pulls me into his arms — that is about two hearts that belong together. We belong together. I know it. I know Adam knows it. Come on Adam, just ask. It's four words. "Will you marry me?" Four words. I'll make up a cue card if you need one. I'll play charades. Hey, you can even do it in two: "Marry me" works just as well. I can name that proposal in four words. I can name it in two. Name that proposal! He is staring dreamily into my eyes over dessert and I'm sending every telepathic shout of "I want to marry you" that I can. He's fidgeting. For that matter, so am I. That's got to be good. "Suzann, I've got a question to ask you, and I think I already know the answer, but I feel like I've got to ask it anyway, because it's important." Houston, we have liftoff in five…four…three…
Chapter Twelve "Suzann, do you want to have kids? Do you want to be a mom? You know, the at-home, carpool, Play-Dohand-Legos kind of mom?" Okay. Not the question we were shooting for. Perfect timing, huh, Lord? I know You're God Almighty and all, but could we have a talk about Your concept of perfect timing? But, I remind myself, a question highly pertinent to the issue at hand. We're definitely heading in the right direction. I can't fault the guy for wanting to cover all his bases before popping the big question, can I? Sure I can, but that's beside the point here. "Yeah," I say, although it comes out more of a sigh than a word. "I didn't have that," Adam says quietly. "I think kids should have that. I'd want you to want that. I mean, we should want that together. I'm not making any sense. Am I making any sense?" He's twisting his napkin into knots, staring down at it and looking as if it just cost him a great deal to admit that. At this moment, I love him more than I've ever loved him. His look and his words fuel the ferocious craving in my soul. I'm sucked into the power of the moment, into my bone-deep desire to be with this man and build a family with him. "I want to have kids. Lots of kids. I want to be a mother. Badly. I've…I've always wanted to be a mother." And suddenly I'm tearing up in a way I never expected, as if saying that gave it new strength and urgency. I grab Adam's hand, no longer able to stop myself. "I want to have children with you, Adam. I want your children. I want a life with you." I'm openly
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crying now, not caring that the people at the next table are staring at me. "I want to marry you, Adam Torrence. I want to marry you. So for heaven's sake, will you please ask me?" Oh, mercy. What have I done? I have practically just begged this man to marry me. Not good. Light years from good. Oh, Lord, I cry to heaven, please make this okay. Adam looks like a five-alarm fire just went off in his chest. There's such a crowd of emotions on his face that I can't tell if he's going to cry or cheer or run from the room. I know he loves me. But I can't for the life of me tell what he's thinking right now. Utter terror. My pride is worn raw and my heart laid open in utter terror. The pause before he answers is beyond enormous. "I know," he says softly.
Chapter Thirteen I know? I know? "I know" is what Han Solo said to Princess Leia when she finally admitted she loved him. It wasn't an acceptable answer then, either. I know what Adam was saying. I know he was being honest at a tremendous cost. I know he loves me. None of that stopped this moment from hurting like an open wound. Because no matter how I rationalize it, it feels like Adam knows full well how much I want to marry him and he still can't bring himself to take that step. And that cuts through me in ways I can't even put into words. "I… I…" I choke on any reply I attempt. Where do we go from here? Where can we go from here? I've done everything but do the asking myself. If I thought it would solve anything, believe me I'd have asked Adam weeks ago. But my asking won't change his fear of the commitment. It'd just make things worse, backing him into an emotional corner. I want the man I love to propose because he can't imagine life without me, because he loves me. Not because he's feeling pressured or cornered or that it just seemed the right thing to do at the time. Not because I wouldn't wait any longer for him to spit the words out. But that's just what I've done, isn't it? Asking him — no, begging him to ask me — isn't any different from asking him. I've ruined everything. I've let myself get caught up in a rush that never should have happened and I've ruined everything. Half the restaurant is staring at me. Those that didn't hear my pathetic begging can't help but notice my current crying. And it's not the lovely, tear-running-down-one-cheek crying here. I'm choking out ugly, gasping sobs. I've got to get out of here. Right now, and I don't care who's looking. This is horrible and awful and all my own doing. I want to die. To just curl up in an unmarried little ball and die. I fumble for my handbag, knocking silverware onto the floor. My vision is a teary blur, but I don't care. Oh, Lord, what have I done? "No, Suzann, don't…" Adam sounds so hopelessly lost. As I push past the dropped jaws of the other diners, I somehow catch the most unexpected conversation. The older gentleman to Adam's left has slammed something down on the table.
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"Land sakes, young man, do you love that woman?" I stop dead in my tracks, suddenly needing to hear his answer. Could this get any more public or painful? "Yes," Adam gulps out. "Well then, you idiot, go get her!"
Chapter Fourteen I'm standing in the parking lot, clutching my handbag and trying to breathe when I hear Adam's footsteps behind me. He just stands there for a moment. What is there to say? This isn't one of those moments you can fix with a well-turned phrase. I can't even bring myself to look at him. "I love you, Suzann. You know that. And I wish I was at the place you are, that I could say the things — the thing you want to hear from me…" The unsaid "but" hanging off the end of that sentence could rip a girl in two. Already has, actually. I squint my eyes shut and apply every ounce of will I have into standing up straight when I want to crumple into tiny bits. "I love you too much to fake this," he goes on, and there's a gut-wrenching catch in his voice. "To say it before I'm sure. Before I mean it with every bone in my body." Oh, Father, save me. I didn't think this could hurt more. "What else do you need, Adam? What is it that's missing?" "Don't you think I've asked myself that a million times? Don't you think I want to be sure? When I look at you, when I know how I feel and what you want, don't you get that it's ripping me up not being sure?" Adam slams his hand on his car hood, pushing out an exasperated breath. I look up at him, and it hits me. It comes over me as if I have just turned to stone. As if all the pain and aching have just solidified into cold, unflinching fact. "It's not about 'sure,' Adam," I say with a voice that's so steady I'm not even sure it's mine. "I can't fix this for you. And I don't know how much longer I can wait for you." Part of me is wailing inside, refusing to accept what I've just said. But a deeper part of me knows that no matter how sharp and stabbing, it is the truth. "Find your way out of this, Adam," I plead. "I don't know how. You have to help me." He looks at me and I actually feel my heart breaking. I could swear I heard the snap. "I can't help you. I'll love you and pray for you and wait for you as long as I can, but I can't do this for you. Nobody can. The world will always be full of bad parents and horrible childhoods. It'll be full of people who can't stay married and who mess up marriage and mess up each other. Until you can ask me anyway, until you know that you want this enough to not care about the odds against us, then I…" I cannot finish that sentence. I can't even bring myself to think of it, much less to speak it. "I…need to go." I can't bear the thought of being in his car, so despite my ridiculously high heels, I turn away and start walking toward home. It's early, and I'll get a cab somewhere along the way. Right now I just need to be moving. "Come on, Suzann, won't you at least let me take you home?" He was asking that a third time when I turned the corner. Some blisters are worth having.
Chapter Fifteen
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I don't remember much about how I got here. I remember crying in the cab, I remember the first candy bar, but there are four wrappers in my handbag. How I got to be standing in the checkout line of a toy store buying Spring Wedding Barbie and Commitment-Ready Ken (not their real names — but I imagine you guessed that) and a host of matrimonial accessories, I'm not sure. I think it started with the Skipper bridesmaid that looked so much like Lindy. There's some disturbing impulse at work here, but I don't have the emotional fortitude right now to stop it. Besides, bingeing on Barbie attire seems a lot safer than several other things my credit card could be doing right now. Like six dozen pairs of expensive shoes. Like booking a three-week vacation to Fiji. Or signing up for a lifetime subscription to a Christian online dating service with an ad that reads "Only Commitment-Ready Males Need Apply." I can't go home. I know Adam, he's going to be waiting for me there and I don't want to see him yet. I can't spend the night in ToyMania. My folks live three hundred miles from here. If I head to the all-night diner across the street, I might eat every pie on the West Coast. Plus, I'd have to explain why I'm dining with an entire Barbie bridal party. It's Valentine's Day, and the whole world is on a date. There's only one place I can go.
*** Lindy didn't even ask why I appeared on her door with a bag full of dolls and their tiny special-occasion outfits. She didn't need to — evidently Adam's been phoning all over town trying to find me. "I figured you didn't want to be found," she says after hugging me. "Plus, I figured you'd end up here eventually if you suspected Adam was camping out on your doorstep." She stares at my shopping bag with one raised eyebrow. "I didn't figure on the Barbie thing, though." She adopts a five-year-old voice. "You wanna come in an' play? My mom says it's okay." There are days when it's weird having a cartoon character voice for your best friend. Then there are the days when the weirdness is just what the doctor ordered. Lindy plops down in the middle of her living room floor and starts rummaging through the bags. "That mean boy who called b'fore," Lindy says, still in kiddie mode, as she pulls Barbie from her box, "I called him baaad names for bein' so mean to you." And so I sat there, laughing and crying, as Lindy re-enacted her conversation with Adam using Barbie and Ken. I'm sure she didn't say half the things she said she did, but it made me feel better anyway. Lindy's so hilarious she could make a funeral funny. Right now, I need that. My cell phone rang eight times in the next hour. I didn't answer it.
Chapter Sixteen I spent the night at Lindy's. We stayed up talking, accessorizing Barbie and then accessorizing ourselves. Just being generally silly, which was my best defense against the tide of despair that threatened to overtake me at any moment. We dreamed up complicated schemes to get Adam to propose, and I laughed over them until my giggles finally dissolved into the full-scale sobbing I knew would surface sometime that night. I always thought "broken-hearted" was a sort of ridiculous phrase. I know better now. Only I don't just feel as if my heart is broken, I feel as if my whole life is broken. Last night I slammed up against the truth I wouldn't face before: it's not just a matter of time. Adam may never be ready
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to commit to marriage. I know that the man's lived with the worst model of marriage the world has ever produced. But having an injury is not the same thing as choosing to heal. Adam has to choose to heal, choose to make that leap of faith. We belong together. Adam knows it. Now he has to believe it. I held my breath as I got out of the cab at my apartment. If Adam has pulled an all-night vigil and is still there, I wasn't sure what I'd do. But he's not here. There's just a single red rose pinned to my door. No note. What's left to say? Before last night I might have spent today consoling myself, convincing myself that Adam just needs more time to work through his issues. Last night I realized this is not a question of time. This is a question of Adam. And of God. I have sent up so many prayers over the past twelve hours. Not just because I need God to fix this, but because I love Adam so much that I'm desperate to see him healed. Even if it's not to marry me. But, oh merciful Lord, what if it's not to marry me? How, Lord, can you help take down the life I've built up for myself with this man? How do I dismantle the dreams I've pieced together? How do I stop loving him now that I've stopped waiting for him? I didn't like the answer that came back to me. You don't. You can't. I won't stop loving Adam anytime soon. I still love him. Desperately. It'll just be about hurt now, instead of about happiness. I'm usually such a happy person, I don't know how I'm going to do this. I walk right past my answering machine, with its eleven messages waiting for me, and simply go to bed.
Chapter Seventeen You know, when you sleep the entire weekend, don't answer your phone and call in sick to work the following Monday, you'd think the world would get the hint that you'd really rather be alone. No chance. At 4:00 p.m. Monday afternoon, someone was thumping on my door. I figured Lindy had decided it was time to drag me out of my despair. It was Adam. I suppose, on some level, I knew it might be him. I did brush my hair on the way to answer the door, after all. I knew I'd have to deal with him eventually. There was some tiny, catty part of me that relished the fact that he looked terrible. I wanted him to suffer as much as I had over the past three days. But, man, the guy looked really bad. I had to stop myself from hugging him. I wanted to. I wanted to let myself slip back into the old "us," but that also meant living the cycle of disappointment, cajoling and waiting for Adam to come around. It would have been so easy. Even bleary-eyed, he's still the most handsome man God ever created. But I held back. He stood there for a moment, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets. "Can I come in? Just for a minute?" I almost said "No," but I can't just extract him out of my life like a bad tooth. We're still too connected. Even if it's excruciating, I want to end this the right way. Adam doesn't even sit down. He just stands in my kitchen, mussing his hair, picking at a photo of us on my fridge. I wonder, for a disconnected moment, how many photos of us there are around my apartment. I grab a soda and sit down at my kitchen table, feeling better by knowing there's a whole dinette set between us. "I…um…I got laid off today. Jacob's decided to declare bankruptcy if it'll keep Barb from getting any more of his money. He called us all into his office, drank half a bottle of scotch in front of us as he told us how ugly
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things have gotten between him and Barb, and then told us all to box up our stuff and go home. Handed each of us two weeks' severance and told us to not come back on Tuesday." Adam is the kind of man who needs to have things in order before he can move on. The guy who can't buy a new carton of eggs until the last egg is gone in the old carton. That's actually a huge part of his problem. He's waiting for life to fall into place before he thinks we can get married. And now he's unemployed. Life just exploded out of place. How cruel is it to be shot by the stray bullet of an ugly divorce? Fsst. The tiny flame of hope that had been lingering in the back of my heart was snuffed out. I didn't even know I'd kept it lit until I felt it go out. This morning, I asked God to be merciful and make this a clean break. When will I ever learn to be careful what I pray for?
Chapter Eighteen "So what'd you do then?" Lindy asks as we're walking home from our favorite yarn shop, where she just bought me some gorgeous red boyfriend-breakup-yarn as a consolation gift. Lindy got me stuck on knitting. It's a safe, non-caloric passion. And, if you're lucky, you get a cool sweater out of your efforts. Okay, sometimes, it's too large to fit a linebacker or might only fit Aunt Lucy's Chihuahua, but a satisfying hobby nonetheless. "What was there to do? I told him I was sorry, that I'd pray for him and then told him it was better if he left." "Whoa," says Lindy, who often speaks the truth whether or not you want to hear it. "Kick a guy when he's down, huh?" I shoot her the look she deserves. "What was I supposed to do? If I comfort him through this, then next month there'll be another reason why he's not ready to get married. If it was a month or so from now and I could be his friend without it ripping my heart to shreds, then things might be different. But I can't be that for him. Not now. It just hurts too much." "You're sure?" I stop dead on the sidewalk. "Of course I'm not sure. I don't love him any less now than I did a week ago. Do I still want to —" My voice catches and I am reminded how much hurt is still lurking just below the surface. " —to marry Adam Torrence? Yes. But I don't know if he can marry me. I don't even know if he knows if he can marry me." I pull in a big sigh designed to keep the tears at bay. "And it hit me, in that parking lot, that there isn't a single thing I can do about that. I can't love him out of it, I won't corner him into proposing and I don't want to marry him until he works his way through this. Trouble is, I'm not sure he can work his way through this." "Don't get me wrong," Lindy replies, "I want to tell the guy off as bad as you do. And I think you're doing the right thing by pulling back. And the guy certainly has issues. But God's a big God, you know." "Don't do that," I shoot back. "Don't go feeding me any hope. I've squashed that little bit of hope down so many times I think I'll choke on it if it shows up again. Adam's parents hate each other. Now he just lost his job because of a bad marriage. If he had issues before, he's got whopping issues now." I practically stamp my foot in defiance. "No. If in the course of a year and all we've been through, if that isn't enough to pull him out of his doubts, then there isn't anything that will. Or anyone. I'm just trying to get to the place where I can thank God for protecting me from what might have happened if I'd let this go any further." "Suz?"
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"What?" "I wouldn't follow that train of thought right now." Great. Just what I need. More Lindy relationship lectures. From a woman who hasn't had a successful date in months. "And why not?" I bark back. Lindy points to the front steps of my apartment, where Adam Torrence sits. Holding a small black velvet box.
Chapter Nineteen I repeat: holding a small black velvet box! A ring box! "I think I hear my mom calling me," Lindy says, heading off in the opposite direction. "Don't you dare leave me," I say, grabbing her elbow. "Not until…" Until what? I don't even know what I'm saying. "That man does not look like he wants an audience. I'm just going to go sit over there on that bench and…um…knit something. Send up a flare if you need me, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to talk to me." Adam stands up. I drop my shopping bag on the ground. Suddenly I can't seem to find enough oxygen to breathe. He walks toward me, and I faintly notice Lindy gathering up my shopping bag and backing away. My feet are glued to the ground, and I'm suddenly acutely aware how poorly I'm dressed. In the instant I register that I look like an idiot, I realize that I don't care. When he reaches me on the street corner, he gets down on one knee. I watch his hand lift the lid of the box to reveal the most beautiful ring ever created. It's completely different than what I had in mind. It's absolutely perfect. Adam clears his throat. A passing driver cheers and beeps his horn. "My life fell apart this weekend. I lost my job, but more important, I lost the woman I love. I'm in lousy shape, and the world is crumbling around me. I thought this would be the last situation on earth I'd find the courage to ask you to marry me. Nothing is how I wanted it to be, and I'm scared to death. "But I realized yesterday that I can't fix any of it without you. The world is a messy place. People are trashing their marriages left and right. I don't even know if I know what a good marriage looks like. But I know there's only one person on earth I could make a good marriage with. There's only one person I could ever try to be a good husband for. Who I could be scared with. And that one person is you." Tears are streaming down my cheeks as I watch Adam take the ring out of the box and reach for my hand. "Suzann White, I don't know how to make this work, but I could never make this work without you. Will you marry me?" I could barely choke the word out I was crying so hard. I nodded so enthusiastically I thought my head would fall off. I pulled that man to his feet and kissed his socks off. In the distance, I heard horns beeping, someone applauding and Lindy whooping "Thank you, Jesus!" from her bench.
Chapter Twenty
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An unemployed man should stop at four dozen roses. I'm not going to tell him that. "And that's today's weather, brought to you today by Olsen Motorsports, where cars are their passion." A yellow light flashes on my console. "But before we return to our Wish 'Em Wednesday Music Jam, we'll take a few more music wishes from callers." I push the connection switch on my console and wait for the cue from my engineer. "Hi, you're on with Suzann. What's your Wednesday Music Wish?" "Suzann, will you marry me?" I look over to see my engineer grinning shamelessly, giving me a thumbs-up. "And yes, folks, just in case you just tuned in, that would be the fourth time this morning. Yes, Adam, I will marry you." Sound effects of wild applause and the Wedding March fill my earphones. Interns are dancing in the hallway, making doe-eyes at me behind the red roses they've swiped from my bouquets. A woman from sales somehow made a veil from shredded paper and tried to put in on my head during the last newsbreak. Two hundred people have asked to see my ring, even though I haven't had a spare moment to go get my nails done. Adam has called and proposed every hour of my show. It seems he's decided to make up for lost time by backing up his first proposal with several very public declarations of his intentions. If he tries to get out of this, I imagine I now have two or three hundred thousand audio witnesses. Not that I'll need it. Sure, it took him a while, but this guy didn't just grasp the concept of commitment, he embodied it. Now do you see why God wanted him on His side? I'd be annoyed if I weren't so absolutely lovestruck. I mute my microphone and yell, "No more" into the studio intercom. My engineer just taps his earphones, miming that he can't quite make out what I'm saying. His grin tells me Adam might make it on the air a time or two more before I sign off today. Three bakeries have faxed over offers to do the cake. Two restaurants have offered to host the reception for free if I'll agree to a live broadcast. Me? I'm just staring at my left hand, speechless. I suppose I should have a long conversation with God about my concept of perfect timing. Because, sometimes, "perfect" doesn't look at all like what you had planned. And getting to "yes" may just be the most amazing journey of all.
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Dirty Secrets of Daylily Drive by Stephanie Bond Snippets from The Daylily Digest: The Landscaping Committee would like to remind everyone: Crabgrass is the enemy! Plans are underway for the annual Fourth of July barbecue bash at pool house two. See you there! The Security Committee reports a rash of petty theft; residents are urged to keep doors and windows locked. Finally, a hearty welcome to our new neighbor Victoria Crocker in 1379. Let's hope she knows how to mind her own business (which is cake baking, by the way!), or her American dream could very well turn into a suburban nightmare!
Chapter One I, Victoria Crocker, have officially achieved the American dream. I just moved into a three-bedroom, twoand-a-half-bath brick home on Daylily Drive in the northern suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia. Considering the fact that I was raised in a poor, slightly trashy family who moved from apartment to apartment to stay one step ahead of the landlord, owning a home as a single woman just shy of thirty years old is a small miracle. But owning a home in a neighborhood with tennis courts and three swimming pools, where everyone's yard is a perfect velvety green carpet — that, my friends, is almost more than I can comprehend. I'm a cake baker — that is, I make cakes for a living. From the day I found an Easy-Bake oven at the Goodwill store, I knew I was destined to make and decorate cakes. My mother, who had an aversion to food preparation in general, proclaimed me the official family cake baker. And with seven kids in the Crocker family, it seemed as if there was always a cake to bake for some special occasion. I realized early on the power of making people happy with food. When I announced I was going to be a cake decorator, my family laughed at me, my mother loudest of all. She said that while I'd never be able to make a living, I might at least be able to attract a husband with a sweet tooth. She was wrong, on both accounts. I began decorating cakes for grocery stores and then bona fide bakeries before starting my own business five years ago with the pennies I'd saved. I'm now making a nice living making and decorating cakes, but I haven't found a husband. Why? Because working seventy hours a week doesn't leave me much time to look or to be looked at. When other people are having fun — evenings, weekends, and holidays — I am at my busiest. And during peak bridal season, April through June, my life is a blur of multi-layered white cakes. But my busy season just ended, and since I'm living in a new place, I'm hopeful to find a man who's willing to date someone who perpetually has flour in her hair-netted hair, who goes through more latex gloves than a crime scene tech and who owns more knives than a surgeon. But I have redeeming qualities — all the running around I do in the kitchen and making deliveries to restaurants and private residences keeps me trim. And when I lose the hairnet and latex gloves, I'm not repulsive. I've been told I have a nice smile and "honest" eyes. And I usually smell like buttercream icing. I was nervous to meet my neighbors, but they didn't leave me wondering for too long. The moving truck had barely left my driveway when the doorbell rang. With my heart thumping, I walked through the foyer of my new home (I have a foyer!) that was stacked with packing boxes, and opened the door. The Daylily Digest, Ashley Prospect, Editor The Landscaping Committee would like to remind everyone that during the summer, you should apply weed killer in the morning when temperatures are cooler. Remember: Crabgrass is the enemy!
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Plans are underway for the annual potluck Daylily Drive Fourth of July barbecue bash at pool house two. See you there! Congratulations to the Daylily Drive women's doubles tennis team, who beat the capris off the team from Azalea Way last weekend. Miranda Tuttles and CeeCee Monroe carried the team to victory! Missing: Burberry key ring, miniature crystal bunny, Judith Leiber lipstick case. If found, please call Tiffany Vance, 555-3549. The Security Committee reported a rash of petty theft; residents are urged to keep doors and windows locked. Finally, we'd like to welcome a new resident to Daylily Drive — a hearty hello to Victoria Crocker in 1379. Victoria owns a cake decorating business called Crocker Cakes. Welcome, Victoria!
Chapter Two Four smiling women stood on the stoop. (I have a stoop!) "Hiii-iiii!" they chorused. "Hi," I managed. They were an intimidating group, dressed in lots of pink and yellow, hair perfectly coiffed. They took turns introducing themselves. "I'm Thea Armstrong," a statuesque brunette said. "We're the welcome wagon." I'd thought the welcome wagon was an urban myth. "I'm Victoria Crocker. It's nice to meet you." "I'm Ashley Prospect," a pretty blonde said, then reached into a large Louis Vuitton shoulder bag and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "Here's a neighborhood directory and a copy of our newsletter, The Daylily Digest. I'm the editor." "Be careful what you say around her," a blonder blonde said dryly, handing me a basket wrapped in cellophane. "I'm CeeCee Monroe. Here are some necessities to tide you over while you're moving in." "That's thoughtful," I murmured. CeeCee's clothes were a little tighter than everyone else's, her cleavage a little deeper, her hair a little bigger. "I'm Miranda Tuttles," said the sturdy strawberry blonde that rounded out the foursome. "Do you, by chance, play tennis?" "A little." CeeCee elbowed Miranda. "Are you trying to get rid of me?" "Why, CeeCee," Thea said, "you're our star. We wouldn't dream of replacing you." "Right," CeeCee said sarcastically, and I noticed that the other women stood slightly apart from her. "I hear you make pretty cakes," Ashley said. "I play bunco with your real estate agent, Helen, and she told me all about you." I experienced a blip of panic. Real estate agents vigorously investigated a person's financial history, but how much did Helen know about me, and how much had she relayed? "I have a cake business, yes."
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"Helen says you sell to restaurants," Ashley said. "Anyplace we would know?" It was a test, I realized. "The Sky House serves my lemon pound cake." They gasped in unison. "That's only our favorite dessert," Miranda declared. I exhaled. "You're coming to the Fourth of July barbecue bash, aren't you?" Ashley asked. "I saw the signs," I said, nodding. "It sounds like fun." "Are you single?" Thea asked. "Um, yes." "We're all divorced, except for Ashley," CeeCee offered. They began talking amongst themselves, but eyeing me. "Marci has a brother who's divorced." "I heard he has a thing for porn. There's a new guy at my office." "I thought you said he was gay. There's the guy who just moved into 1375." "But Thea has dibs on him." They laughed uproariously, then resumed. "My husband's friend from Florida is in town." "Don't waste her time introducing her to someone who lives out of state. I'll give Marci a call." "That's okay," I said loudly. "I have a lot on my plate with getting settled in." I fumbled the bulky basket. "Would you like to come in?" "Another time," Ashley said. "See you at the barbecue! We can't wait to see what kind of amazing cake you bring." They all walked away except for CeeCee, who waited until the other women were out of earshot before saying, "Watch your back, honey — they might seem nice, but if they decide they don't like you, they'll crucify you." My eyes widened, but before I could respond, she was gone.
Chapter Three Still puzzled by CeeCee's declaration, I watched the four women walk down the street. Miranda and CeeCee appeared to be talking, but suddenly, I was shocked to see Miranda take a swing at CeeCee. The other women pulled Miranda back while CeeCee laughed. Then they all split up and retreated to their respective homes, with CeeCee's being the grandest. Perplexed, I stepped back into my new home and carried the welcome basket to my kitchen. I had a fabulous kitchen. It was, of course, the reason I'd sold my soul to the bank by signing a mortgage that would keep me strapped for cash for the next thirty years of my life. When my real estate agent, Helen Downing, had called and said that she'd found the perfect house for me, I was doubtful. Especially when I'd
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heard the address — I didn't think there was any way I could afford a house in this location with the kind of kitchen she described. Picture this: stainless steel as far as the eye can see. Two oversize stacked ovens. Two commercial-grade refrigerators. An industrial-size dishwasher. A pantry as large as a studio apartment. Apparently the couple who'd built the house had been quite the amateur chefs. But in their case, food had not been the way to each other's hearts — their nasty divorce was my gain. Helen convinced me I had to have the house, and she'd brought the drastically-reduced asking price within my reach by slashing her commission to almost nothing. I spun around the kitchen like Cinderella dancing with her broom. I couldn't believe that this glorious, sparkling work space was mine. I was giddy thinking about all the beautiful cakes that would roll out of here. And I was the tiniest bit afraid that someone would realize that I didn't belong on Daylily Drive and would boot me out. CeeCee's warning about what would happen if the women in the neighborhood turned against me kept going through my mind, and I was determined to do everything in my power to fit in. I spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking dozens of boxes of kitchen supplies: various molds, pastry bags, tips, spatulas, cake pans of all sizes and my precious knives. Some people used sharp wires to level a cake — that is, to skim off the bump on the top that occurs naturally when baking, but I preferred to use a long bread knife. And since I often froze cakes so they'd be firmer to work with, I needed a set of knives that will slice through a brick. My German-crafted Schaefer knives were my pride and joy and the first substantial purchase I made when I began to earn real money. I handled them as if they were made of gold. The doorbell rang again, startling me. Guiltily hoping that none of my outlaw relatives were already dropping by for a visit, I went to the door and peered through the peephole. At the sight of a policeman in uniform, my heart jumped to my throat. Dear God, which one of my brothers was in jail this time? For the second time that day, I nervously opened the door.
Chapter Four The tall, dark-haired, uniformed officer standing on my stoop had the most gorgeous blue eyes I'd ever seen — the same color that I used when creating my blue-bonnet cakes for spring, the color that I loved to lick from my fingers. But even as I wet my lips, those blue eyes glanced down at the knife in my hand and widened. He took a step back, hands raised. "Whoa. Drop the weapon, ma'am." I gave an embarrassed laugh and put the knife behind my back. "I'm sorry — I just moved in and I'm unpacking my kitchen. Can I help you, officer?" He looked wary. "Are you Victoria Crocker?" "Yes." I steeled myself for bad news, wondering how I'd be able to post bail for whichever one of my relatives was in trouble, considering the low balance in my checking account. He held up a padded envelope. "I live a couple of doors down. A piece of your mail was put in my box by mistake." My knees went weak with relief. "Oh. Thank you." I took the envelope with the hand that wasn't holding the knife and noticed that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. "You're welcome, ma'am."
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When he turned to go, I was seized by an alien impulse. "Um, what's your name?" He turned back. "Nate Townsend." I smiled, hoping he would reciprocate. "Nate, would you like to come in for cake?" I'd never yet met a man who could resist free cake. A puzzled look crossed his face. "Cake?" "I, um, bake cakes for a living." "Oh, right — I saw that in the neighborhood newsletter." He shifted awkwardly. "Thanks for the invitation, but I'm diabetic." I blinked. "Oh." He gave a curt nod. "Good-bye. Be careful with that knife." Feeling like an idiot, I watched his broad back retreat down my sidewalk, then I closed my door. So much for wowing the man with sugary baked goods. I was still tingling with embarrassment a few minutes later when my phone rang. To my dismay, it was my ex-felon older brother Kirby. Predictably, he was high. "Hiya, Sis. Mom says you got yourself a big honkin' house. Thought I'd come by and check out your new digs." Translation: He and his thug friends wanted to case the neighborhood. "Now's not a good time," I said, hedging. "I'm still unpacking." "So I'll drop by tomorrow." "Tomorrow's no good either," I said quickly. "I'm going to a neighborhood barbecue." "Well, aren't you special?" my brother sneered, and I realized that he'd called for the sole purpose of picking a fight. Years ago I'd learned to simply disengage. "I have to go, Kirby. Good-bye." I hung up and pushed thoughts of my troublesome family from my mind in favor of opening my welcome wagon basket. Inside were toiletries and cleaning supplies and a little pewter pineapple on feet that was, the package said, supposed to sit near the door so visitors could rub it for luck. Suffused with happiness, I moved a small table next to the door and placed the tiny pineapple on top. Then I turned my attention to preparations for the Fourth of July celebration. I needed to make a good impression to solidify my reputation among the neighborhood ladies. I spent the evening browsing my favorite cake decorating handbook, thinking that my lickable blue icing would be perfect for the Fourth of July occasion. And I wondered if Nate Townsend would be there.
Chapter Five
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The next day, armed with a pyramid of red, white and blue iced cupcakes, I walked to pool house two. It was a blazing hot Atlanta day. I'd taken pains with my hair that was the color of antique brass and with my simple outfit that brought out the green in my eyes. But I started to wilt under the heat and my own nervousness. The neighborhood dynamic was foreign to me — I was sure I'd do or say something wrong. I joined a trickle of people laden with casserole dishes and entered the pool house. A roar of voices and laughter enveloped me. I felt claustrophobic and out of place as I threaded through the crowd to the food table. I was almost there when someone bumped into me, hard. I went down in a blur of smashed cake and smeared icing. Mortified, I looked up to see CeeCee Monroe leaning over me. "Victoria, I'm so sorry! Someone pushed me! Are you okay?" She held a lime-colored drink, and her words were slurred. Everyone gaped at me, and I wanted to die. "Let me give you a hand," a male voice said. I blinked into the blue, blue eyes of Nate Townsend, who was even more gorgeous dressed in civilian clothes. He lifted the collapsed cupcake pyramid and helped me to my feet. Then he smiled and reached forward to wipe the corner of my mouth, coming away with a gob of blue icing. "This is one of those times I wish I wasn't diabetic," he teased. "You look…tasty." I flushed at his flirtatious comment, but before I could respond, I was surrounded by Ashley Prospect, Thea Armstrong and Miranda Tuttles. Ashley glared at CeeCee. "Go home. You're drunk." "Right," Thea said. "Haven't you done enough damage around here?" "Everyone is sick of you," Miranda hissed. I was shocked at their open hostility toward the woman and murmured that it was an accident. "Victoria," Ashley said, "why don't you go home and change. We'll clean up this mess." I left to diffuse the situation, and it took all my nerve to return after I'd taken a shower and changed. CeeCee was nowhere to be found. Nate brought me lemonade, but he was equally attentive to Thea, who obviously adored him. Tamping down pangs of envy, I left them alone. Ashley and Miranda introduced me all around, making me feel welcome. The rest of the afternoon passed in a happy blur. I marveled at the aproned men taking turns at the poolside grills. I laughed at the children running around with sparklers held high. And I shivered every time Nate's blue gaze landed on me. I was feeling optimistic about my new station in life when I walked into the ladies' restroom. Inside, it was empty and cool. Passing by one of the showers, I stepped in a spot of reddish-black liquid. When I realized what the substance was, my stomach bottomed out. I pushed aside the shower curtain and gasped. CeeCee Monroe lay in a pool of blood, with a number six Schaefer serrated utility knife sticking out of her chest. I recognized the knife because it was mine.
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With my heart galloping, I knelt down and touched her neck to check for a pulse. Nothing. Screams sounded behind me. I turned to see two women I'd met but whose names I couldn't remember staring at me. Then they turned and ran out shouting, "She killed CeeCee!"
Chapter Six The minutes and hours after finding CeeCee's body are still a blur. After the women left the shower room screaming that I'd killed her, I'd wanted to run. But besides that being a bad idea, I was paralyzed. The next face I remember seeing was Nate's. I wanted to fall into him, but he'd held me at length. "Don't touch me, or anything else," he'd said, then asked me to tell him what had happened. I'd told him — twice. And I'd repeated the details to a gruff detective who'd arrived on-scene. Except for the fact that I knew the knife in CeeCee's chest was mine — I knew because of the yellow food coloring stain on the wood handle — I didn't know how someone had gotten it, and why someone would use it to kill CeeCee. When the detective asked me if I'd ever seen the knife, I'd lied and said no. I'd felt Nate's gaze on me and wondered if he was remembering me answering the door with a knife…if he'd seen the brand. In the end, the detective announced he wouldn't arrest me…yet. But I hadn't slept since. Now, two days — or was it three? — after the murder, I was back in the empty shower room with Nate. He was dressed in jeans and a snug grey T-shirt, and I had the feeling that this little walk-through was off the record. Between his proximity and revisiting the scene of the crime, my stomach was in knots. This wasn't exactly how I'd hoped we'd get to know each other. "Did you see anyone when you walked inside?" he asked. "No." "Think. Did you hear any noises?" "No, it was quiet. I stepped in something here. When I realized it was blood, I opened the shower curtain and…found her." "How did her blood get on your hands?" "I knelt down to feel for a pulse." "Did you touch the knife?" I hadn't, but the chances were good that they'd find my fingerprints on my own knife. "I…maybe." He winced. "And then what happened?" “Those women came in and started screaming." He came up behind me and laid a hand on my arm. "Have you called an attorney yet?" "No." His touch sent electric currents running through my body, but I was morose. Living in a nice neighborhood for less than a week, and I was already enmeshed in a murder. I didn't belong here, and if
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Nate knew the sordid state of my family, he'd be even more repelled. "I didn't kill CeeCee, Nate. I barely knew her — what motive could I possibly have?" He shrugged. "Everyone saw her bump into you earlier." I was incredulous. "Surely you don't think I would kill someone over cupcakes?" He held up his hands. "Stranger things have happened. An argument breaks out, someone has a weapon." "I don't carry a knife," I said hotly. He looked at me and I could tell from his eyes, from the set of his mouth that he didn't know whether to believe me. I realized suddenly that I wanted Nate to believe me, and not just because he was a cop. I wanted him to like me as much as I already liked him. "Do you know if she had any enemies?" he asked. I recalled the contentious conversation that had taken place on my stoop the day I'd moved in, the punch that Miranda had thrown in the street, and the unnecessary hostility toward CeeCee when she'd bumped into me the day of the barbecue. "I think there was some kind of feud between CeeCee and other women in the neighborhood." "Who?" I hesitated, unsure how well he knew them. "Ashley, Miranda and…Thea." "I thought I heard voices in here." I turned to see Thea Armstrong standing there, and from the look on her face, she'd overheard me implicate her in CeeCee's murder. A Special Edition of The Daylily Digest, Ashley Prospect, Editor We're all still reeling over the loss of our beloved CeeCee Monroe during the Daylily Drive Fourth of July Barbecue Bash. Up until Victoria Crocker found the body in the shower room, everyone was having a grand time. The Pool Committee announced that the shower room at pool house two has been decontaminated; the Mom and Tots daily swim hour will resume Tuesday. The tennis team will be holding tryouts to fill the vacancy. Contact Miranda Tuttles at 555-6899. Found: A woman's driving glove. Stop by the guardhouse to reclaim. Many thanks to Victoria Crocker for taking a break from police questioning to give us a baking tip: A garnish on an iced cake should hint at the flavor of cake — chocolate curls, candied cherries or even carrot shavings. Happy baking!
Chapter Seven "We were just leaving," I said to Thea. "I'll walk with you," Thea said, looking at both of us. "I actually wanted to talk to you, Victoria, about making a cake for my bookclub meeting."
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"Okay," I said, reminding myself that if I didn't land in the clink, I needed to line up work. She insinuated herself between us as we walked back toward our houses. The sun was climbing toward noon. "Nate, have you made any progress in CeeCee's murder?" "Not really." She made a rueful noise. "I guess that doesn't bode well for you, Victoria. Oh, and just so you know, there was no 'feud' going on — we all loved CeeCee. Any animosity that you detected was simply because we were worried about her." "Why?" Nate asked. Thea sighed. "CeeCee was an alcoholic. We were planning an intervention. It's too bad that didn't happen sooner." "Are you saying that her drinking had something to do with her murder?" Nate asked. Thea shrugged. "When CeeCee drank, she was promiscuous. We all warned her that someday one of her lovers or a jealous wife was going to hurt her." "Do you know who she was seeing?" Nate asked. "No. CeeCee was private about names. I told all of this to the detective." Nate nodded and we stopped in front of his house. He checked his watch. "I have to go to work." He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. "Call me if you remember anything else." Thea and I both watched him walk toward his house, taking in his impressive physique, the wide shoulders, the trim waistline. "He is one handsome man," Thea murmured. "And you know, don't you, that he could lose his job if he becomes involved with a murder suspect?" "We're not…involved." Thea smiled. "Good. Now about that cake." I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little leery about letting her into my home, but I had to show her my cake portfolio, and I reasoned that Nate knew she was with me if I wound up floating in someone's kiddy pool. As she turned the pages of the design book, I couldn't help but noticing that she seemed extremely detached from the fact that one of her best friends had just been murdered. I wondered if she could be in shock, then as she began to chat about the sale at Dilliard's and how she needed a manicure, I began to think that she and CeeCee simply weren't as close as I'd imagined. I relaxed. Thea was a beautiful divorcée with everything going for her. She wasn't the kind of person who would commit murder. "I'd like the swan cake," she said, tapping her finger on the page. I wrote down the order, taking notes on her preferences for cake flavor and colors. "When shall I deliver it?" I asked as we walked toward the door. "I'll pick it up," she said, waving her hand. "I'm in the middle of redecorating, so my place isn't suitable for guests."
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"Thank you for the business," I said when she was on my stoop. Maybe I'd been all wrong about her. "And I'll thank you to mind your own business, Victoria." Thea gave me a pointed look and marched away.
Chapter Eight The next day, Ashley Prospect dropped by, laden with the massive Louis Vuitton bag that seemed perpetually at her side. When I opened the door, the blonde smiled widely behind Valentino sunglasses. "Sorry to drop in like this. I'm on my way to a bunco game, and I wondered if you happened to have any of those yummy lemon pound cakes in your refrigerator." "I think I might have an extra," I said, waving her inside. As I closed the door, I remembered what CeeCee's warning about being careful what I said around Ashley. "You look just awful," she drawled. My cheeks warmed. "I'm not sleeping very well." She sighed. "None of us are. I still can't believe that poor CeeCee is gone." She looked around. "I'd forgotten what a nice house this is." I pulled a cake from one of my refrigerators. "You've been in this house before?" "Oh, sure. I used to water the plants for the Edisons when they weren't home. Nice people, but unhappy. I was sorry to see them go." "Ashley, who do you think could have killed CeeCee?" She shrugged. "Who knows? The woman kept a lot of company, some of it from the wrong side of the tracks, if you know what I mean." I knew what she meant — the Crockers personified the wrong side of the tracks. Thus far, I had dodged my family's phone calls, but from the messages, they'd all seen the story of CeeCee's murder in the paper…and knew I had found the body. I was sure they only wanted the lurid details. I handed her the boxed cake and took the money she offered — early on I'd learned not to offer freebies to neighbors or they would eat you out of business. I couldn't help but notice that Ashley, too, seemed unfazed by the passing of her so-called friend. "How close were you and CeeCee?" I asked. "The four of us were like sisters," she said wistfully, then carried the cake to the door. "I will miss her so much. You really should consider changing the paint color on these walls — I always thought they were a little too yellow." "I might," I said, thinking that perhaps Ashley's description of her relationship to the other three women wasn't far off the mark — my sisters and I fought like cats and dogs. "I hope you enjoy the cake," I said as she was leaving. "I'm sure I shall." Then she gave me a pleasant smile. "Victoria, dear, if you know what's good for you, you'll stop asking questions about CeeCee. As editor of the newsletter, I'm in a position to sway the opinion of
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your neighbors in your favor or against, and I'm not afraid to use it. By the way, everyone loved your baking tip last week. Will you send me another one for next week?" I swallowed hard, marveling how she could wrap a threat in flattery. "Sure." "Good." Then she was gone, her high heels clicking on my sidewalk, her giant purse swinging.
Chapter Nine The next day, I wasn't at all surprised to open the door and see Miranda Tuttles standing there. In fact, I'd expected her to stop by. Although every time the doorbell or the phone rang, I'd crazily hoped it was Nate…and not to arrest me. He had pretty much dominated my thoughts — the man was an appealing diversion from reality. "Hi, Miranda," I said warily, gun shy from the two previous visits. "Hi, Victoria." She smiled sadly. "I just came by to tell you about CeeCee's memorial service tomorrow at the tennis courts." My eyebrows went up. "The tennis courts?" She nodded. "CeeCee would have wanted it that way. The scrapbookers in the neighborhood are asking everyone to bring a card for a book in her honor." "That's nice." In the awkward silence, I asked, "Would you like to come in?" Miranda wiped her neck with a handkerchief. "Just for a minute to get out of the sun, if you don't mind. I've been walking from house to house." "Would you like something cold to drink?" "Sounds nice," she said, following me inside to the kitchen and sat at my breakfast bar. She looked around at the boxes stacked against the walls. "Still getting unpacked, I see." I nodded and poured us both a glass of iced tea. "I guess you've put everything on hold, though, until you see how all this murder business is going to shake out for you." I pulled back. "I'm not worried," I lied. "I didn't kill CeeCee." She studied me, then downed her tea and set the glass on the counter with a bang. "If you say so." "Miranda, why on earth would I want CeeCee dead?" The woman shrugged. "Maybe you were afraid she'd find out something about you." "I don't have any secrets," I said, my pulse jumping. She emitted a little laugh as she climbed off the stool and headed toward the front door. "Everyone has secrets, darlin', and CeeCee was good at discovering them. By the way, you said you play tennis — are you interested in trying out for the team?"
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"Maybe," I hedged. "I'm not very good." "Neither was CeeCee," Miranda said conspiratorially. "I carried our doubles team almost single-handedly." I hesitated, wondering if Miranda would support Thea's explanation for the swing I'd seen Miranda throw. "Thea said that CeeCee was an alcoholic." The woman gave a dry laugh. "Oh, sure. But no matter what she did, CeeCee didn't deserve to die…not like that, anyway." She waved. "Hope to see you tomorrow at the memorial service." I stood watching the woman walk away in her athletic swagger, puzzling over her last comment — it almost sounded as if she thought CeeCee had deserved to die, although perhaps in a different manner. Had Miranda planned something worse for CeeCee?
Chapter Ten It was the next morning as I was leaving for CeeCee's memorial service that I realized something was missing. My pewter pineapple, the one that had been in my welcome wagon basket, was gone. And I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen it. Thea, Ashley and Miranda had all been in my house…but why on earth would one of them have taken it back? It hadn't struck me as an expensive item — it was the thought that had mattered. Then I was seized by a chill — had someone been in my house while I'd slept? I looked all around, then reminded myself that my alarm system was still activated. I was being paranoid. The tennis courts were on the other side of the subdivision, so I drove over in my delivery van. A crowd was gathered at the courts, and I recognized a few faces from the barbecue. Helen Downing, my real estate agent, was there, shaking hands and giving out her business card. The woman was nothing if not industrious. She came up to me and offered a sad smile. "I understand that you found CeeCee." "That's right." "How awful for you, Victoria. I hope you don't let this affect how you feel about the neighborhood. Do you know that this zip code has the fastest appreciating homes on the entire East Coast?" "I believe you mentioned that before. I'm very happy with the neighborhood." The woman nodded, much relieved. The memorial service got underway with many neighbors saying or reading something nice about CeeCee. Thea, Ashley and Miranda all had lovely things to say, sounding mournful even as they prattled on about superficial things like how lavish CeeCee's parties were. CeeCee, I learned, had had many interests, including the arts and travel. And she'd had an eye for design, which was evident in her lovely home. It was a shame that she had died so abruptly, and for no apparent reason. I decided that she and I might have been friends. Someone moved to stand next to me — Nate, in uniform. I smiled up at him, my heart pounding like crazy. His smile was less forthcoming and his deep blue eyes seemed to pierce right through me. I wondered if he'd told anyone about the knife. Of course he had, I reasoned. Why would he cover for me, a relative stranger?
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Afterward, Nate walked me to my van. "I'm sorry I haven't been around to check on you. I've been putting in a lot of hours." "Any leads?" He gave me a look that said I didn't want to know. "How have you been — anything going on that I should know about?" "I don't know that it's important, but something was missing from my house this morning." "What?" "Just a trinket, really. Something that was sitting next to my door." "There've been a rash of break-ins in the neighborhood, just petty items stolen. Has anyone been in your house?" "Thea, the day we saw her at the pool. And Ashley came by to buy a cake. And Miranda came by to tell me about the memorial service." "Otherwise, have you been keeping your doors locked?" I nodded. He looked pensive as he climbed into his cruiser and drove away. I spent the rest of the day delivering cakes, wondering if my customers had seen my name in the papers. When I got home that evening, the first thing I did after I walked into the house was disarm the alarm. Or tried to — either I'd forgotten to turn it on when I'd left, or it had already been disarmed. I heard a noise and looked up to see a shadow looming. My heart jumped to my throat — someone was definitely in my house. CeeCee's killer?
Chapter Eleven I ran out of my house into the darkness, heart thumping, and fled to Nate's house, praying he was home. I tripped going up the steps, sure the intruder was hot on my heels, and stabbed the doorbell several times. When his stoop light came on, I flung myself against the door and pounded. "Nate, it's Victoria — help!" The door swung open, and I momentarily forgot that I was being pursued by a potential killer. If there is anything sexier than a man in boxer shorts holding a gun, I don't know what it is. "What's wrong?" he asked, pulling me inside. I recovered. "Someone is in my house." He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the top of a stack of folded clothes that sat on the stairs, pulled them on and slid his feet into shoes sitting next to the door. "Stay here," he said, and walked out into the darkness.
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I debated what to do — call for backup? Listen for gunshots? Take the opportunity to look in Nate's bedroom? I did glance around Nate's house. It was neat and minimal, decorated with masculine furnishings. The air smelled faintly of Nate's aftershave, and I realized that he must have recently emerged from the shower. Another thrilling image. After what seemed like hours, the door opened. Nate stood there holding the arm of someone whose face I couldn't see. "Do you know this person?" Nate asked, shoving the person forward. I gasped. "Kirby?" My brother waved a hand emblazoned with prison tattoos. "Hiya, Sis." Fury and humiliation rolled through me. "What were you doing in my house?" He scowled. "Hey, I was doing you a favor." "How's that?" He gestured toward my house. "I was sittin' in my car across the street, waitin' for you to come home, and I saw this lady sneakin' into your house." I frowned. "Sneaking in?" "Yeah — she was dressed in black, and went around to the back. By the time I got there, she was gone, and I thought she was in the house. So…I went in after her." "But my security alarm was set — how could anyone get in?" Kirby scoffed. "Because like a lot of people, you don't bother changin' your security code from the factory setting." I blinked — that would explain how someone had gotten into my house to steal my knife. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from blurting out that little tidbit. Kirby looked at Nate and nodded at the gun. "Can you put that thing away? You're makin' me nervous." The Daylily Digest, Ashley Prospect, Editor The Landscape Committee would like to remind everyone of this Friday's Most Beautiful Yard competition. Make sure your sprinklers are turned off when the judges come by! The Scrapbook Committee announced that the scrapbook of CeeCee Monroe's memorial service will be on display at pool house two until Saturday. The Daylily Day Walkers will be starting a new two-mile route this week. Lace up your Mephistos and join them at the school-bus stop every morning at 7:15 a.m. Missing: A blue DKNY scarf (this season) and a rhinestone-studded dog leash. If found, call 555-3812. Baking tip of the week from Victoria Crocker: Tapping a pan of batter lightly before baking will help to eliminate air pockets. (Editor's note: Although Victoria Crocker is the prime suspect in CeeCee's murder, she is presumed innocent until proven guilty.)
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Nate lowered the gun. "Did you see the woman again?" "Nope." "Can you describe her?" "She had a great ass — nice and high." So was he, I realized when I looked into his glazed eyes. "Nate, I'm so sorry to have bothered you," I said, stepping outside. "We'll be going now." Kirby turned and ambled in the direction of my house. Nate clasped my arm. "Are you sure you're okay?" I sighed. "Yes." "Your brother looks…rough." Embarrassment warmed my neck as I saw the censure in Nate's expression. "Yeah, he's had some problems. Again, I'm sorry." "No problem. I was going to come over to see you tonight anyway." I blinked. "You were?" "Yes. Victoria, is there anything about the murder weapon that you want to tell me?" The knife — he suspected it was mine. "N-no. Why?" He gave me a flat smile. "Just asking. See you around." He dropped his hand from my arm and I immediately missed it. As I followed my felonious brother back to my house, I wondered if what had happened to me was some kind of cosmic comeuppance for trying to suppress my upbringing. One thing was certain: Nate would never be interested in me now.
Chapter Twelve "You sure got yourself a nice place here," Kirby said, walking around. "Thanks," I said, pouring juice for our breakfast. With his shaggy hair and tattooed torso, Kirby looked even more dangerous in the light of day. I was glad that his jalopy was off the street and safely hidden in my garage for the time being, but was eager to send him on his way. "That cake bakin' business of yours must be goin' gangbusters." I nodded. "I've worked hard." "Yeah. So, what's up with you and the cop?" "Nothing," I said quickly. "He's been…helping me." "Yeah — Ma says you found a lady dead in a shower."
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"That's right." "Police think you did it?" I sipped my juice. "They haven't arrested me." He laughed. "You got a lawyer?" "No." "I'll set you up with mine — he got my armed robbery sentence reduced by half." I smiled weakly. Kirby wandered to the front of the house, fingered aside a curtain and whistled low. "Damn, that's one nice dish coming up the sidewalk." I jumped up, horrified that another one of my neighbors would see Kirby. I looked out the window to see Thea approaching my door wearing a snug skirt and tank top — she was here to pick up the swan cake. "Kirby, she's a customer — maybe you should wait in the next room." "Are you kidding? No way." There was no time to do anything else but open the door and smile. "Hello, Thea." "Hello. Is my cake ready?" She stepped in, then stared at Kirby, who stared back, nodding in approval. "I'm Victoria's brother," he offered. "Really?" she asked, eyebrows arched. I cleared my throat. "I'll get your cake, Thea." I retrieved the cake in record time and gave her a peek. "It's beautiful," she said tightly, then scribbled me a check, looking over her shoulder at Kirby, who practically licked his lips. A flush of embarrassment covered my entire body as I thanked her. Her look of condemnation told me that she'd made up her mind as far as my pedigree. Her body language was stiff as she left. "Man, did you see that rack?" Kirby asked. I glared at him. "I have to make deliveries, Kirby. Time for you to go, too." But he was still looking out the window. "I've seen that chick somewhere." "I doubt that. Hurry and eat so we can go." Later I let Kirby drive away first, leaving some distance between my car and his. When I drove past CeeCee's house, I recognized Helen Downing pounding a For Sale sign in the yard with a hammer. I slowed to say hello.
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"Hi, Victoria," she said, waving. Then she looked sad. "I've always loved this house, but I didn't think it would ever be on the market." "I know — it's a shame." I extended a box out the window. "I thought you might like a lemon pound cake." She came over to my car. "I'd love one. You're one of my favorite clients, Victoria." Then she made a rueful noise. "I saw a man driving out ahead of you in an old car — is that a relative of yours?" I nodded. "It's not good for your property value, dear, to entertain that kind of company." I hadn't thought about it in those terms, but I could see her point. I let her get back to her sign-pounding and I drove away, wondering if my family would forever be an obstacle to my happiness. Although a thought kept nagging at me — what if Kirby hadn't been hallucinating about the woman trying to get into my house?
Chapter Thirteen After delivering six lemon pound cakes to the kitchen of The Sky House restaurant, I obeyed my aching bladder and went to the ladies' restroom. A stall door was opening just as I walked in, and I was surprised to see Miranda Tuttles walking out. "Hi, Miranda." "Hi, Victoria. I understand there was some excitement at your house last night." I tried to look nonchalant. "Just a misunderstanding." Her mouth curved into a tight smile as she washed her hands. "There sure have been a lot of misunderstandings since you moved into Daylily Drive." I tensed. "Just a coincidence, I guess." She pulled out a wad of paper towels to dry her hands. "I don't believe in coincidence." She then tossed the towels in the garbage, and marched out. I stared after her, trying to figure out where things had gone so wrong and remembering CeeCee's words: If they decide they don't like you, they'll crucify you. I was starting to think that maybe I should call Helen and see if she had one of those For Sale signs for my yard. I'd have to eat the closing costs, but I'd recover eventually. If I wasn't in jail. Heaving a sigh, I walked into the stall. It took me a few seconds to realize what was wrong. The toilet seat was up. "That's strange," I murmured, then wondered if Miranda had had to throw up in the toilet. If she wasn't feeling well, it might explain why she'd been so bitchy. When I got home, I entered the house with trepidation, but all was quiet. I was dragging out the manual for the security system, determined to change the code, when I noticed the message light on my machine. I pushed the button, grimacing when Kirby's voice sounded over the speaker.
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"Victoria, hey, it's Kirby. Listen, I've been doing a little investigatin'. When you have time, go to a web site called www.housewivesoncamera.com and click on the name Southern Belle. See you later." Mystified, I booted up my laptop and signed on to the dubious-sounding web site. The images that loaded made my mouth go dry. The site was purportedly real women performing stripteases in their homes via webcam for money. I scrolled down the list of names until I found Southern Belle, and clicked. After charging $19.95 to my credit card, the image of a woman in the middle of a strip tease began to emerge and unfortunately, the face was the last element to fill in. It was Thea Armstrong.
Chapter Fourteen The next day, I was still reeling over the fact that Thea was stripping in her home for money. No wonder she didn't like to have guests over — she was probably afraid they'd discover her dirty little secret. I straightened up from the cake I was decorating. Could that have been the reason CeeCee had been murdered? Miranda had said that CeeCee was good at discovering secrets. Had she discovered Thea's and paid for it with her life? I walked to the freezer, my mind turning as I removed a frozen sheet cake. Did Nate know about Thea's parttime job? Some small, evil part of me wanted him to find out — and not just because it might give Thea a motive for murder. But how would it look if I just went over to his house and blurted it out? Like I was trying to divert attention away from me, the woman whose knife had been embedded in the victim! I sighed and in preparation for carving the frozen cake into the intricate shape I had in my mind, donned culinary gloves to guard against the razor-sharp blade I would have to use. Safety was paramount in the kitchen, and when I'd taken a class on the proper use of knives, the instructor said that anyone who used a sharp knife without gloves was foolish. I stopped as a thought occurred to me. There had been no blood on the handle of the knife protruding from CeeCee's chest — it seemed likely that the killer had worn gloves to protect himself/herself and to avoid leaving fingerprints. I set down my knife and removed my gloves, then rummaged for the special edition newsletter that had been released upon CeeCee's death. I scanned the text and found what I was looking for: Found: A woman's driving glove. Stop by the guardhouse to reclaim.
*** My pulse quickened as I drove to the guardhouse and greeted the guard. "I understand you have a glove in lost and found?" I asked, hoping I wouldn't have to describe it. The man scratched his head, then pulled out a cardboard box and rummaged through it. "Yeah, here it is." He held up a single black glove and read the scrap of paper attached to it. "Says here that the pool man found it last Monday somewhere around pool house two. Is it yours?" That was after CeeCee had been killed, and the location seemed right. "Yes, I'll take it," I said, skirting an outright lie, but perspiring in my excitement. He handed it to me and I immediately recognized a smear of blue icing — the glove had been in contact with my cupcakes. And another stain made the breath stall in my lungs: a brownish stain, almost indiscernible on the black.
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It was blood.
Chapter Fifteen I drove straight to Nate's house and bounded up the steps to ring the doorbell. The adrenaline was crashing through my body and I could scarcely stand still. A few lights were on inside. It was early evening, dinnertime, but I hoped that Nate wouldn't mind being interrupted. The door swung open and Thea stood there, a glass of wine in her hand and a haughty look on her face. "Yes?" My excitement ebbed and I put the glove behind my back. "Uh…is Nate home?" "He's a little indisposed at the moment." "It's important." She angled her head. "Where's your brother? It must be tough having relations like that. Do you go to the state pen to celebrate holidays? By the way, your swan cake was dry." I bit my tongue to keep from asking how her webcam business had been today. Suddenly Nate appeared at the door, holding a digital camera. "Hey, Victoria. Come in. Thea brought over a bottle of wine for us to split while I fixed her camera." He handed the gadget to Thea. "It seems to be working fine now." Thea's smile was ingratiating. "I guess it was just me. I'm hopeless with all that technical stuff." My eyebrows flew up at the depth of her lie, but I had more important things on my mind. "I need to talk to you, Nate." "Okay." "In private." He looked at Thea. "I'll be right there." "I'm counting on it," she purred, then disappeared into another room. When she was gone, I handed the glove to Nate and told him my suspicions. He looked shocked, then confused, then confounded. "You've handled this glove?" "I just told you." He sighed and pulled his hand down his face. "Victoria, you're not helping yourself. Do you realize that this glove now incriminates you more than anyone?" I blanched. "But the guard will testify that I got it from him." "And the prosecution will say how convenient that you knew that this lost glove was relevant to the case!" I hadn't thought about that. "You should have come to me first."
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I twined my hands, swallowing the words that would have explained it went against my nature to ask for help. "Victoria, I want to believe that you didn't kill CeeCee Monroe, but I can't ignore the evidence. I'm going to tell the detective about the night you answered your door holding a knife. The same brand of knife that killed CeeCee." "So you noticed," I said weakly. "Yeah. And I told myself that a lot of people probably have those knives." "True." "But not so many. And now, with this glove…" He trailed off and my heart dragged low. He was going to turn me in. I was going to jail. I would stink of the Crocker shame for the rest of my life. "I shouldn't talk to you anymore," he said. "You really should consider getting an attorney." Then he closed the door in my face.
Chapter Sixteen Monday evening I made my way down to pool house two for the neighborhood pizza party, armed once again with a pyramid of cupcakes, this time chocolate and vanilla. I had decided that this might be my last night of freedom, and I didn't want to spend it squirreled away in my house, too afraid to show my face, acting guilty. The only thing I'd done wrong was to violate some kind of unwritten code that said I wasn't allowed to be any more than I'd ever been. So I marched into the pizza party, my arms full of gorgeous, fluffy cupcakes. My arrival was met with stunned silence. People literally stopped mid-chew or with a slice of pepperoni pizza halfway to their mouth. When I saw Thea, Ashley and Miranda set down their drinks and move toward me like a pink and yellow tank battalion, I steeled myself for the fallout of my bravery. Or maybe it was foolishness. Most people averted their gazes. Even Helen Downing, who was there schmoozing, and who had always been on my side, looked away. I didn't see Nate, and I wasn't sure I could face him anyway. "You have a lot of nerve to show up here," Thea said. "And with cupcakes, no less," Ashley added. "Yeah, if you think we're going to eat those," Miranda said, "you're crazy." "Suit yourself," I said primly and moved toward the food table. "Can't you take a hint?" Ashley said sharply, following me in her kitten-heeled sandals that clicked on the tiled floor. She was dressed in fitted shorts that showed off her ass. Her nice and high ass. "You're not wanted here," Thea said.
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"You don't belong," Miranda added. The fury in my belly welled up and something inside me snapped. I looked into the faces of the three women before me, and I saw the face of every person who'd ever teased me for being a poor, dirty Crocker. "I don't belong here?" I asked quietly. "What does it take to belong here? Do I have to become a kleptomaniac, Ashley?" I walked over to her enormous Louis Vuitton bag, opened it and turned it upside down. Dozens of bizarre trinkets hit the floor, the pewter pineapple stolen from my house, and many items that I recognized from the missing and lost list in the newsletter: the Burberry key ring, the miniature crystal bunny, the Judith Leiber lipstick case, the blue DKNY scarf, the rhinestone-studded dog leash. The Daylily Digest, Ashley Prospect, Editor Congratulations to the Hewitt family for winning Daylily Drive's Most Beautiful Yard competition. The animalshaped topiaries cinched the prize! There will be an estate sale at the home of CeeCee Monroe beginning next month. All furnishings, art and clothing will be sold for a fraction of retail. CeeCee's incomparable home is also on the market. Check the yard signs for Open House hours. We have word from an inside source that an arrest in CeeCee's murder case is imminent, so stay tuned. Baking tip of the week from Victoria Crocker: For an impromptu decorating kit, put icing in a Ziploc baggie, cut off the corner and squeeze the icing through the opening to create designs on your cake. (Editor's note: We will miss you, Victoria.) "That's my stuff!" a woman yelled. "Mine, too!" I looked at Ashley. "Did it give you some kind of sick thrill to write about the little crime spree that you created?" Her mouth opened and closed. Thea turned to Ashley. "You've been stealing from everyone? How could you do something so…immoral?" "You wouldn't know anything about being immoral, would you, Thea?" I said to her. "Or should I call you Southern Belle, your name on www.housewivesoncamera.com? Do your friends know that you give live strip shows via webcam in your home, right here in this perfect little neighborhood?" Thea's face drained of color. Miranda walked up to me, her fists clenched. "You're telling lies!" "Lies?" I said, then reached down and grabbed something that wasn't supposed to be between Miranda's legs. "You mean like the lie you told when you let everyone believe you are a woman?" Gasps chorused across the room, the pizza long forgotten. "Miranda's" eyes crossed in pain as I squeezed harder. "No wonder your team dominated the doubles bracket." I let go and she/he fell to the floor in pain.
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Ashley and Thea stood agape, then helped Miranda up. "CeeCee knew all of your dirty secrets, didn't she?" I asked. "The question is, which one of you killed her because of it?"
Chapter Seventeen The three women narrowed their eyes at me, and I could tell they were ready to pounce. Devoid of a weapon, I reached around and grabbed three cupcakes, letting them fly in rapid succession. (Having a good throwing arm is one advantage of being raised with brothers.) The cupcakes splatted one, two, three in the faces of the women and everyone, including me, held their breath. And then all hell broke loose. I hadn't been in a food fight since grade school, but this one was a doozy. Cupcakes flew like missiles, and no one escaped unscathed. The floor was slick with icing and both of my eyes were impacted with cake. Ashley, Thea and Miranda were doing their best to gang up on me, but I had the arm. I was winding up to throw another one when a whistle sounded. I turned and instinctively let go, sending a chocolate cupcake slamming into Nate's handsome face. A hush fell over the room. He winced, then slowly reached up to wipe the chocolate from his forehead. "I ought to haul all of you in for disturbing the peace." His glare encompassed the room, but landed on me. I couldn't imagine how ridiculous I looked. "Victoria, I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me." "Why?" I asked, my chest heaving. I was a glutton for punishment. "Because…a search warrant was just exercised and a knife set matching the knife that killed CeeCee Morgan was found in your home. And your fingerprints are on the murder weapon." He looked pained. "Victoria Crocker, you're under arrest for the murder of CeeCee Monroe."
Chapter Eighteen Wonder of wonders, upon hearing that I was under arrest, my legs did not fail me. And neither did my mouth. "Of course my fingerprints are on the murder weapon — it's my knife." Everyone gasped, and Nate raised his hand. "Please don't say anything else." "It's my knife, but I didn't kill CeeCee," I said, then turned to gesture to the three icing-covered women standing opposite me, their secrets laid bare to their neighborhood. "They —" It's strange how my mind works. It will store a crucial detail in the deepest pockets of my memory until it is almost too late. My self-preservation mechanism is on delay. At that second, I remembered where I'd seen the match to the glove found by the pool, the one I'd given to Nate. "Victoria, what is it?" Nate asked.
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The impact of the realization stunned me, and I replayed the incident in my head, just to be sure. But there was no doubt — I saw the glove clearly on the hand of the person hammering a For Sale sign in the yard, the hand that reached for the boxed lemon pound cake I'd offered through the window. Helen Downing. "Where's Helen?" I shouted. "Helen Downing!" Everyone looked around, then the crowd parted to reveal Helen heading toward the door. "Stop her, Nate! She killed CeeCee!" He gave me a startled glance, but when Helen sprang into action, he caught up with her in two strides and pulled her back. "What's the meaning of this?" She swatted at Nate's hand. He held on, but looked at me. "You'd better start explaining, Victoria." "The glove from the guardhouse is hers," I said. "I saw her using the match to it the other day — you'll probably find it in her car." Helen scoffed. "That's ridiculous. Why would I kill CeeCee?" "To get her house listing," I murmured, walking toward her. "The biggest house in the neighborhood in the fastest appreciating zip code on the entire East Coast. You told me yourself — you've always loved the house, but you never thought it would be on the market." Helen shook her head. "That's not true — you're lying to cover yourself. You admitted that your knife killed her." "You sold me my house — you probably still have keys. You know how to disarm the alarm. You could've gotten that knife at almost anytime. You must have been at the barbecue that day. You pushed CeeCee into me, so people would remember." Her jaw hardened. "You can't prove that." "I wouldn't be so sure if I were you," Nate cut in. "Especially if we find that other glove." Helen blanched. I swallowed, and stepped closer. "I don't understand — why would you try to pin her murder on me?" Disgust flared in the woman's eyes. "Your family is trash. I figured it wouldn't be a stretch for everyone to believe you capable of murder." She gestured at the aftermath of the cupcake disaster and gave a harsh laugh. "I was right, wasn't I? Even the police were convinced it was you." I looked around — from Ashley to Thea to Miranda, then my gaze landed on Nate. His expression was unreadable. I realized with a sinking heart how right Helen was…how close I'd come to being hauled away for a murder I didn't commit…how easy it was for people to think badly of me. I rescued the lone cupcake left intact, and walked out.
Chapter Nineteen
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Baking is an emotional outlet for me. When I'm happy, I bake. When I'm angry, I bake. When I'm relieved, upset or heartbroken, I bake. Baking is a panacea for all that ails. The day after I narrowly escaped being arrested, I baked forty-two lemon pound cakes, six swan cakes, and enough round layers to create a half-dozen three-tiered wedding cakes. Unfortunately, all the butter, eggs and flour in the world wasn't going to make me feel better about the fact that a decent woman had been killed over what amounted to a lousy real estate commission. I didn't like these people in the suburbs, and they certainly didn't like me. Now what was I going to do? My hair was in a net, I was elbow-deep in flour and wearing my favorite Kiss the Cook apron when the doorbell rang. I shook off as much flour as I could, then grabbed a towel and went to the front door. When I opened it, I blinked in confusion. It looked as if the entire neighborhood of Daylily Drive had gathered on my yard. Ashley, Thea and Miranda — now dressed as a man — stood on my stoop. "What's the meaning of this?" I asked, flustered. "We're the welcome wagon," Ashley said, her smile contrite. "The whole neighborhood wanted to come and say how sorry we are for the way we treated you." "Especially us," Thea said, tossing her hair. "But…I outed you," I said. "Some secrets need to be told," Miranda said. "And you wouldn't have if we hadn't been so mean to you." "But you thought I killed CeeCee." Ashley raised her hands. "Okay, everyone made mistakes. Can we all just get along?" I smiled and nodded. She handed me the pewter pineapple that had been in my original welcome wagon basket. "I promise I won't take it again." I took it and grinned, then waved to everyone who'd gathered. "Thank you! I'll see you soon!" The crowd began to dissipate and Thea conjured up a smile. "Maybe we can all go to lunch sometime, talk about CeeCee." "I'd like that." "By the way," Thea added, her expression sheepish, "your swan cake was wonderful." I laughed. "Thank you." They walked away, each retreating to their own home. I marveled at the different personalities that had landed on Daylily Drive. They were basically good people with problems and vices.
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Not so different from my family, I realized. I closed the door and reached for the phone, then pulled up the last few numbers that I had called. When I found the one I wanted, I hit Dial and waited. "Yeah?" said a coarse male voice. "Kirby? Hi, it's Victoria." A few seconds of silence sounded over the phone, then he made a noise that was half laugh, half breathless surprise. "Hi, Victoria. I was just thinkin' about you. What ever happened with the police?" "They found the person who did it." "Good," he said. "That's real, real good." I smiled. My brother wasn't a bad person…just someone who had done bad things. And maybe there was hope for him yet. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over Saturday and grill out on my deck." (I have a deck!) "Well, hell, yeah. That sounds great. I'll bring the hamburgers and the beer — er, soda." "Okay," I laughed. "See you then." I put down the phone, feeling content, if not entirely happy. Nate — The doorbell rang, derailing my thoughts. It was just as well. I walked back to the front door and swung it open, and the man of my musings stood there.
Chapter Twenty If the sight of Nate standing there in jeans and a T-shirt wasn't mouth-watering enough, the man was holding what looked like…a cake? "Hi," he said. "Hi, yourself," I said, knowing I looked a fright. "I'm not great with words," he said, his blue eyes contrite, "but I was hoping we could…start over." My heart skipped warily. "Start over, huh?" "I brought a peace offering," he said, and he sounded so boyishly hopeful when he extended the pan, I laughed. "What is it?" He looked sheepish as I unwrapped it. "It's an apple cake, made with artificial sweeteners." I stared at the lopsided cake with the uneven gobs of white icing and I was practically moved to tears.
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Be the talk of your neighborhood with the recipe for Victoria's Lemon Pound Cake! Victoria's Lemon Pound Cake This elegant, yummy cake is light and luscious — perfect for summer! Cake ½ cup butter 1½ cups granulated sugar 3 eggs 4 tbsp lemon juice 1½ cups self-rising flour ½ cup sour cream 1. Preheat oven to 350° F degrees. 2. Grease loaf pan. 3. Cream butter and sugar together, then add eggs, beating after each one. 4. Add lemon juice. 5. Using a spatula, fold in flour, then sour cream. Pour batter into prepared loaf pan and bake for 45 minutes, or until inserted toothpick comes out clean. Loosen cake edges from pan with a knife and allow to cool in pan for 10-15 minutes. Turn out the cake onto presentation plate. Allow cake to cool completely before glazing. Glaze 1 cup confectioner's sugar 1 drop yellow food coloring ½ tsp vanilla 5 tbsp lemon juice Combine ingredients well, then drizzle over cooled cake. Garnish with a lemon slice or lemon rind curls if desired. No one had ever made me a cake. "It's not much to look at," he said, "and you might not like the taste…" "It's perfect," I said with a smile, then remembering Thea's stake on Nate, I touched my hairnet selfconsciously. "So…do you make cakes for all the women in the neighborhood?" He gave a little laugh. "No. You're the first." The first… I didn't want to read too much into his overture. Maybe he was simply being nice because he'd nearly arrested me for murder. "Thank you, Nate, for everything." "You're welcome." He stood there and put his hands on his hips, the moment stretching longer and longer. "Well," he said finally, "I guess I'll let you go." I hesitated. I'd been turned down the first time, but decided to try again. "Would you like to come in? I couldn't possibly eat all of this myself."
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Nate grinned. "I thought you'd never ask." My heart swelled in happy anticipation. When the door shut behind him, I dipped my finger into the icing and tasted it. "It's good," I said earnestly, licking it off my lips. He stared at my lower lip. "You missed a spot." Then he closed the distance between our bodies and lowered his head, murmuring, "I'll get it." His mouth closed in on mine in a sweet, hungry kiss that ignited my senses and sent my heart cartwheeling. And for the first time since I'd moved to Daylily Drive, I felt as if I was finally home.
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Falcon's Revenge by Rita Herron Is the imposing gothic mansion atop Falcon Ridge really cursed? Having witnessed the tragic deaths of her mother and sister there, Victoria Hoffman is convinced it is. And now, with her estranged father on his own deathbed, Victoria has returned to her childhood home - and quickly finds herself haunted by memories, or something worse... Randolph Falcon is determined to reclaim Falcon Ridge from the man he believes stole it from his family: Victoria Hoffman’s father. But his drive for revenge takes a detour when he encounters his enemy’s beautiful daughter, and he finds himself compelled to protect her from the danger that seems to be lurking around every corner of the eerie old house.... Chapter One Ten years ago, Victoria Hoffman left the monstrosity of a house at the top of Falcon Ridge and vowed never to return. She’d had to leave to survive. But here she stood once again in its cast shadow, dread knotting her stomach, painful memories assaulting her as dark clouds shrouded the waning light and painted black streaks across the exterior. Jagged icicles clung to the window ledges while muddy snow caked around the base of the house. Weeds climbed the massive stone walls, and the rough edges had grown grayer, weathered with dirt, spiderwebs and mold. The cold frigid air brought reminders of the dead roses in the overgrown garden out back, of blood and the echo of terrified screams piercing the night, grisly smells and sounds that had haunted her forever. The house was cursed. Everyone who’d ever been associated with or lived within the cavernous walls with its garish gilded windows and hollow turrets had died - except for her and her father. And he was in the hospital now, barely hanging on to life by a thread after a near fatal car crash. Her hands shook as she climbed the stone steps to the portico and glanced at the ornately carved gargoyle, then at the brass knocker that created a thunderous roar through the two-story foyer; a roar that she knew drifted all the way to her childhood bedroom. The bedroom where she’d lain at night and listened to the disturbing cries. The memories yanked her back as if a tangled vine from the garden had wrapped around her, choking the life from her... The squeak, squeak, squeak of the rocking chair droned on, endless and eerie, in the dark of night. Victoria huddled under the covers, trying to drown out the sound, along with the incessant crying. First, her baby sister’s shrill scream. Then her mother’s, because little Sally Jo had died. Creak. Creak. Creak. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word...” Her mother’s voice, usually so strong and melodic like a harp playing, quivered with pain.
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Tears surged to Victoria’s eyes and spilled over. It was all her fault little Sally Jo was gone. She was supposed to watch her. But she’d turned away for a second, and when she looked back, Sally Jo had crawled to the top of the ladder to escape a rattlesnake. Victoria had tried to save her, but the ladder swayed. And Sally Jo had fallen. Then the terrifying screams began. Sally Jo’s. Her mother’s. Her own. Creak. Creak. Creak. “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird...” Her mother’s voice faded for a moment as if she couldn’t go on, but she finally finished the verse. And then there was silence. No more singing. No more cries. The utter quiet that sent a chill up her spine. Just as it had when Sally Jo had lain in that casket with closed eyes. Panic squeezed Victoria’s chest, and she ran through the dark pitted hallway to Sally Jo’s room. The rocking chair was empty. Her mother lay on the floor, her white cotton gown flowing around her ankles in a puddle. An empty pill bottle lay at her side. “No!” Victoria dropped to her knees and shook her mother, but her head flopped back and forth like a rag doll. Fear jammed in her throat. No, God no! Her mother couldn’t be dead, too. She tried to scream for her daddy, but the sound ricocheted off the concrete walls and rang over and over in her ears. Just as Sally Jo’s last cry had. Just as it would forever. Chapter Two Randolph Falcon’s jaw snapped tight at the sight of Victoria Hoffman on the stoop of Falcon Ridge - or rather, the Hoffman mansion. Thick dark hair spiraled around an oval face that was painted in shadows by the faint dusky light filtering through the aspens and pines. She was petite but voluptuous, the contrast of her femininity so stark against the rugged San Juan mountain ridges and cliffs backing Falcon Ridge that his gut clenched in response. She seemed small and vulnerable, almost as lost and abandoned as the stray birds he found injured in the wild. Yet, the gentle slope of her chin flared with determination as she hedged at the twelve-foot entrance, the faint whisper of unease swirling around her, arousing protective instincts in him that he didn’t want to feel. Randolph had been alone a long damn time. By choice - but still alone. He lived in the heart of the woods in a cabin that was nothing more than a shack, communed with the wildlife and was a falconer at heart. No woman before had breached his connection or intrigued him enough to risk sharing his world. For no woman could understand his falconer ways. Especially Victoria Hoffman, daughter of his enemy....
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Had she returned to claim her home - the home that should have rightfully been his? Bitterness swelled inside Randolph as dark and bleak as the granite sky. He’d come here for one purpose only. To get proof that Hoffman had stolen Falcon Ridge from Randolph’s father. He was certain the answers lay in the secret cavernous chambers guarded by the heavy stone walls. Victoria Hoffman turned then, leaving one hand on the thick brass door handle, the other tucking a strand of her unruly hair behind one ear. Her eyes were so dark and sultry, almost a bronze color, that he felt drawn into their anguished depths, felt heat stir in his body, his sex spring to life from a sleep that had lasted nearly a lifetime. But he stifled his reaction, drawing on his constant companions of anger and revenge to renew his strength. A sharp breath of surprise escaped her rose petal lips when she saw him. “Who are you?” “Randolph Falcon.” He stalked toward her, knowing his size dwarfed hers, that they were miles from nowhere outside a house that had only known death, that his presence might frighten her and add to the haunting shadows in her eyes. Yet, even though he told himself he didn’t care if he scared her - that he should scare her so she would leave - he halted, mesmerized by her eyes. And for some unfathomable reason, he couldn’t make himself spit out the warning that he’d intended to say. Leave here or you might be the next to die. Chapter Three Victoria gazed at the sight of the hulking man beneath the gargoyle. He didn’t need the shadows from the jutting mountains or the black rivulets of dwindling light to accentuate the danger in his eyes. He towered over her, broad shouldered and muscular, with hands that could wrap around her neck twice. His hair was as dark as soot and hung in unkempt strands around his broad face, his skin was sun-parched, his jaw set tight as if he’d bared his teeth for attack. Already spooked by the demons that haunted her, Victoria found Randolph forbidding - more primitive animal than male - as if he belonged in the bowels of the untamed forest with its spooky sounds and dangerous night creatures.... She clenched her hands by her sides. “What are you doing here?” Anger flashed in his black expression. “I’m the caretaker for the property.” She shifted, her nerves rattled more by his hard-edged, whisky-rough voice. “You work for my father?” “Yes.” His eyes blazed over her, sending chills slithering up her spine. “You came back to see him or to stay?” “To visit.” Her voice squeaked, and she cleared her throat, refusing to show her fear. “I’ve already been to the hospital.” And now, she needed to sort through his things. The doctors had prepared her for the worst. When he died, she didn’t intend to stay in this house alone. Not with the endless miles of desolation, with the trees bent and twisted from centuries of bitter, fitful winters and gray mantled skies that scattered relentless snow and hail and rain.
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Not with the ghosts creaking from deep within the crevices.... “He hired me to get the place in shape for you,” Randolph Falcon said. “Or...to sell.” The question lingered between them as if he’d spoken aloud. What did she intend to do? But she refused to answer, to share her silent pain with anyone else. So, she ran a finger along the jagged stone, crusted brown with snow and ice. “It’s fallen into disrepair?” “The house is in good shape.” He paused, his breath a fog of cloudy white in the frostbitten wintry air. “He asked me to refurbish the garden area out back.” A sharp pang shifted in Victoria’s chest. Memories of her mother gardening drifted back - her and Sally Jo dancing through the rows of yellow and purple tulips beneath the trellis of roses, following her mother as she clipped fresh flowers for the dinner table. Then that fatal day - her mother had gone to check on dinner. Victoria had been left to watch her sister. A snake had chased Sally Jo up the ladder. Then Sally Jo had died. Randolph stepped closer to her, inserted the key in the door. “The house has been deserted for days. I’ll check things out if you want.” She froze, the thought of having this man alone inside her house, witnessing her first encounter with her past, twisting at her insides. “No, I’m fine.” His hand brushed hers so gently she barely felt it, yet a frisson of sexual awareness skated over her raw nerve endings, adding to her turmoil. Facing her nightmares was daunting itself. She didn’t need an enigmatic stranger with secrets in his eyes threatening her peace, as well. An odd look crossed his face as if he, too, realized the sexual connection between them. She jerked her gaze away from his, certain the demons haunting her were simply messing with her mind. Then she turned and rushed inside, desperate to escape the heat simmering between her and Randolph. Heat that she was sure would burn her up if she dove into the fire. But just as she closed the door behind her, the ghosts whispered hello. They hovered in the dark shadows and corners like ancient gods, the dust motes floating in the deserted stone structure riddled with the scent of death and despair. The sound of the squeaking rocker and the cries echoed in the empty chambers of the upstairs as if her mother and sister had just died. Certain she was losing her mind, she ran up the stairs, down the darkened hallway, and threw open the bedroom door to her sister’s room. It was just as she’d left it years ago. The same pink ruffled curtains. The white provincial furniture. The rocker with the teddy bear sitting inside. The chair was moving back and forth, back and forth, screeching into the night. And when she placed her hand on the lacy pillow seat, it was still warm. Chapter Four
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As Randolph entered the hospital, he forced himself to put Victoria out of his mind. He had to get Hoffman to talk. He’d waited too long for revenge, for the chance to reclaim his rightful home, to find out what had happened to his father and make Hoffman pay. He couldn’t let a damn woman sway him from his cause. Especially Hoffman’s daughter. Still, he couldn’t shake the uncanny sense that Victoria needed protection. Just as his instincts niggled with an undercurrent of impending danger with the birds of prey, they warned him Victoria was in danger. He slipped soundlessly down the gloomy hospital corridor, avoiding the doctors and nurses who had already denied him visitation rights. Gripping his hands into fists, he entered the room, the drone of machinery keeping Hoffman alive resounding off the blank hospital walls. As he neared the bed, Hoffman’s eyelids fluttered but remained closed. “I want answers, Hoffman. It’s time you spoke the truth.” He waited silently, but only the sound of the machinery whirred in the air. “Come on, Hoffman, make things right before you die. I know you and my father and Nugent were partners in that construction company, that you built the house my father called Falcon Ridge, that he disappeared and you moved in, declared yourself the sole owner.” Hoffman groaned, then his eyes fluttered open. For a tense heartbeat, he stared into Randolph’s eyes. His pupils were dilated, his pallor chalky white, his lips an odd bluish tint. “No...” he whispered. Randolph leaned forward as Hoffman’s words faded to a choked cough. “Protect Victoria...” Randolph frowned. “Why would she be in danger?” “Business...not safe. Dead...” Hoffman coughed again, his breath a hiss of air as he faded into unconsciousness. Randolph gritted his teeth, wondering what the hell the man had meant. Seconds later, a nurse bustled in and ordered him to leave. Wind shouted outside and sleet pelted the Jeep as he drove back up the mountain, the blizzard conditions forcing him to brake to a crawl. What had Hoffman tried to tell him? Why was Victoria in danger? Did he mean Randolph’s father was dead? A deep ache settled in his soul at the thought, although he’d always feared the possibility. If so, what did Hoffman know about his father’s death? Would he carry his secrets with him to the grave? Darkness completely bathed Falcon Ridge as he approached, the sharp stone angles jutting out above the cliff as if it were a castle guarded by the rigid mountain peaks. The moonless night cast a macabre atmosphere, and the bitter wind invading the Jeep was shrill as it cut into the night. Hoffman’s warning about protecting Victoria floated on its tail. He suddenly sped up, screeched to a stop and parked, then jumped out and strode up the ice-crusted graveled driveway, battling the wind gales and sleet. Just as he reached the portico, touched the gilded carving on the brass knocker, a scream pierced the night. Chapter Five
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Heavy velvet drapes pooled onto the floor, obliterating any outside light in the master suite. Victoria froze, afraid to step to the left or right, afraid she would startle the snake that had just wriggled across her foot. Its angry hiss punctuated the tension coiled within her. Even in the dark, she recognized its sound. It was a rattlesnake, just like the one she’d seen in the garden the day Sally Jo had died. Shivering, she slowly backed away, inching toward the door, her eyes glued to the serpent’s tongue darting in and out of its mouth as if searching for its prey. Downstairs, the door screeched open. The wooden floored squeaked. Someone was in the house... She shouldn’t have come back here. Evil tainted the overgrown gardens; sinister forces lived within the mammoth stone-cold walls. The snake uncurled its scaly body, then slithered across the worn Oriental rug only inches from her toes. Her breath caught as she backed into the hall. Suddenly, two firm hands grabbed her arms. She tried to jerk away, but the man spun her around, glaring at her. “What’s wrong?” Her breath escaped in a ragged puff as she stared into Randolph Falcon’s black eyes. “A s-snake...in the bedroom.” “Did it bite you?” he growled. She shook her head no, and he pushed her behind him, then strode into the room so quietly his footsteps weren’t discernible. Her heart pounded as he knelt slowly, all the time speaking in a low hushed murmur. Then he picked up the snake, and let it wrap itself around his hands. She backed away, suddenly wondering if Randolph Falcon had put the snake in the house. His dark eyes met hers, flickering with guarded emotions. “I’ll take him outside.” Again his voice was a lowedged whisper. “Snakes are helpful in the forest. I’ll release him into the wild.” “H-how did he get in?” Randolph shrugged, the movement drawing his denim shirt across powerful shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve been cleaning out the old garden. It could have stirred things up.” Her breathing settled slightly as she followed him down the stairs and he stalked into the woods. His stalwart figure blended with the night - impressive, eerie, reminding her of the massive walls that encompassed her home, the overpowering trees and cliffs that encased the property. Strong. Untouchable. Indestructible. Except this house destroyed everyone who lived within it. Would she let it destroy her? And what about Randolph Falcon - he was mysterious. Dangerous. Was he her friend or her enemy? *** He lit a cigarette from where he stood beneath the trees in the dirty night and watched the Falcon man stalk into the forest. The woman shivered and braced herself against the back wall as if the wind might blow her over. Shadows washed her pale face in a gunmetal gray, and he could still hear her shrill scream piercing the night like a banshee.
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A coarse cackle of laughter escaped him and he inhaled, blew smoke circles into the cloudy unforgiving night. It wouldn’t take much to run her off. She had blamed herself for her little sister’s death just as he’d known she would. And now Hoffman was almost gone, too. Finally. He wouldn’t let anything get in his way. The house and land at Falcon Ridge would be his. He had sacrificed too much already not to own it in the end. And if a few others died in the process, then that was the price they had to pay. Chapter Six Randolph released the rattlesnake in a nearby cave, and watched it crawl beneath a snow-covered log. Hoffman’s comment about protecting Victoria echoed in his head. Had someone put the reptile in Victoria’s room on purpose to scare her or had it simply crawled inside to hibernate? The wind shifted, bringing the faint scent of smoke and man to him, and he turned, instincts alert as he headed back through the ice-crusted aspens and pines. His boots crunched frozen ground and twigs, his senses honed in on the spray of trees ahead. A flicker of movement caught his gaze, but it passed so quickly he might have imagined it. He broke into a sprint, pushing branches and bramble from his way as he raced toward the clearing. There he hesitated, his instincts warning him that someone was nearby. To his right, a twig snapped in the deafening quiet. He glanced toward the area, scanning for an intruder. Snowflakes rained down from the branches of the tree, the lower ones swaying as if a person or animal had just passed through. Had someone been hiding in the woods? Maybe the person who’d put the snake in Victoria’s bedroom? He slid behind a grotesque rock formation that resembled the hand of the devil with its fingers curled toward the sky and searched the darkness. Just as the birds of prey had keen night vision, his eyes adapted, as well. But the rigid cliffs that guarded the mountain held their secrets, the hiding places too many for one man to search tonight, and soon he realized that chasing after demons in the dark meant he was being pulled away from Falcon Ridge. From Victoria. If she was in danger, he should be heading the other way. His heart pounding, he jogged back toward the house. Then he raised the brass door knocker and knocked, his pulse racing while the growl of the lion reverberated through the chambers inside. * * * Victoria startled at the sound of the growl, the flickering lights of the house adding to her already frayed nerves. When Randolph Falcon had left, she’d raced inside to safety. But she thought she’d heard a noise in the attic. Was someone up there now? Someone who wanted to hurt her or scare her away from Falcon Ridge? The heavy concrete door swung open and she gasped. Randolph Falcon stood in the doorway, his jet black hair gleaming almost bluish black in the faint light drifting from the shadows. He was so tall she had to look up to see his eyes, and the flare of wild desire that met her gaze triggered her own senses to life. His expression reminded her of some kind of primitive warrior or animal who’d found his next victim. “Someone was in the woods watching the house,” he said in a gruff voice. “My God.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I thought someone was upstairs a minute ago, too.”
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He glided toward her with the agility of a hawk, then reached out and brushed his knuckle against her cheek. “Don’t worry, Victoria,” he said in a gruff voice. “I’m here.” She swallowed hard, tempted to rush into his arms. She might find safety there, comfort. But she backed away instead, unsure if she could trust him. How did she know that he wasn’t the man trying to scare her away? And even if he wasn’t, just being near him evoked emotions and desires within her that were just as dangerous as the ones that dwelled within the manor. Chapter Seven The whisper of Victoria’s breath against the texture of his hand sent an erotic thrill through Randolph that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. His sex stirred and pulsed to life, the physical tingling enhanced by the tension strumming through him. Victoria was in danger. Her father had asked him to protect her. Yet Hoffman wasn’t a friend. So, why would he entrust his daughter’s safety to Randolph? “Why did you come back tonight?” Victoria asked. “I sensed you were in trouble.” He dragged his gaze from her tempting lips and glanced up the darkened stairway. To think that his father had drawn the designs for the intricate labyrinth of rooms upstairs and in the basement, the secret chamber that was hidden behind the paneled library wall and the elaborate moldings amazed him. To think that he’d been denied living in it infuriated him. “I’ll check the house for you.” She hesitated, worrying her lower lip, then nodded and followed behind him as he combed through the main floor, the stone kitchen with the woodstove and the dark paneled library and sitting room that barely looked lived-in. Heavy velvet drapes covered the windows, blocking out sunlight during the day and adding a cavernous atmosphere to the rich mahogany and cherry wood furnishings. But the rooms were empty. The house groaned and squeaked as he climbed the stairs and searched the master suite, which had been decorated in plush red velvets. Then he checked the nursery down the hall, pausing at the sight of the white rocking chair and the teddy bear. Stark pain robbed Victoria’s eyes of any light. This had been her sister’s room - and it had been left a shrine. At school he’d heard that she’d found her mother’s body on the floor in this room, also. A suicide, although she hadn’t left a note. After that, Victoria had withdrawn into a shell. Did she remember him at all? That he was the homely, odd kid who spent more time in the woods with the hawks than with children his age. The girls had called him spooky. The guys had simply left him alone. The way he had wanted it. The way it still had to be. “I’ll check the attic.”
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Age and moisture had swollen the door shut tight, so he removed his pocket knife, scraped away the chipped paint then jimmied the door open. Cobwebs tangled along the dark walls, a triangular shadow of light creating patterns on the opening above. He slowly climbed the steps, the screech of old wood and his shoes splintering the quiet. Victoria followed, her breath tiny rasps of nervous tension echoing in the pit of darkness. When he reached the top, he scanned the small room, but it was empty. An iron trunk occupied one corner while other household items had been piled in the other. Dust motes swirled in the midnight darkness, illuminated by the narrow stream of light spilling in through the small window. The sultry scent of Victoria’s body spray filled the room and as he turned to her, the raw anguish in her eyes trapped him by her side. She swallowed hard. “I hate this house,” she whispered raggedly. “It...means death for everyone I loved.” He couldn’t argue. In fact, he wondered if it had been the death of his father. The very reason he wanted to find out her father’s secrets. Unfortunately, he would have to hurt Victoria in the process... Chapter Eight Trembling, Victoria suddenly turned and fled down the stairs, groping in the darkness for the banister, tears blinding her. Why had she come back? Why hadn’t she booked a room at the bed-and-breakfast in town? Because she’d thought facing her demons would help her move on. In the past few years, she’d withdrawn more and more from friends. From relationships. From men. Having a family, love, a child would only mean heartache. A heartache she couldn't bear again. And she wanted to make peace with her father before he died. But from the hospital bed, he’d looked at her with those glazed eyes as if he hadn't even recognized her. Just as he had the day they’d buried her mother. He’d blamed her for her sister’s death, for her mother’s suicide... She didn't realize she was outside in the backyard where the garden once overflowed with roses until cold air hissed in her face. She doubled over, dragging in the frigid air as the wind hacked at her skin. A hand touched her back - slowly stroking, massaging her shoulder - and then a husky deep voice. “Victoria?” She hated for this strong man to see her weakness. “You can go home now. I’m fine.” His breath rattled in the quiet. “I don’t want to leave you alone like this.” Searching for courage, she squeezed the wrought iron patio chair then glanced at the trellis, which had been cleared since she’d been back. Memories flooded her - her mother wearing her floppy sun hat, digging in the fresh earth, Sally Jo dancing under the trellis with a red rose in her hair. The snake hissing and slithering toward her...
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“I don’t understand why my father kept this house,” she whispered. “Maybe he couldn’t bear to leave the memories.” She shook her head violently. “I don’t believe that. He hated this place almost as much as I did. It destroyed everything he loved.” “Even you?” “No, I won’t let it.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew that she lied. It had almost destroyed her. And now she was back, her sanity waning... “Victoria, when I saw your father tonight, he asked me to protect you.” She swiped at fresh snow in her hair, irritated at the cold. “Protect me? From what?” “I don’t know. I thought you might be able to tell me.” He hesitated again, waited, his jaw set in a harsh rigid line. “Are you having personal problems with someone? A man, maybe?” “No, there’s no one.” Worry knotted her insides. “Do you think my father was in trouble?” Alarm clawed through her at the expression in his eyes. “You do, don’t you?” She clutched his arms. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?” “It’s possible your father has some business trouble,” he said in a gruff voice. “Maybe he’s worried that someone will hurt you to get back at him.” The tremors that had assaulted her earlier intensified. “I don’t believe you. My father may have been a cold man, but if he had problems, he would have told me.” Disbelief tightened his stark features, tension humming in the frigid air between them as he averted his gaze. Distrust rose in her, bitter and vile. He knew more about her father that he was letting on. Probably more than she did. So, why was he lying? And what, exactly, did Randolph Falcon want? She couldn’t believe that he was here simply to protect her... Chapter Nine Randolph saw the questions in Victoria’s eyes, along with the fear, and his guilt grew inside him for his lies. She didn’t trust him. But she didn’t want to live at Falcon Ridge, either. Still, if her father died, she would sell the property and it would be lost to him forever. Maybe that was what this was all about... Someone was trying to scare her off so she would sell... Someone else who wanted Falcon Ridge. But who? He’d vowed to steal her home away from her for his own reasons. But he couldn’t walk away or stop looking for the answers he sought now. “You’d better go, Randolph.” She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was trying to hold herself together, as if he was the devil himself.
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He wanted to tell her he wasn’t, but that was a lie, too. So he gave a clipped nod, not trusting himself to keep his hands off her if he stayed. “I’ll be in the cabin close by if you need me.” He scrawled his phone number on a card and shoved it in her hand. She nodded, then raced inside and slammed the heavy door shut, separating them just as the truth about why he’d returned to Falcon Ridge did. * * * As he lay on the cot in the dark an hour later, listening to the wind howl and rattle the tin roof, he watched moisture seep through the cracks in the ceiling of the rotting wood and formulated a plan. He had to get Victoria to trust him, to allow him to search her father’s papers for information about his business dealings and the construction company that had built Falcon Ridge. If Hoffman had cheated his father, he’d probably cheated someone else, someone who was waiting on him to die so he could recoup his losses. Then Victoria would be in his way. Nugent had been partners with Hoffman and Randolph’s father, but according to his sources, Nugent had profited well over the years and had left the area. Still, he’d check out the man and see. An image of Victoria’s delicate face bathed in moonlight haunted him as he tried to fall asleep. He envisioned her long fingers trailing across his cheek, caressing him, threading their way through his hair, and his body tingled. He could almost feel her lips touching his, her breathy whisper of elation as he claimed her mouth. He’d spread kisses along her jaw and neck, lick the delicate lobe of her ear then dip lower to taste her breasts. He’d erase the pain from her face and make her cry out in pleasure; fill her body with delicious sensations as he pumped himself inside her. And he’d watch the erotic play of emotions in her eyes as he took her to heaven. * * * Victoria couldn’t fathom sleeping in her father’s room where she’d found the snake, but sleeping in her own childhood bed was just as daunting. As soon as she crawled beneath the faded gingham spread, painful memories flooded her. The house groaned and creaked its nightly song of horrors. Cold air from the brittle wind outside seeped through the windows, rattling the panes and making the house vibrate from the bitter weather and isolation outside. And then the cries began. The childish screams of Sally Jo as she’d reached out, expecting Victoria to catch her from the fall. Her mother’s anguished shout echoing in the eaves. Her father’s groan as he’d huddled over her mother’s limp body. The faint whisper of death drifting through the air - pungent, metallic, forever. Victoria lurched up in bed heaving for air, perspiration mingling with the tears in her eyes. Outside a tree branch scraped the fog-coated window, the shadows of the spiny leaves dancing like talons trying to tear their way inside. Randolph Falcon’s face floated through the haze. He was close by. He would hold her and keep her safe. Help her fight off the demons. But he had lied to her - had secrets in his eyes. And on a purely primal sexual level, he posed a different kind of danger. He was the kind of man who could make a woman lose control. Forget her own existence as he possessed her with his own. Drive her wild with desire. A danger she wasn’t ready to face.
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Tomorrow, she’d visit her father. Find out more about Randolph. Until then she’d have to face her demons alone, fight off the desperate urge to go to the enigmatic stranger, crawl in his bed and burrow in his strength. To plead with him to make her forget the nightmares that tormented her in the night. Chapter Ten Victoria woke to the predawn light, her body tense. Or maybe she had simply fallen prey to the despair that permeated Falcon Ridge. Shrugging on sweats to ward off the chill, she slunk downstairs for coffee, cradling the mug in her hand to warm herself as she studied the wooded land behind the house through the window. Fresh snowflakes dotted the ground, the wind howled, the stirring of the trees alerting her to the presence of another person. Randolph Falcon. Her breath caught at the sight of his commanding body. He stood ramrod straight near the half-weeded garden, his right arm extended, a falcon perched on it; the regal bird’s nose lifted slightly, its senses honed. The pair looked calm, pensive, as if man and beast had formed a silent bond that only a member of the untamed land could understand. She was completely mesmerized. Enthralled, actually. A more distant memory surfaced - rumors about Randolph Falcon from school. He’d always been a loner, had communed with the wild animals. The girls had been frightened of him. And there had been gossip that his father had deserted him when he was young. She’d understood what it was like to be all alone. And she’d been tempted to talk to him then. But she’d been too afraid. Forcing herself away from the window, she decided to visit her father. But when she stepped outside to her car, she stopped cold at the sight. Someone had scratched the rust-stained paint with a nail, carved a message into the rusted exterior. Leave town or you’ll be the next to die. She gasped, a sliver of fear creeping up her spine. The tires had been slashed, also. Whoever had done the damage had wanted to do more than frighten her - they’d wanted to leave her stranded. But why? So she’d be alone. Vulnerable. Unable to escape if he returned for her. “What the hell?” Victoria startled at the sound of Randolph’s gruff voice. He moved like a panther, and she hadn’t heard him come up behind her. “Someone wants to scare me off.” She turned, studying his expression, wondering... The folds of the bowed branches streaked his face in dark lines. “You think I did this?” he asked calmly. She shrugged. “I...don’t know what’s going on.” He clamped his hands into iron fists. “I don’t, either, but I’m sure as hell going to find out. Come on. We’ll talk to the sheriff in town.”
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She hesitated. Should she get in the car with him? “Victoria,” he said in a low voice, “Think about it. If I’d wanted to hurt you, I could have. You were here alone last night. I was in the cabin in the woods.” She met his gaze then, saw the turmoil, but the rational calmness, as well. He was right. But the dark intensity that vibrated in his every pore made her wary. Still, she was suddenly anxious to leave Falcon Ridge, to escape this primitive, isolated stretch of land and Randolph’s dark intensity, to surround herself with other people. “I’d like to see my father, too.” Maybe he’d know who was threatening her. He nodded, and she climbed in his Jeep, the warmth from the cabin engulfing her, along with the woodsy smell of Randolph. But his expression remained ominous, his mouth a thin line as he maneuvered the vehicle over the rocky mountainous roads. When they reached the hospital and parked, she touched his hand to thank him. The fine dusting of dark hair that scraped her palm sparked an electric current of need inside her. He stiffened then briefly folded his hand over hers, and she nearly gasped at the storm of emotions in the depths of his eyes. More questions. Heat. Attraction. A burning need for more. They both pulled away as if the draw had been too hot. A few minutes later she stood beside her father, the bleak hospital room with its monotonous drone of machinery and scents assaulting her senses, while Randolph waited at the doorway. “Dad?” He looked so pale. Limp. Old. As if he’d already given up on life. Although truthfully, he’d done that years ago when her mother died. “Dad, it’s me, Victoria.” A low groan rumbled from him as he opened his eyes. “Dad, I realize you’re weak, but tell me. Does Randolph Falcon work for you?” He nodded slowly. “Can I trust him?” His eyes shifted toward the door as if in search of the man, then back to her. A hesitation that made her wonder. But he nodded again. “Dad, someone vandalized my car last night. Do you know anyone who would want to scare me off?” His eyes bulged, making her regret telling him. “House. Dangerous. Leave now.” “What are you talking about, Dad?” “N-no accident.” He broke into a coughing attack, and panic hit her as the machinery blipped out of control. “Dad?” A nurse raced in, pushed her aside. “You’ve upset him, you have to leave now!” Victoria backed toward the door, trembling. Randolph caught her arm and steadied her. Was her father going to be okay? And had Randolph heard what he’d said about the house being dangerous?
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Chapter Eleven After the staff stabilized Hoffman, Randolph drove Victoria to the sheriff’s office where she filed a report on her car. He arranged for a tow service and mechanic then they ate a quiet, tense lunch at the local diner in town. Wind and sleet battered the Jeep as they headed back to Falcon Ridge, the sky a granite slate that hid the heavens and promised even more freezing rain and snow. Victoria shifted, clutching her hands in her lap. “How long have you known my father?” He’d known of him all his life. Had suspected he’d cheated his father just as long. “A few months.” “Why would someone want to hurt me or scare me away from the house? And what did he mean - no accident? Do you think someone intentionally caused his car crash?” “I’ll ask the sheriff to check it out.” She angled her head to study him, the gray from the overhead clouds painting her face in shadows. She looked angelic against the dark. He suddenly wanted to shield her from the truth. Even if it meant letting her father get away with what he’d done? “Why would someone want to hurt him, though?” she asked. “He mentioned something about his business yesterday, indicated he might have trouble. If you want, I can help you look through his records.” She nodded. “I just hope he’s going to make it.” In spite of his bitterness toward Hoffman, his heart went out to her. It was so uncharacteristic of him to care about anyone, though, it disturbed him immensely. He lived off the land. The untamed wilderness was his friend, his companion. There was no place for a woman. Especially this woman. Ahead, the mountain cliffs and ridges jutted out, creating an overhang on the narrow road. The asphalt was already slick with black ice, the gears on his Jeep grinding as he maneuvered the winding narrow roads snaking through the San Juan mountains. He cranked up the defroster and turned on his lights to help see through the fog, the loud whir drowning out conversation as the wind and snow flailed against the windshield. He braked, taking the curve slowly, but out of nowhere a day-care van raced toward them, crossing over the center line. He jerked to the right to avoid it, but another vehicle suddenly roared up on his tail. Behind him bright headlights grew closer, blinding him. The Ford truck’s engine groaned as the driver accelerated. Then the truck lurched forward and slammed into his rear. Randolph cursed. Victoria gripped the dash. “Oh, my God! What’s he doing?” Rage turned to fury as the truck rammed him again. “Hang on tight! He’s trying to run us off the road!” The tires squealed as the Jeep slid sideways. “Watch out!” Victoria shouted.
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He swerved to avoid hitting the van of kids. The Jeep skidded, tires squealing again as they clutched for traction. The van whizzed by, barely missing him. The rocky embankment loomed to the left, the drop-off from the cliff to the right, protected by a thin guardrail. The Jeep slammed into it. Sparks flew from the right side then the Jeep careened out of control. Metal scraped the guardrail and sparks spewed outward. Victoria’s scream pierced the air as he fought to keep them from going over the cliff. Chapter Thirteen Victoria had never felt so cold, yet Randolph’s kiss inflamed her immediately, melting her fears and arousing sensations so vibrant her inhibitions fled. She delved her hands into his hair then raked them down his powerful back, groaning as his muscles bunched beneath her touch. His tongue played along the seam of her lips then plunged inside, teasing her lips and firing the hunger within her. She clung to him, meeting his own thrust with her own, her nails biting into his back as he drove himself harder against her. Finally, he tore his mouth away from her, a ragged breath escaping her. Raw desire darkened the irises of his eyes, the blatant primitive look of passion triggering emotions she’d never thought she’d feel with a man. Especially this man, whose quiet intensity frightened her so. “I...” He brushed his knuckles down the side of her cheek, the movement rough yet gentle. “I should get help. You’re freezing.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, brushed a kiss across the rough stubble of his jaw, then lower until she tasted him one more time. He claimed her mouth again, suckling her lips and pressing her against him while his hands caressed her back. An engine sounded from above, and he suddenly jerked away. “God, Victoria.” He dropped his head forward, dragging in air then gazed into her eyes, but just as he started to speak the engine on the road grew louder, tires screeched and a car pulled to the edge of the ravine. Seconds later a man yelled down, offering help. Victoria took one last look at the burning metal that was left of his Jeep, then clung to Randolph’s hand as he helped her climb the embankment to safety. **** “Sheriff Colter, this was no accident,” Randolph said a few minutes later as they sat in the sheriff’s office. Victoria clutched a cup of coffee, trying to warm her hands. “He’s right, someone intentionally ran us off the road.” “Did you get a look at the vehicle?” The sheriff glanced over bifocals. “Tag number?” “It was a dark Ford pickup,” Randolph said. “He hit us from behind so no, no tag number.” “See the driver?” Colter asked. “No. And listen, Sheriff, I want you to look into Mr. Hoffman’s accident, too,” Randolph said. “It might not have been an accident after all.” Colter’s bushy brows formed a unibrow as he narrowed his eyes. “We haven’t had trouble here in years, boy, not till you came back.” “Randolph didn’t do this,” Victoria said, her voice amazingly strong. “For heaven’s sake, Sheriff, he almost died today, too.”
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A grunt followed. “I’ll look into it.” He stood as if dismissing them. Randolph ushered Victoria out the door. “You need a ride?” Deputy Wilkins asked. Randolph shook his head. “Thanks. I’ll borrow a truck from the garage. I’ll need something to get around in until I can replace the Jeep.” Wilkins nodded, and Randolph led Victoria toward the garage. But as they walked, he scanned the streets in search of the pickup truck and whoever had tried to harm them. The memory of that kiss floated into his subconscious, and he slid his hand protectively to her back. The bastard would have to kill Randolph before he’d stop him from finding the truth. And if he hurt Victoria again, he’d show no mercy when he found him. Chapter Fourteen The minute they arrived at Falcon Ridge, Victoria rushed to shower. The hot water felt heavenly to her bruised body, the spray washing away her tension. The memory of Randolph’s lips on hers lingered, though, along with the tantalizing feel of his tongue, the way his arousal had pressed against her belly. But the danger that had caused the accident which had sent them into each other’s arms had been very real, and so had the warnings etched on her car. Leaving her hair damp, she threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt then went into the bedroom, and froze, a shriek escaping her at the sight of her sister’s teddy bear lying on her pillow. The plush brown toy had been slashed, the contents spilled across the bed in a vicious manner. A note was attached - You’re next. Anger and fear rifled through her. Someone had been inside the house and ripped the teddy bear in pieces to spook her. “I heard you scream.” Randolph raced in, his eyes searching hers. “What’s wrong?” Victoria pointed to the teddy bear, trembling. “Dammit! Someone must have come in while we were in town.” Randolph pulled her down the stairs, away from the grisly sight. “Are you all right?” She nodded, a surge of anger replacing the fear. “We have to figure out who’s doing this.” He nodded, rubbing her arms to warm her. “Let’s check my father’s office. If this has to do with his business, maybe we’ll find something there.” The huge oak desk overflowed with paperwork. She sorted through the bills on his desk while Randolph began rifling through a file cabinet. For the next hour, they worked side by side. Apparently, her father held a few stocks, but over the years he’d sold off his properties as well as his share in two small development companies. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing that anyone would kill for, anyway. As the afternoon faded into dusk, the clouds shading the room grew more ominous, the room shrinking in size as she became more aware of Randolph’s body. He looked so commanding in her father’s chair, so
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safe and strong, that she relaxed. The rich warm woods blended with the dark paneling and firelight created a cozy feeling, lulling her into a restless sleep. But almost as soon as she closed her eyes, the nightmares returned to haunt her... Screech. Screech. Screech. The rocking chair creaked back and forth. The lullaby faded to an end and the cries began. Her sister’s shrill cry of terror. Her mother’s piercing scream, then the long-suffering wails. Mingling with her own. Echoing all around her. She fought through the haze of darkness, but tendrils of despair tried to drag her under - trapped her beside her sister’s lifeless body. And then her mother’s. Her father’s cold eyes met hers over the top of the graves. He crushed a rose in his fist. Stomped it onto the hard ground. Turned and left her there alone. She dropped to her knees. Sank her fingers into the dry soil. Tried to dig away the flowers and dirt. To bring back Sally Jo and her mother. But they were lost forever. Into the abyss. And she was falling there with them... **** He waited in the shadows of the woods, his body quaking with anger. The two of them should have died today. And then it would all have been over. Hoffman would be gone soon then the manor would be his. He crushed the cigarette into the icy ground so Falcon wouldn’t detect him from the woods, then watched, waiting for Falcon to leave. He didn’t have much time now. He had to get to Victoria before her father confessed the truth. Removing the wool scarf from around his neck, he flexed his hands, eager to finally end it. Chapter Fifteen Randolph watched Victoria sleep on the sofa, selfishly absorbing her every breath as if it were his own. It was almost a compulsion. This need to be close to her. To protect her. To touch her. She made a soft whimpering sound and rolled to her side. Nightmares plagued her. He itched to comfort her. To make her fears go away. But images of her lying naked beneath him flashed into his mind, and he forced himself to turn, to remember his mission. To think about his father. Falcon Ridge should have been his.
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Yet, now that someone was trying to run Victoria off and had tried to kill her, keeping her alive seemed equally as important. It all came back to Falcon Ridge. Skimming the files, he flagged the instances where Hoffman’s money had either spiked or where he’d written large checks. A few to Randolph’s mother, which definitely made him suspicious. Guilt money? Some had also been made to unidentifiable accounts. But who had received it? Other than the deposits, he found no definitive evidence Hoffman had cheated his father. Could he be wrong? Had he blamed Hoffman all these years for something his father had done? Looked for a reason for his father to have abandoned him when there had been nothing but his father’s irresponsibility and desire to escape his family? Randolph scraped a hand through his hair, unable to believe that was true. There had to be something. Otherwise, why was Victoria in danger? The present didn’t necessarily have to do with the past, he reminded himself. Although, he sensed there was a connection. The money he’d paid Randolph’s mother was part of it. But what else was he missing? He searched the desk, discovered a leather bound journal, flipped it open and saw Hoffman’s private notes. Victoria roused, so he jammed the book inside his jacket and decided to go to his place to read it. Awed by her delicate beauty, as if she were a graceful blue heron in the midst of a sea of vultures, he paused, bent and kissed her cheek then covered her with an Afghan. She was so damn sultry. Her long dark hair spilled around her shoulders inviting his hands to tangle themselves in the tresses. He ached to peel off those clothes and feel her naked skin on his fingers - had been tempted earlier to join her in the shower. He could almost see the rosy tint of her nipples; see them pucker as his mouth closed over the tips. His body throbbed for her, relentless in its thirst. But the flicker of the firelight illuminating her cheek reminded him of the Jeep crashing and burning. As much as he wanted her, he had to make sure she was safe first. And the only way to do that was to find out the truth. But if his suspicions about her father were true, it was going to hurt Victoria. His chest squeezed at the thought of inflicting any more pain upon her. But he’d come too far to stop now, and his need for revenge fueled him on. So, he pressed another kiss in her hair and left her to sleep while he stalked outside to read her father’s journal. *** Screech. Screech. Screech. The squeak of the rocker droned on. Her sister’s cry. Her mother’s. Her own. The shadows from the rose garden. The snake. Sally Jo had seen it first. Had run to the ladder to escape it. But Victoria had soothed her, promised to take care of it. Then she’d run toward the lattice work. She’d stooped down low. Behind her, a shadow caught her eye. Someone had been lurking behind the trellis. A stranger with dark shoes. Then a sudden movement. The ladder had swayed. Sally Jo had screamed. And Victoria had vaulted toward her. But it was too late... Victoria jerked awake, her heart pounding, completely disoriented. In her mind, she saw her sister falling as if it were yesterday. Remembered the dark shoes. Who had they belonged to?
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Still confused, she searched the darkness. She was back in the manor, the gray stone walls closing around her. Her breath caught as a stranger crept into the shadows above her. A haze of smoke silhouetted his face as he reached for her. She lurched upward and screamed, but he slid a scarf around her neck and yanked it so tight she couldn’t breathe. She choked, clawing at it with her hands, but the scarf cut off her windpipe, and she collapsed into unconsciousness. Chapter Sixteen Randolph’s head spun as he read the journal. Although Hoffman hadn’t revealed what had happened to Randolph’s father in his entries, he’d practically admitted to betraying him. But that didn’t mean Hoffman wanted to make things right now. After all, he would want to protect his daughter’s interests. There were still questions left unanswered, though. Randolph had to question Victoria’s father again. Find out more, make Hoffman come forward. Outside the window of the small cabin, several black hawks circled above the trees surrounding the manor. The hair on his arms prickled, and his instincts hummed to life. The birds were sending him a message. His heart pounding, he vaulted up from the sofa and raced outside. He never should have left Victoria alone. What had he been thinking? About his own need for revenge... For so long, it had been the only thing that mattered to him - the driving force in his life. And now Victoria might be hurt because of it. Snow and ice spewed from his boots as he jogged through the woods toward the front door. He pounded the brass bell, its roar resounding through the empty walls. Not bothering to wait for Victoria, he yanked open the door and raced inside. “Victoria!” Heavy footsteps clattered from the kitchen. His heart pounding, he ran toward the den where he’d left Victoria asleep. She was lying on the floor now, limp, her eyes closed. Panic nearly seized him as he dropped to the rug beside her and felt for a pulse. She was barely breathing. “Victoria!” Randolph lifted her into his arms. “Come on, baby, you have to be all right.” A low moan floated from her parted lips, and her eyes fluttered open. She looked dazed and confused, frightened. Her body jerked then she coughed and reached up to rub the bruise on her neck. “Someone tried to strangle me.” His gut clenched. “I know. I heard footsteps. He must have escaped out the back.” “Did you see him?”
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He shook his head. “I’ll call the sheriff.” He eased her onto the sofa and covered her with an Afghan, phoned in the report, then searched the house. A few minutes later, the sheriff arrived to take her statement. He and Randolph searched the exterior and found muddy boot prints in the snow leading down to the main road. But the snowstorm had begun to rage again, casting the woods in a blurry fog of white, and the unforgivable temperature and blistering winds meant they wouldn’t be organizing a search party tonight. The only thing Randolph could do was to stay by Victoria’s side to keep her safe. When the sheriff left and he returned to the study, Victoria was sitting on the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her, staring into the fire, looking lost and alone. His heart wrenched. “Victoria.” Firelight illuminated her frightened features. “I remembered something.” He moved to the bar, poured them both a glass of wine. She accepted it, her long fingers curling around the stem. He inhaled his, needing something to calm him, then poured another glass and knelt in front of her. Her hand felt icy stiff as he cradled it in his. “I think someone was in the garden the day my sister died,” she whispered. “A man.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re sure?” “Yes. I saw dark shoes. His shadow. The ladder moved before I could reach it.” His throat closed as the realization sank in. “You think someone killed your sister?” Chapter Seventeen “Yes. All my life I b-blamed myself. But...now I’m certain someone else was there.” Her gaze swung to his, horrified. “But why would someone hurt Sally Jo? She was just a toddler.” Randolph’s jaw tightened as he imagined the scenario. What a coldhearted bastard. But Victoria’s memory confirmed the theory he’d gleaned from her father's journal. He couldn't tell her that now. Not when she looked so shaken. Besides, if she was right, she’d witnessed a murder. And the killer had been here trying to silence her earlier. “I don’t know, Victoria.” He pulled her in his arms and held her, closing his eyes, wishing things were different. She clung to him, dug her nails in his shirt. “I... I need you, Randolph.” Emotions clogged his throat. No one had ever spoken those words to him before. Even though his conscience ordered him to admit his suspicions first, his body
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and soul felt compelled to alleviate her fear and pain. If only for a little while. He gently slid his hand beneath her hair, dragged her to him, lowered his mouth and kissed her. One touch inflamed them both. The fire crackling behind them mirrored the passion burning in their souls as they came together. He put the wine aside, slipped the sweatshirt from Victoria’s body and drank in the sight of her milky white breasts gleaming in the halo of light. * * * Victoria reached for Randolph, desperately wanting him to banish the memory of the man who’d attacked her. One brush of his lips to hers and she melted into his arms. He cupped her face in his hands, kissed her so tenderly she thought her body would erupt into an inferno, then his fingers teased her nipples and she moaned and ripped at his clothes. The sight of his naked body sent heat through her, eliciting wicked fantasies and wanton thoughts she’d never experienced. Seconds later, they lay on the rug in front of the fire together, the heat between them smoldering as he loved every inch of her. His hands glided over bare skin that tingled with every touch. His mouth followed, teasing, licking, torturing her senses until she thought she would die from the pleasure. His lips suckled her breasts, gently, then with fervor, until she writhed and reached to guide him inside her. But he shook his head, dipped below, kissed his way from her belly down to her thighs then nipped at the sensitive skin between her legs. She moaned and dug her fingers into his hair as he delved closer, then tasted her heat. With a feral gleam in his eyes, he smiled, then lowered his head again and drove her wild with tiny licks and kisses before his tongue slid into her secrets. She cried out as he parted her legs wider, the sensations bursting and shooting erotic pinpoints through her. Then he rose above her, his magnificent muscled body bronze in the firelight, the fine sprinkling of hair on his broad chest begging for her hands. She ran her fingers over his torso, soaring to heaven as he gazed into her eyes and watched the emotions on her face. Then he thrust himself inside her, filling her so she had no idea where she began and he ended. The corded muscles in his arms bunched as he braced himself above her. Perspiration gleamed off his skin as he thrust deeper, harder. He pushed into her over and over, the raw passion in his movements primitive and wild as their bodies slapped together with the force of their lovemaking. “Look at me, Victoria.” Her gaze met his, the intensity in his dark eyes searing her with his possession. Then a guttural groan escaped him as he joined her on the earth-shattering ride to heaven. Chapter Eighteen Something moved within Randolph as he poured himself inside Victoria. Emotions he’d never expected to feel. A possession that was so strong and compelling he wrapped his arms around her, clinging to her as if he could never release her. But if her father died, she might leave here forever. And when she discovered the truth, that he’d wanted to prove that her father had stolen from his, she’d hate him. The fact that his first thought wasn’t about Falcon Ridge and its future astounded him. She trailed a finger over his chest. “That was wonderful.” Her soft whisper tore at his guilt. Then she looked into his eyes and smiled, and he forgot everything except wanting her. They made love again and again, all through the night, each time they coupled more mindboggling, creating a bond that Randolph knew would last forever. At least in his mind. He cupped her face in his hands as he climaxed the last time. “I’ll never get enough of you,” he murmured.
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She pressed a gentle kiss to his neck then snuggled against him spoon style. “I feel the same way, Randolph.” He held her, savoring every moment as if it might be their last. Hating every second that he kept his lie. Unable to destroy the connection, he watched her fall asleep in his arms then followed her in restless slumber. * * * Victoria stirred a few hours later, a sliver of sunlight filtering its way through the heavy drapes and falling into a puddle on the floor. She turned slowly, memorizing Randolph’s features, amazed by the erotic sensations she’d experienced during the night. Even more amazed at the emotions. She was falling in love with this man - didn’t want to leave him. But the danger of the day before slowly seeped back into her conscious. Then she glanced across the room at the now dwindling fire - saw Randolph’s coat on the floor where they’d discarded it in the heat of their lovemaking. Beside it, a leather-bound journal lay open, its crinkled yellow pages oddly familiar. She’d seen her father writing in a journal like that when she was young. Curious, she slipped from Randolph’s embrace, dragged on her robe then took the journal and curled into the wing chair. As she scanned the pages and read her father’s thoughts, her heart began to clamor. I feel so guilty for all that has passed. Sally Jo’s death is my fault. And so is her mother’s. It is punishment for my sins, for not coming forth about the house at Falcon Ridge. She raked her hair back, puzzled. What did he mean? I’ve tried to make amends to Samuel’s family by sending his wife and son, Randolph, money each month, but I can never tell them the truth about what happened. Poor Randolph lives without a father because of me, but I can’t bring Samuel back just as I can’t my Sally Jo and Evelyn. I only hope if Victoria ever finds out, she doesn’t hate me. Her breath quickening, she skipped to a later entry. Randolph Falcon is grown now and he hates me. I know the reason he has come. He thinks Falcon Ridge belongs to him and wants it back. Soon I must tell him the truth. But I want to see Victoria and explain to her first. “Victoria?” Her fingers curled around the edge of the worn book as she looked up into Randolph’s eyes. Guilt plagued his features, the joy of their lovemaking replaced by a sea of scattered, turbulent emotions. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.” Pain knifed through her. “You came here to destroy my father.” His eyes cut away from her, his silence an admission. Pain streaked through her making her double over, but when he reached for her, she backed away.
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“I have to see him.” Hands trembling, she dragged on her clothes then grabbed his keys and ran from the house, tears streaming down her cheeks, her heart breaking. She had fallen in love with him, given him her body and soul, but he had only been using her. Chapter Nineteen Randolph jerked on his jeans and shirt and stalked after Victoria. He couldn’t let her go to the hospital alone. She was too upset to drive in this weather. A scream pierced the air as he stepped out the front door, and his gaze shot across the drive. Dear God. A man was trying to drag Victoria into the woods. “Let her go or I’ll kill you!” His pulse racing, he ran toward them, every nerve in his body raging with fury. Victoria kicked and screamed, slowing down her attacker. Just before Randolph reached them, the man spun around, his eyes flaring with hatred as he gripped Victoria around the neck. She dangled in front of him, a sob escaping as she tried to tear his hands from her throat. “It’s over, Nugent.” “How do you know who I am?” the man spat. “I finally put two and two together,” Randolph explained between gritted teeth. “You stole my father’s business, you and Hoffman.” Nugent’s harsh laugh caught in the bitter wind. “Hell, Hoffman shouldn’t get any credit, much less this house. I was the mastermind.” Randolph cut his eyes toward Victoria to calm her, but she glared at him, her eyes full of accusations. His gut twisted. If he’d figured it out sooner, he might have saved her from all this. “You stole my father’s house. Then you killed him, didn’t you?” Another harsh laugh, then a litany of profanity. “He was expendable. But then your father -” he tightened his grip on Victoria’s neck and she moaned. “Hoffman found out. He threatened to go to the police, the coward. I told him we’d split the profits -” “But he refused,” Victoria said in a gravelly voice. “And you killed my sister as a warning.” Nugent smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “Ah, you blamed yourself, didn’t you, little Victoria? And your mother... she was so weak, she never got over it.” “You threatened to kill Victoria if Hoffman came forward?” Randolph said, filling in the blanks. The evil leer returned. “It was a perfect plan.” Hoffman had kept quiet all these years to protect Victoria then paid Nugent off, as well. But Victoria’s father must have insisted that he remain in residence at Falcon Ridge because he couldn’t bear to leave the place where his wife and child had died. Fury raged through Randolph. So many lives destroyed. And for what? Greed. Unable to contain his anger any longer, Randolph attacked, landing a sharp blow to Nugent’s head. Nugent yowled in pain and released his grip on Victoria. She collapsed, gasping for air and pawing at the snowpacked ground for balance. He slammed a fist into Nugent’s stomach then landed another blow to the back of his neck, immobilizing him. Still, his temper spiraled out of control and he hit Nugent again and again, each blow intended to make him pay for killing his father and for hurting Victoria.
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“Randolph, that’s enough.” He gripped his fist above Nugent’s face, his body shaking with the need to kill the man. Sweat trickled down his jaw while blood ran from Nugent’s mouth. But Victoria’s soft plea broke through the haze of anger. Then he glanced at her, and saw she was afraid of him. She was right. If he killed Nugent, he’d be no better than the man himself. Nothing but an animal. Spitting out a curse, he shoved Nugent aside, rushed to the truck, grabbed some rope and tied Nugent’s hands and feet. Victoria was shivering beside the front portico when he reached her. He wanted to soothe her, but she backed away - looked at him as if he was a stranger. She knew the truth about why he’d come. She’d seen the dark side of him now and hated him. His heart clenched. Regret slammed into him, as well. He’d only done what he’d thought he had to do. But Victoria had complicated everything. And now he had hurt her. Knowing he couldn’t change things, he slid a mask over his emotions then phoned the sheriff. An hour later, when Sheriff Colter spun away with Nugent, Randolph drove Victoria to the hospital. But as they bounced over the ruts and grooves in the icy mountainous roads and the wind whipped the vehicle back and forth across the yellow line, the silence stretched between them as thick and cold as the walls of Falcon Ridge, which had torn their fathers apart years ago. Chapter Twenty Victoria’s heart lodged in her throat as she stumbled into the hospital room. Her father’s pale face turned to her, tears filling his eyes as she relayed the news about Nugent’s attack. But relief softened his features when he learned the man was finally in jail where he belonged. And he seemed to have regained some strength, at least in his voice. “I...was afraid he’d come after you.” Hoffman’s voice broke. “I wanted to tell you the truth so many times. I used all my business investments to pay him off, to keep you safe.” Randolph stood in the background, his primitive scent and presence reminding her of the night they’d spent together. Of the fact that he’d used her. “Where’s my father’s body?” Randolph said, his tone brittle. Hoffman’s expression turned grave. “Nugent buried him in the garden. I...” He coughed. “I’m sorry, son. I wanted to tell you, to give him a proper burial.” Victoria’s anger dissipated slightly at the anguish twisting Randolph’s face. Her father had kept these awful secrets to protect her. But Randolph’s family had suffered for it. She turned back to her father, sad and wanting to blame him. Yet he looked so frail. And she’d waited so long to reconcile with him. What if he’d died and she’d never had the chance? “All this time I thought you blamed me for Sally Jo’s death,” she whispered.
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He gripped her hand, his eyes cloudy. “No, sweetheart. I blamed myself. I loved you so much... I let your mother and Sally Jo down. I had to protect you.” Tears streaked her cheeks. He did love her. But his lies had hurt Randolph. No wonder he’d come back for the truth. He had hated her father. And he’d had good reason. But had he slept with her just to get revenge on her dad? * * * His father was buried in the rose garden? Randolph’s stomach knotted at the thought, but at least he knew now that his father hadn’t deserted him. He stepped sideways to leave the room, but Hoffman motioned him closer. “I’m sorry, son,” Hoffman mumbled. “Please forgive me.” Randolph searched for the bitterness that had driven him all these years, but couldn’t find it. Somehow, between the time he’d met Victoria and almost lost her, he’d lost his taste for vengeance, as well. Hoffman looked tired, had suffered, too. Had done what he had to do to protect his daughter. He glanced at Victoria, saw the sadness in her expression and emotions flooded him. If he had been in Hoffman’s shoes, what would he have done? Hell, he’d have done anything he had to do to protect the ones he loved. Just as he would Victoria now. “It’s over.” He reached out, cleared his throat then shook Hoffman’s hand. “Now get better, sir. I believe you have some making up to do with your daughter.” An odd look came into Hoffman’s eyes, almost a twinkle, as if the burden of guilt removed had given him new life. “You’re right. I feel much better now.” Victoria squeezed her father’s hand, but any trace of gentleness faded when she turned to Randolph. “I’d like to talk to you in private.” She fled to the hallway and he followed, backing her into a corner when she tried to escape. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said in a gruff voice. She chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry about your father, Randolph. But you got what you came for, now you should go.” “But I don’t have what I want.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ll have Dad draw up papers to give you Falcon Ridge -” “That’s not what I’m talking about.” Her gaze swung upward, her eyes flickering with emotions. “You want Falcon Ridge. That’s what this was all about. You even slept with me to get it -” “This is not about Falcon Ridge anymore,” he said between gritted teeth. “It’s about us.” She shook her head as if she had no idea what he meant, as if forgiving him was impossible. He refused to accept it.
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“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you.” He braced his hands on each side of the wall, leaning closer to her as he penned her in. “But making love with you wasn’t about the past. It was the beginning of the future.” She quivered beneath him. “We don’t have a future, Randolph.” “Dammit, you can have Falcon Ridge,” he growled. “I just want you, Victoria.” He lowered his head until her breath brushed his cheek. “Did you hear me? I want you. I’ve never wanted a woman like I do you.” He swallowed again, his voice gaining conviction. “I don’t care where it is or what time of day, I just plain damn want you.” He brushed his lips near her ear, teasing. “I want you naked beside me, on top of me, under me, on the floor, in the bed, outside in the wild on the snowcapped mountains...” She squirmed, and he trailed his lips across her cheek. “I want you right here. Hell, anyway you’ll have me.” A soft sigh escaped her, breathy and aroused. “No man has ever talked to me that way, Randolph.” He slid his tongue over the seam of her lips. “And no man ever will again.” Then he lowered his mouth, claiming her again, stamping her with his taste, making her feel his hunger as he pressed his sex into her belly. Some birds of prey mated for life. Randolph Falcon had found his own mate, and he intended to keep her forever.
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The Promise by Debra Webb Years ago, a group of friends at Athena Academy — an elite, cutting-edge college preparatory school for women — made a sacred vow. More than a decade has passed since the Cassandras, as they were called then, promised to come together, no questions asked, if any one of them called for help. Now, one of their own has made that call. Rainy Carrington is in danger…. And the women of Athena will come together to help her in any way they can. Chapter One That's all I can tell you…just know that I need your help, Kayla. Kayla Ryan forced her friend's desperate words from her head. She had to concentrate. She blinked as a drop of sweat rolled down her forehead. With her full attention and her weapon focused on the corner of the building at the end of the alleyway, she took a moment to consider the scenario. Her target had taken cover around that corner. She wondered vaguely if he understood yet that he was trapped. He'd rushed away from the scene of the crime and into this alley to evade capture. But this particular alley dead-ended at a twentyfoot brick wall. Scaling it without the proper gear would be pretty much impossible. This guy had to be from out of town. Kayla risked a glance behind her and wished like hell that backup would arrive. But in her gut she knew that in all probability she would have to handle him on her own. Crimes like robbery rarely occurred in the small town of Athens, Arizona. Creeps and criminals found the offerings in the larger cities of Casa Grande, Tucson and Phoenix much more to their liking. At times the sheriff's department was spread a little thin covering all the small towns and communities of Pinal County. It wasn't as though she'd had time to order takeout and sit around waiting for backup. With most of the shops closed for the evening, she and her partner had conducted a final cruise through town before calling it a night when she'd noticed the suspicious activity outside Mullins Diamond Shop. Two suspects had fled the scene on foot, each going in a different direction — and each carrying a bag no doubt containing snatched goods. That was the thing about late summer in Arizona — the intense heat brought out the crazies. Dammit. She had an appointment to keep. She could either go in after this guy or wait for him to realize he couldn't escape and come charging out. He was armed. Desperate. Better to make an offensive maneuver than a defensive one, her favorite instructor back at the police academy always said. Keeping her precision aim steady, she flattened herself against the wall and moved silently toward the corner where she'd watched her target disappear only seconds ago. A smile slid across her lips when the distinct sound of a muttered curse hissed through the night air. He'd no doubt just encountered that towering brick wall. Adrenaline surged through Kayla's veins as she reached the corner — all that stood between her and an armed perp. Her heart rate remained amazingly calm, her respiration even. She'd learned long ago, well before the police academy, how to control her responses in any given situation. Athena Academy, the private school located on the edge of Athens that she'd attended as a young girl, had taught her a great deal more than academics. It had prepared her well for achieving the grade of lieutenant in record time in the sheriff's department. The thought of her old school made her think of Rainy. I need your help, Kayla.
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Kayla didn't have to look at her watch to know it was almost time. Her friend's urgency sang in her blood…a song of danger…of fear. Something was very, very wrong. Leather slipping against fired clay echoed in the darkness. He was trying to climb the wall. Now was her chance…maybe the only one she would get. Her grip tightened on her police-issue weapon as she eased around the corner, her gaze cutting through the darkness and instantly locating her target. The glow from a distant streetlamp provided just enough illumination for her to see that he'd abandoned his booty from the jewelry shop in an attempt to hasten his escape. Not going to happen. "Drop your weapon," Kayla ordered. He stopped dead still as the sound of her weapon cocking bounced off the enclosing walls, conveying a lethal message. The man, tall and thin but seemingly athletically built, held up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender, but the handgun remained clenched in his right. "Drop your weapon and assume the position," she ordered, moving forward one cautious step at a time. He would make a move. She sensed it with every fiber of her being. The only question was whether or not she could get close enough to counter the move before it was too late. "Whatever you say, officer," he said. He tried to sound frightened but Kayla heard the underlying confidence in his tone. He wasn't afraid…he was certain. Certain he had the situation under control. Another smile tickled her lips. She might be young and she was definitely female, both of which he likely considered to be to his advantage, but she was an Athena graduate. He moved. The whole scene lapsed into slow motion as he lowered his arms while simultaneously turning around one infinitesimal increment at a time. She lunged forward, moving closer to the danger, needing to put herself within striking distance in advance of his planned maneuver. His gaze locked with hers in the near darkness and in that instant she realized that her instincts were right on the money. The business end of his weapon swung in her direction but she was ready for the attempt. Her right foot came up in a swift, smooth action that knocked the weapon from his hand before he could release the trigger he had depressed. The gun flew through the air, the round discharging from the barrel and ricocheting past the back of Kayla's head as she engaged the perp in a hand-to-hand exchange. She twisted, artfully tripping the man, who outweighed her by a good fifty pounds. They went down. The air hissed through his clenched teeth when they hit the ground. But he wasn't done yet. Using his one advantage — his weight — he rolled and pinned her to the ground. He struggled to gain control of her weapon. She tossed it beyond his reach…as well as her own. Her heart rate kicked into a higher gear, pumping the fueling adrenaline to her muscles. She shoved against his chest and distracted him with an attempt at kneeing him in the groin. The bastard made an evasive move and laughed. "Whoa now, little lady, no need to make this personal." He slammed her back against the concrete. She allowed it, let him feel as if he'd gained the upper hand. "You definitely don't want to do that." His smile dimmed when she chuckled good-naturedly. "You're right. I don't want to do that." Before he could fathom her intent she'd landed a blow to his larynx that would disable a charging bull. Both his hands went to his throat as he gasped for breath and flailed to get away from her.
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Kayla rolled to her feet, retrieved her weapon and reholstered it, since deadly force definitely would not be necessary. She grabbed his right arm and pinned it behind his back to snap a cuff into place. "You have the right to remain silent," she told him as she clicked the matching metal bracelet on his left wrist. "If you give up this right —" she assisted him to an upright position "— I might just have to kick your ass again." She leaned close to his ear. "We wouldn't want the boys on the cell block you're going to call home for the next five-to-ten to get wind of that, now would we?" The sound of a wailing siren in the distance signaled backup was close. She didn't give her collar a chance to respond to the rhetorical question as she shoved him toward the street. To her extreme relief, her partner was leading his collared creep in the direction of the arriving cavalry, as well. If she were lucky, he'd take care of the final booking and report. She had only one thing on her mind now. Getting to Athena Academy…to her friend…for the promise. Chapter Two The promise. That sacred vow seemed so long ago now. More than a decade had passed since the Cassandras, as she and her closest friends at Athena Academy had been called, had promised to come together, no questions asked, if any one of them called for help. Rainy had made that call. Intense emotions surged in Kayla as she thought of Rainy. She had been the fearless leader of the orientation group that Kayla had been assigned to during her first year at Athena Academy. Kayla shook her head. Poor Rainy'd had her work cut out for her with that ragtag bunch, but by the end of the year the Cassandras had taken top honors in the friendly competition between the various orientation groups. No one at the prestigious all-girl school had been better. Kayla arrived at Athena Academy with barely five minutes to spare. As she emerged from her Jeep, she experienced a pleasant moment of déjà vu. A smile spread across her lips. Athena Academy might be a cutting-edge college preparatory school for women, but to her it would always feel like home. She'd spent her most vulnerable teenage years here, forming bonds that would last a lifetime, learning lessons that would guide her to her fullest potential. But tonight wasn't about reliving old memories, it was about keeping a promise. The Cassandra promise. Kayla surveyed the narrow street that meandered between the bungalows that served as housing for academy staffers. She didn't see Rainy's car. Kayla had allowed too much time to pass without having had a decent visit with her fellow classmates and beloved friends. Kayla's smile widened to a grin as she made her way up the flagstone walk. How lucky she'd been to get to be a part of this academy. Money couldn't buy one's way into this place — it was by invitation only. Athena was a prep school like no other, designed specifically for the advancement of women. The school kept a low profile and yet the very best students graduated from the Athena Academy, most having earned the option of attending the university of their choice. The alumni were the cream of the cream of the crop. Her smile sagged a little when she considered that she had taken a misstep or two in her own personal path before graduating from the academy. But that was behind her; she had no real regrets. Her smile pushed back into place. She wouldn't trade her daughter for anything, and the choices of her youth had given her that sweetheart of a kid. Anticipation seared through her as she rapped on the front door of Athena principal Christine Evans's bungalow. It would be good to see the gang again. A couple of the girls couldn't make it, but…Alex would be here. Kayla swallowed back the new emotion clogging her throat. She and Alex hadn't spoken in years. That needed to change and someone had to make the first move. It might as well be Kayla. Life was too short to let something as stupid as what the two of them had argued about cause a lifetime rift. One way or another she would make this right. The promise mayday that Rainy had set in motion might just work for more than one urgent situation.
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The door opened and Christine Evans regarded Kayla through her good eye. Before becoming the academy's principal, Christine had been an officer in the U.S. Army. She had left the armed forces after a training exercise left her blind in one eye. The army's loss had been Athena's gain. She greeted Kayla with a weary smile that pretty much looked pinned in place. The fall semester would start soon. All Athena staff members would be busy with enrollment and other preparations for the new term. Christine likely had her hands full. "Kayla, come in." Christine stepped back, drawing the door open a little wider. "Alex is here already." "Great." Kayla braced herself and moved inside. "Hey, Alex," she offered, certain her own smile now looked as feigned as Christine's had. Suddenly her determination to make amends wavered as she faced Alex's usual aloof presence. Still gorgeous with her long, curly red hair and fine features, Alex stared through blue eyes that remained as cool as ever. Alex stood near the sofa, a cup of tea in hand. As gracefully as a queen, she deftly set her cup and saucer on the table and offered Kayla a nod of acknowledgement. "It's good to see you, Kayla." The absolute last of the enthusiasm for setting things right that Kayla had felt only moments ago evaporated beneath her old friend's contained demeanor. Same old Alex. Don't let a single emotion show. Her elegant, blue-blood upbringing would not permit such a crack in her controlled exterior. They'd been so close once. Suddenly it felt like centuries ago rather than scarcely more than a decade. Kayla glanced around the room, anything to ease the tension. "Rainy isn't here yet?" Christine pushed a strand of graying hair from her brow and sighed. "She should have been here by now. I tried calling but got her voice mail." That surprised Kayla. Rainy didn't like being out of touch. As an attorney she couldn't afford to be out of reach for long. She was too dedicated…too caring. That's all I can tell you…. The urgency in Rainy's tone when she'd called Kayla reverberated through her now. "Tea, Kayla?" Kayla tamped down her growing uneasiness. "No, thanks." "I'm sorry about your grandmother," Alex said abruptly. "I'd been out of town when I finally heard. I didn't know until more than a week after the funeral." Kayla managed a nod of appreciation. At least that was something. A kind of baby step toward where they once were. "Thank you. I really miss her." An awkward stretch of silence set her instincts further on edge. "Did Rainy give either of you any indication of what this is about?" Christine shook her head. "She was quite vague." "She indicated that it was urgent, nothing more," Alex added. When Kayla would have pursued the subject, a brisk knock at the front door drew their collective attention in that direction. Relief slid through her. Rainy was never late. Kayla glanced at her watch. It was eight on the dot. This had to be her. But it wasn't. Chapter Three
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No matter how many times Kayla entered the hospital to visit a friend or family member, an accident victim or injured perpetrator in an ongoing case, she never got used to the smell. The scent of pain and sickness. The looming threat of death. She shook off the unsettling thought and strode to the ER admittance desk. "I'm Lieutenant Kayla Ryan, Pinal County Sheriff's Department. You have an MVA victim, Lorraine Carrington. I'd like an update on her condition and to see her if possible." The instant the ER duty nurse's gaze locked with hers, Kayla felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. "I'll see if the doctor is available," the nurse said, her tone and her face carefully schooled. "Oh, God." Kayla turned to Alex, who stood at her side. The color had drained from her face, leaving her deathly pale. "This isn't good, Kayla," she murmured, her blue eyes suspiciously bright with the emotion she usually kept tightly compartmentalized. Kayla nodded jerkily. Speech wasn't possible. She didn't turn toward the others who waited in the lobby's seating area with little Charlie. If she looked now, her whole expression would give away the truth she feared she was about to learn. This couldn't be happening. Not Rainy. I need your help, Kayla. For the first time in more than ten years Kayla took Alex's hand and squeezed it briefly, needing the reassurance. She felt Alex's fingers tremble but she held on for a moment before letting go. Whatever had happened, they would all face it together. Kayla had to have faith that God would not take someone as wonderful as Rainy from them. She couldn't lose another person she loved this soon. Losing her grandmother four months ago had been tough enough. The memories flashed one over the other through her mind, sharpened by the medicinal smells thick in the air. "Lieutenant Ryan?" Kayla turned to face the male voice. "Yes." She stepped toward the harried-looking physician who waited a few feet away. "I'm Dr. Buckley." "You can give me an update on Ms. Carrington's condition?" The dull look in his gray eyes remained constant as the doctor conveyed the news. Kayla would consider later that he'd probably done this hundreds of times and had learned to block any and all emotion in order to cope. "Mrs. Carrington's condition was critical when she arrived. She coded twice en route. Complete cardiac arrest occurred before we could get her stabilized. Attempts to resuscitate were unsuccessful. We did everything we could." The words stabbed into Kayla. "Marshall," she murmured. "We should call Marshall." Next to her, Alex stood rigid, as if made of cold, unyielding stone.
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"Mr. Carrington is here already," the doctor explained. "He's…with his wife. I'll let him know you're here." Kayla nodded, not even aware that Christine and the others had moved up behind her until she heard Darcy's sob. They held each other and grieved softly…the women who had loved Rainy. The women whose lives would never be the same with her gone. "Kayla." She looked up and immediately broke free from the group to take Marshall Carrington into her arms. There was no adequate way to describe the devastation on his face…in his posture. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling with the pain twisting in her gut. "I can't believe she's gone…I don't understand," he said softly. Kayla drew back and settled her gaze on his. "Can you tell me what happened? I know this isn't a good time but —" The tall, strong man, whose all-American good looks had swept Rainy off her feet, shrugged listlessly. "They don't know. The patrolman said it looked as if she just ran off the road. No skid marks. No other vehicle involved. Nothing." He shook his head. "It doesn't make sense." Kayla analyzed all that he said, considered the ramifications. "I'll find out exactly what happened, Marshall." This couldn't be real. Rainy couldn't be gone. "Have you called her parents?" She could only imagine the horror they would feel. Rainy was their only child. He nodded, his visage wrapped in agony. "Just now. They're flying in from California on the first available flight." "I want to see her." Kayla turned to Alex. As a forensics scientist for the FBI, Alex was trained for this sort of thing. But this was Rainy. "Alex, that might not —" "I want to see her," she said more firmly. "I want to see her, and I want an autopsy." The seemingly innocuous seven-letter word jerked Kayla's emotions to a whole new level. Alex was right. Marshall's words rang in Kayla's ears. No skid marks. No other vehicle involved. Rainy was a cautious driver. A good driver. This wasn't right. "I agree," Kayla heard herself say as if her brain were working on autopilot. "Rainy is…" She cleared her throat. "Rainy was a good driver. I can't see her just driving off the road." Marshall scrubbed a hand over his weary, tearstained face. "Dear God, do they really have to do that to her?" "I'm sorry." Kayla's heart went out to him. "It is necessary, and it's the law since the full circumstances of her death are unclear. Try not to focus on that part. We need to understand all we can about what happened." "How fast do you think we can get an autopsy scheduled?" Alex directed her question to Kayla. She held out her hands in a gesture of uncertainty. This sort of complication rarely arose in her jurisdiction. Technically, the accident wasn't her jurisdiction, but the victim's identity made it her personal business. "I can try for tomorrow. It being Sunday may present a problem, but I'll do what I can."
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"I'd like to sit in," Alex stated firmly. After considering the idea, Kayla nodded. "I know Rainy would want that." She turned back to Marshall. "We'll get to the bottom of what happened." Kayla's gaze collided with Alex's and her certainty solidified. They might never know why Rainy had needed them tonight, might never be able to fulfill that promise, but this was one thing they could do. The questions surrounding Rainy's manner of death would be resolved. Kayla made that silent promise to her friend. I won't let you down, Rainy. Chapter Four With the most immediate painful decisions behind them, Kayla's thoughts went to her daughter. It was getting late. She should call her sister…she really should get home to Jazz. But Marshall… "Darcy and I both have late night flights out," Josie said, regret heavy in her voice. "I wish there was more we could do." "We'll take care of things here," Kayla assured, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. "Alex or I will call you the moment we know anything new." She needed to touch base with Sam and Tory, the two Cassandras who hadn't made it tonight, as well…they would have to know. God, this just couldn't be real. Her chest tightened with hurt. But it was. Marshall glanced at the wide double doors that led back into the ER. Rainy was likely still in there, waiting to be transferred to the morgue. "I should stay here," he said softly, his wistful vulnerability palpable. The woman he loved, his wife — his mate — was gone. A part of him would long to stay near her until every essence of her vanished completely, but that would only drag out the inevitable. "There's nothing else you can do here," Alex offered gently. "Go home, Marshall. You have the Millers to pick up and the funeral arrangements to make. Get some rest. Kayla and I will take care of Rainy." With a little more cajoling, Marshall reluctantly agreed and walked out of the hospital alone. The utter sadness of it sent a new onslaught of tears cresting on Kayla's lashes. Alex waited for an opportunity between patients to speak with Dr. Buckley once more. Kayla put in the necessary calls to try to prompt the medical examiner's office into a priority autopsy. Whether it was the Carrington name or simply Kayla's dogged insistence, the rush request went through. The autopsy would be performed at nine a.m. the next morning. Alex would observe. That was all that any of them could do tonight. The body would be transferred to the new morgue facility in Casa Grande. At one time they'd had to use Phoenix or Tucson for autopsies, but now, Pinal County had its own medical examiner with a state-of-the-art facility right in Casa Grande. The drive back to Christine's bungalow passed in heavy silence. Alex insisted on going to Casa Grande and staying in a hotel to be ready for the autopsy the following morning. Josie, Darcy and Charlie would pick up their rental car at Christine's and head for the airport. They sat in the backseat now, like her, uncertain how to open a conversation. Maybe it was better not to try. Kayla considered at least a dozen times all the things she should say but nothing felt right enough. When Christine braked in front of their final destination, Kayla tendered the only words she felt absolutely certain of. "Call me if you need anything. I'll keep you up to speed on my end." They exchanged hugs and more tears before parting. Christine looked so alone Kayla almost hated to leave her. But she had to get home to Jazz.
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It occurred to Kayla as she drove away from Athena Academy, emotions roiling inside her, that Alex hadn't asked about Jazz. Both Darcy and Josie had. But she and Alex hadn't discussed Jazz in…more than a decade. Jazz's father was the reason they'd had their falling out. That seemed so insignificant now. So damned insignificant. Rainy was dead. Kayla couldn't help thinking that anything could happen to her…to Alex…and then it would be too late to make amends. But how could she bridge that gap alone? She drove away, emotions still churning inside her. She'd taken the first step toward reaching out to Alex. The next move was up to her. It was nearly midnight when Kayla parked in front of her sister's neat stucco home. The living room light glowed invitingly through the darkness. Kayla didn't move for a time. She let the weariness wash over her and considered how unfair life could be. Rainy was so young and so good. Now she was gone. That reality made the everyday complaints in Kayla's life seem insignificant. She should be thankful. It wasn't so awful that she'd had to raise Jazz all alone. Wait. She hadn't really been alone, she amended. Her parents and her sister had helped tremendously. Even her brother pitched in from time to time. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips as she thought of how much her grandmother had loved teaching Jazz the ways of the Navajo people. She'd lived on the reservation until the day she took her last breath. Kayla had no right to complain. With the exception of Jazz's dad, who had at least paid child support all these years, life had been good to Kayla. And, in all fairness, if she hadn't fallen in love at sixteen, she wouldn't have Jazz. Nope. She was damned lucky. She was alive and she had her daughter and family. It was past time she started counting her blessings. Mary met Kayla at the door. "Oh, honey, it's so late, why don't you just leave her? I'll get her to church in the morning." Mary was two years older than Kayla but the similarities between them were remarkable. As kids, they'd often been mistaken for twins. But Mary had inherited the most nurturing genes. Kayla, well, she'd apparently absorbed all the bossy, kick-butt genes that went way back in her heritage. Kayla knew that would be the right thing to do, but she couldn't bear the thought of going twenty-four hours without seeing her daughter. "I couldn't do that, Mar, you know that. I have to cuddle up with her at night." Kayla smiled. Jazz might be eleven years old, but she was still her mother's baby. Her sister pulled her inside and locked the door behind her. "Then you'll sleep here, Ms. Policewoman. You'll crawl into that bed and snuggle up with your child without dragging her out into the night." "Thanks." How had she gotten so lucky as to have a big sister like Mary? "I spoke to Jim," Mary said softly as she and Kayla walked arm in arm through the quiet house. "He told me about your friend." Jim Harkey was her partner. He was big, tall and could be as mean as a junkyard dog when necessary. But she knew the truth. Inside, he was just a big, cuddly teddy bear. Mum was the word, however. Her partner had a reputation to maintain. He'd likely heard about Rainy when he booked those creeps who'd busted into the jewelry shop tonight. Jeez, that felt so long ago now. "I still can't believe it," Kayla whispered on a sigh. "It doesn't feel possible." They paused outside the guest room. "There are reasons for everything, Kayla. Perhaps you will discover one of great importance for this tragedy." Kayla hugged her sister and exchanged good-nights but didn't comment on Mary's suggestion. In her heart there would never be a good enough reason for Rainy's death. Not ever.
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Jazz slept soundly as her mother crept into the room. A glimmer of moonlight filtered through the crack between the curtains, illuminating Jasmine's sweet face. Her dark brown hair was long like Kayla's. She took pleasure in braiding it each morning before school. There wasn't a thing about the child that looked like her father, except Jazz's hazel eyes. As Kayla stripped off her clothes and crawled into the warm bed with her baby, she allowed the memories of a smooth-talking, good-looking young air force officer to tumble through her mind. He was the reason she would never again trust her heart to a man. No man deserved that much trust. Kayla would depend only on herself and her family. She would teach Jazz to do the same. Life was too full of uncertainties to trust anyone else that much. She thought of Alex and Rainy and the others. Well, maybe there were some exceptions. But Rainy was gone. That sixth sense that all good cops possessed nagged at her. Something about Rainy's accident was wrong. All wrong. Kayla would find the truth, and Alex would help her. They would do it for Rainy…for the promise. Chapter Five The next afternoon Kayla's cell phone vibrated just as she and her daughter were exiting the church they had attended every single Sunday of Jazz's life. "Get in the Jeep and buckle up," she said to her daughter as she fished for her phone. Jazz, looking especially pretty in her white dress and sandals with her dark hair swinging around her shoulders, loaded herself into the passenger side of the Jeep without protest. Her baby girl had grown into a real sweetheart of an adolescent. She hadn't developed that I-know-everything attitude a lot of kids her age appeared to have. Kayla flipped open her phone. "Ryan." "Kayla, it's Alex." Kayla stilled near the driver's-side door. "Hey, Alex. You have news for me already?" "There are more tests to be performed but I do have some unexpected preliminary findings we need to discuss." The somber tone of Alex's voice was far more telling than her words. "I'm listening." Kayla braced against the Jeep as Alex continued. "Do you remember Rainy telling us about her appendectomy?" "Sure." They'd been talking about medical procedures for a CPR unit. Rainy had joked about her "beauty scar." The memory brought with it another pang of loss. Their friend was gone…forever. "Didn't happen." Alex's simplistic statement startled Kayla. "What do you mean?" "Rainy's appendix was still intact."
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That uneasy feeling she'd had since learning that Rainy was dead ratcheted up a notch. "You're the expert," Kayla offered. "How can that be?" A moment of silenced stretched across the phone line. "Obviously someone misunderstood Rainy's medical condition. I'm going to contact Christine and have her check Rainy's medical records at the academy." Kayla was certain that Rainy wouldn't have lied about having her appendix out. She'd been proud of surviving surgery. And they'd all seen the scar. "Okay." Kayla straightened away from the Jeep. "I'm going to check out the site of the accident and take a look at the car. The accident actually belongs to Casa Grande, but I went to the police academy with some of those guys. They won't mind if I take a look." "Keep me posted on what you find," Alex urged, then hesitated before adding, "Look, Kayla, I'm probably going to be here most of the day. Check on Marshall, would you?" "I spoke with him already. He was hanging in there. The Millers arrived early this morning. I'd planned to talk to him again today after he's had a chance to spend some time with Rainy's parents." Kayla rubbed her eyes with her finger and thumb. She'd barely slept at all last night. "I'll ask him if Rainy kept a medical file at home." "There's something else." Alex's sigh was audible. "There was some serious scarring on her ovaries. It's not so uncommon, but there would have been signs of trouble. Abdominal pains and the like. I can't remember Rainy ever complaining about problems of that nature. It would create difficulties in conceiving. That's something we should look for in medical records, as well." Since Rainy and Marshall hadn't had children as of yet, Kayla couldn't help wondering if that might be the reason. Something else for her to check out. "I'll see what I can find out from her personal physician, as well." Kayla flashed her patient daughter a smile through the window. "I'll call you later." "Good. I'd better get back in there." Kayla started to say goodbye but then remembered, "Hey, I called Sam and Tory this morning to let them know." Samantha, or Sam, St. John and Victoria, or Tory, Patton were the other two Cassandras. "As much as I hated to, I had to leave messages." Tory was likely out of the country on a story. Her growing acclaim as a TV reporter kept her on the trail of the hottest-breaking news. Sam was in the CIA. 'Nuff said. "God, I hadn't even thought of calling them." Kayla heard the vulnerability in Alex's voice, felt it in her own heart. "Take care of Rainy. Make sure it's done right, Alex. We're going to find out what really happened." A quiet moment passed between them. Memories, good and bad. But they had the promise. That would hold them together through this. Two hours later with Jazz happily ensconced at Kayla's mother's, Kayla donned her weapon and drove to the crash site. She concluded the same thing the investigating officer had: Rainy had fallen asleep at the wheel. There were no skid marks, no indication of Rainy having braked or even slowed down. She'd simply driven off the road. Rainy was too smart to do something so stupid. There had to be something else Kayla couldn't see. Considering Rainy's urgent calls to her friends, it wasn't impossible that she had been in some sort of trouble that would put her in danger. Why would anyone want to hurt Rainy in any way? It didn't make sense. She'd always been straight as an arrow. Never got into trouble. Could Rainy have gotten into something dangerous because of her
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profession? As an attorney, she'd won lawsuits that had hurt a few big corporations financially. Kayla couldn't dismiss that possibility. Determined to find out all she could about the accident itself, Kayla parked in front of the county forensics lab just outside Casa Grande. Police work was never done. Even the labs worked 24/7. Kayla didn't anticipate problems getting what she wanted. She knew a couple of the techs at the lab and it just so happened that one of them was on duty this afternoon. He would be more than happy to share the preliminary findings of his report with her. He'd been after her for a date for ages. "Anything to get the job done," Kayla muttered as she made her way into the reception area of the lab. Fred Kaiser wasn't a handsome guy but he was smart and friendly. He stood an inch or so shorter than Kayla and had a mop of blond hair that always looked in need of combing. But the kind gray eyes behind the coke bottle eyeglass lenses told the tale. He was a nice guy, a guy who cared about others and his work. Within moments of Kayla's request to see him he was in the lobby looking his usual unkempt self. His perpetually overlarge white lab coat hung from his scrawny frame. Worn denim jeans and scuffed white sneakers completed the picture. "I'm really sorry about your friend," he said automatically. Jim again, no doubt. He'd likely passed the word around the county sheriff's department. Folks in the business kept close tabs on each other. "Thanks. I'm having a difficult time coming to terms with it." Fred nodded, then waved the papers in his hands as if he'd just remembered having them. "The report isn't complete yet, but I have preliminary findings if you'd like to discuss them." Kayla gave him the warmest smile she could muster under present circumstances. "That'd be great." She followed him to his office, beyond the doors marked Restricted Access, and settled into a chair next to him. After he'd listed the condition of the vehicle and commented on the scene as written in the investigating officer's report, he finally got to the part Kayla wanted to hear. "Frankly, the car's condition wasn't that bad. Given the severity of the victim's injuries —" He winced. "Sorry." "I understand what you mean," she said in hopes of encouraging him to continue. Even with her throat so tight she could scarcely breathe and her heart pounding in her chest, she had to hear the rest. Fred pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. "As I was saying, the vehicle was relatively new with all the right safety features, including an airbag. Since the victim ended up being tossed out of the car I assumed that maybe she hadn't worn her seatbelt." When Kayla would have objected, he continued, "But I wanted to be sure." His gray gaze locked firmly with Kayla's. "The front driver's seatbelt doesn't work properly. All the others in the vehicle function perfectly, just not that one." "So you're saying the seatbelt malfunctioned, which is why she's dead. She would have survived otherwise." Fred shrugged. "Judging by the condition of the vehicle, I'd say yes, she would have." Kayla swallowed hard. "The seatbelt is to blame then." Every instinct screamed at her that this was far too pat…far too easy. Maybe she just didn't want something this stupid and seemingly insignificant to be the answer. Rainy's life was far too important for it to end on a note of momentary carelessness. "Well." He flipped through his pages once more. "That's probably what the official report will indicate, but I don't know, Kayla. Generally when seatbelts are bad, they're all bad. As in, the belts for every vehicle of that model. You rarely find one that malfunctions like that. It's not that it can't happen — it's that it is highly unusual. But I can't find any indications that it has been tampered with."
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Kayla sat up straighter. "But that would be your first guess," she prodded. He heaved a heavy breath. "You'd better not tell anyone I said this, but I'd be more inclined to believe that it had been tampered with than I would that this one seatbelt failed for no good reason. I couldn't find the first defect in it and there are no recalls from the manufacturer. But I can't prove that it was tampered with, either." She put her hand on his arm reassuringly. "Don't sweat it. I trust your instincts, Fred." Another thought gave her a moment's pause. "That's a very thorough report. You always work so fast?" She masked the question with a wide smile. He shuffled his feet, embarrassed by her compliment. "Have to when it's a priority case." Kayla's uneasiness sharpened. Priority? Who'd made it a priority case and why? I need your help, Kayla. Somehow this was all tied together. Rainy's urgency in invoking the promise and her death. Kayla had to continue her investigation with the person closest to Rainy: the man who loved her. Chapter Six Kayla called Marshall several times en route, finally reaching him when she was almost there. When she arrived at Rainy and Marshall's lovely two-story Southwestern home in Tucson, Marshall was waiting on the front steps. Kayla took a moment to study his weary frame before emerging from her Jeep. Still young and virile at thirty-five, today Marshall looked tired and far older. His usually broad shoulders were rounded with pain, his handsome face lined with that same emotion. Though she'd fallen hard for a man once, she'd never known the kind of love and commitment that Rainy and Marshall had shared. She could only imagine how much the loss must hurt on a level that went far beyond the friendship that Kayla and Rainy had shared. Utter devastation. How did people get past this kind of hurt? she wondered as she got out and moved toward him. "I'm sorry to bother you like this, Marshall," she said softly, a ton of guilt suddenly weighing heavy on her shoulders. Here was a man who needed to grieve his loss and she had come to rehash it. But it had to be done. "It's all right. Rainy's parents have gone out to look at the cemetery I suggested." Marshall shrugged. "I don't know if they'll even go there at all. I think they just needed to get out of the house. Drive around." He opened the front door and gestured for her to go in ahead of him. "I can't accept this." He paused in the entry hall and leveled a surprisingly clear, steady gaze on Kayla. "It just doesn't make sense. How could she just go to sleep at the wheel? She never did things like that. Never even fell asleep during a bad movie." Understanding exactly what he meant, Kayla nodded, opting to go slowly with her questions. "May I see her office?" She knew that the highly organized Rainy had kept a home office. She'd always been meticulous in her file keeping. Marshall gave a little jerk of his head then led the way to Rainy's office just past the family den. "I don't know what might be important," he said as he stepped aside for her to enter. "Feel free to look at anything. We have no secrets from you, Kayla." The statement struck Kayla as a little odd, but then this was a difficult time. There might be no hidden motivation for the words. Kayla gave herself a mental shake. What was she thinking? She refused to lend
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even an iota of credence to the usual theory that the spouse should be the first suspect. Not in this case. No way. Kayla settled behind Rainy's desk, tamping down the emotions that tried to take control. "Why don't you tell me anything that was going on in Rainy's life that you feel might be relevant? Something perhaps she hadn't shared with her friends." As she waited for Marshall to consider her request, she carefully reviewed the contents of each drawer. The top of Rainy's desk looked as it always did, neat and polished with a picture of her and her husband in a prominent position. True love. How many people actually found it? "Had she mentioned that we'd been trying to conceive for about two years now?" Kayla hesitated in her methodical inventory and contemplated the question. Rainy had wanted children. She'd made no secret of that. "She mentioned that the two of you wanted to start a family." Kayla couldn't quite remember Rainy making such an announcement. It was something she'd simply known. Marshall dropped heavily into the closest chair. He exhaled a breath fraught with emotion. "There was a problem," he began, as if it pained him to speak of the subject. He flicked a look in Kayla's direction. "It wasn't on my part. It was Rainy. Dr. Deborah Halburg here in Tucson had started treatments more than a year ago, but we still hadn't been able to conceive. The only thing the treatments caused was mood swings." He fell silent for a moment. Kayla continued her survey of Rainy's files, though a part of her wanted to move around that desk and hold him. Marshall had always held a special place in her heart. Maybe because he'd managed to capture Rainy's. Like the other Cassandras, Kayla had idolized Rainy since they were kids. She represented everything they had hoped to be. Kayla's fingers encountered a file folder marked Fertility Research. She shifted her full attention back to her search. The well-worn folder was empty. Kayla frowned as she asked, "Did Dr. Halburg prescribe anything for the mood swings?" Marshall scrubbed his brow as if trying to dig up the information. "Yes…yes, she did. Rainy didn't want to take it on the off chance that she got pregnant." That left the question of how the two of them had handled the mood swings. She hated making him relive all this, but it was necessary. "What sort of complications did the mood swings create?" Kayla paused in her search. Several folders were empty. All related to Rainy's health and the fertility treatments. Another folder simply marked Research captured her attention. It was empty, as well. As Kayla tried to shove the file back into the hanging slip, it snagged. She pulled the manila folder free and peered into the slip. A document had gotten stuck under the folder. She tugged it out and smoothed it so she could read it. "Egg mining." The page was one of ten according to the header, but one was all that remained. After a brief overview of the content, Kayla paused to think. The egg-mining procedure consisted of removing eggs from the ovaries, which often resulted in scarring. Alex's words about Rainy's ovaries echoed in Kayla's ears. "I can't believe I let it get to this point," Marshall was saying. "I should have seen it. Paid more attention to her. The affair —" "What?" Kayla's head came up. What was he saying? "What affair?" Marshall's eyes looked suspiciously bright. "With David Gracelyn. The two of them had an affair years ago. I believe…they'd started the affair again…since things were so tense between the two of us." Marshall dropped his head into his hands. "I should have done more. I should have made her feel complete." Kayla went to him, crouched down in front of him and wrapped her fingers around his arms. "Marshall, Rainy loved you. I can't believe she'd have an affair with anyone." If Rainy had had an affair with David Gracelyn, surely Kayla would have known. "The two of you had the perfect marriage."
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He lifted his head and looked at her, tears shining on his chiseled cheeks. "I couldn't make her happy. Not lately." Kayla simply couldn't believe that Rainy would not be happy with this dynamic man. She put her arms around him and hugged him. "Don't think that way. Do you hear me, Marshall? Rainy loved you." His arms went around her and Kayla at last let her emotions get the best of her. She didn't mean for it to happen…it simply did. After a few minutes of tears and murmured words, she finally drew back and swiped her eyes. His arms remained tight around her and for just one moment the spark of attraction burned through Kayla. She cared for Marshall, would do most anything to lift this awful hurt from him. For one split second she saw need in his eyes, and her heart stumbled. She pulled free and stood, trembled as she silently railed at herself. Allowing this to turn into something other than comfort would be a mistake. She had no right to feel anything even remotely related to attraction for her friend's husband. What the hell was wrong with her? "I'm sorry, Kayla," he said, pushing to his feet. "I…I just need…" God, had he felt her need, as well? Later, when he could think clearly again, the last thing she wanted was for him to think back on this moment and feel guilty. "It's okay, Marshall. We're all feeling out of sorts right now. We miss Rainy." He nodded…looked so damned lost. She had to focus…had to conduct this investigation like any other. Setting aside the uneasy tension that had somehow gotten out of hand, she gathered her wits and considered where they had left off. An affair. No way. The concept of Rainy having an affair was ludicrous. Kayla just wouldn't believe such a thing. "I should get back to…" She gestured vaguely to Rainy's desk. Marshall nodded and dropped back into his chair. As Kayla moved back behind the desk, she noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor beneath the desk. She reached down and retrieved what proved to be another page from the egg-mining file. The fine hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood on end. She got up and roamed the room looking for something…anything out of place. Why were these files missing? Had they been with Rainy? In a briefcase in the car maybe? "Marshall, did the police return anything to you from Rainy's car? A briefcase maybe?" "Just her purse. I'll show it —" Kayla shushed him as a muffled sound from somewhere upstairs whispered over her senses. Instinctively she reached for her weapon in the shoulder holster beneath her lightweight dress jacket. "Marshall, have you been in the house all morning?" He shook his head. "After the Millers left I went for a walk. Lost track of time. I'd just come back in when you called to tell me you were on your way here." That's why she hadn't been able to reach him. She'd practically been at his driveway before she'd gotten him on the phone "Did you leave any windows open upstairs?" Listening intently, she stared upward as if somehow she might see through the floor. He shook his head. "I never open the windows. Not in the heat of the summer, anyway. I just let the A/C do its job."
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"What about Mr. and Mrs. Miller?" Kayla was already moving toward the hall. "They slept in the downstairs guest suite," he said, looking more bewildered by the moment. "I don't think —" "Listen to me carefully, Marshall," she murmured as she reached the door, and heard yet another vague sound. "I'm going upstairs to check something out. If shots are fired or if you hear anything suspicious, call 911 and get a unit sent over here ASAP." Her gaze collided with his startled one. "Stay right here. Don't leave this room." "What is it?" he demanded frantically. She motioned for him to stay quiet, then pointed at the phone before slipping out of the room. "Remember what I said." She eased into the entry hall, toward the stairs. If her instincts were right, Marshall had company. Chapter Seven Her weapon drawn, her step silent, Kayla climbed the stairs. She stilled when another soft rustle touched her auditory senses. Fabric against fabric. Curtains. Window. Marshall had insisted that he'd left no windows open, but he was overwrought. Still, Kayla couldn't take any chances. There were too many unanswered questions here. Like the whole priority case thing. Who had labeled this a priority case besides her? The autopsy being priority didn't mean the accident investigation itself would be one. She'd have to find out how that had happened. If there was an intruder he'd likely deemed a hasty retreat necessary at this point. Her instincts on point, Kayla reached the second-story landing and quickly moved from one open doorway to the next. Each bedroom proved empty — undisturbed — until she reached the last one at the far end of the corridor. The curtains swished softly against the window frame. Kayla moved across the room in four long strides. But she was too late. If anyone had been in the house, he or she had already disappeared into the maze of houses and yards that flanked Rainy's quiet home in the center of the cul-de-sac. Swearing softly, Kayla closed the window and locked it. Something crinkled beneath her left foot. She crouched down to find another page from Rainy's files. More Internet research on egg mining. Her sixth sense screamed at her now, telling her there had been someone in the house. In Rainy's home office. This egg-mining thing appeared to be a part of whatever the hell was going on. Alex's discoveries during the autopsy seemed to back up that theory. No appendectomy had been performed. Appendix still intact. Scarred ovaries. Egg mining scarred the ovaries. Kayla considered that long-ago incident. She needed more information. How might an appendectomy that never happened be connected to Rainy's current fertility research? Could Rainy's medical history somehow have played a part in her death? Kayla and Alex would need to discuss this possibility, but first Kayla needed more information…more substantial evidence. Since most of Rainy's pertinent personal files had apparently been taken, Kayla supposed she could start with the doctor who'd been treating Rainy's infertility. Dr. Halburg. She could cross-reference whatever she discovered with whatever Alex learned from Rainy's Athena Academy records.
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"Get out of my house, you bastard!" Marshall's shout jerked Kayla back to her feet. "What the hell?" She shoved the page from the file into her pocket as she stormed toward the stairs, her weapon still drawn and ready. Had the intruder somehow circled the house and reentered through the front door? Didn't make sense to Kayla but, then again, not all criminals made sense. He must have hidden when Marshall entered the house and remained so until Kayla had started nosing around. Going out the window had been his only option. He'd be pretty dumb to come back inside now. Halfway down the stairs she chucked that possibility. The man Marshall had shouted at and looked ready to tear into was David Gracelyn. The two of them had an affair years ago. Kayla still wasn't prepared to believe that Rainy had ever cheated on Marshall. No way. "Just tell me what happened, Carrington!" The sound of hurt and devastation in David Gracelyn's voice gave Kayla pause at the bottom of the stairs. Instinctively she analyzed his posture, his expression, his tone. His dark brown eyes looked sunken in his handsome face. Dark circles spoke of a sleepless night. His wide shoulders were slumped in defeat. He looked much as Kayla felt, like someone who'd lost a loved one. "Get the hell out of my house!" This time Marshall made a dive for David. About the same age, both strong, athletic men, she had no doubt that the two would rip each other apart if she didn't intervene. Kayla shoved her weapon into its holster and pushed between the two men. "Enough!" Before he could catch himself, the full-body shove Marshall had intended to land Gracelyn against the wall came hard into Kayla. The air rushed out of her lungs at the impact but she recovered quickly, steadying Marshall as he lost his balance. Her heart hammered in her chest. Dammit, what the hell was wrong with these two? "God, Kayla, are you all right?" "I'm okay." She released him and tried to shake off the buzz of high-octane adrenaline. She looked from one to the other. "What the hell has gotten into you two? This is not the time." There was no need to remind either of them that Rainy was dead. Obviously, both men had cared for her. Kayla didn't have time right now to analyze that conundrum. Gracelyn offered wearily, "I've called a dozen times. He —" he glared at Marshall "— won't take my calls. I want to know what happened." He forked his fingers through his hair. "I can't believe…she's gone." "You son of a bitch!" Marshall shouted, renewed hurt in his voice. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
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Kayla whirled around at the sound of yet another male voice. A tall man, his suit slightly rumpled, stood in the wide-open entrance to the Carrington home. He had a pleasant face, a little too rugged to be handsome, but friendly enough. A day's beard growth shadowed his jaw. Who the hell was this guy? "I called 911!" Marshall shouted at Gracelyn over Kayla, ignoring the newcomer entirely. Damn. Kayla had hoped he hadn't bothered. Why was it men never listened? Backup wasn't necessary now. For that matter, Gracelyn could have been the one in the house, although one look at the despondent man told her that was highly unlikely. "You called the cops?" Gracelyn howled like a wounded animal. "We don't need the cops," Kayla assured him, in hopes of defusing their tempers. "I'm a cop," the stranger put in, reminding her of his unwanted presence once more. Kayla held up a hand to halt whatever Gracelyn or Marshall would have said next. "Boys! Give me a minute." Her scathing tone left them both speechless. Thankful for the reprieve, she ushered Marshall into the den. "Don't do this," she urged. "You know how Rainy hated confrontation. We don't need this kind of scene. Let me handle things." "The Millers could be back at any minute. I don't want them to hear…" His voice trailed off in anguish. The adrenaline rush of the moment had come and gone, leaving her weary. "Just stay put while I get rid of these guys." No point in bitching at him for calling 911. She'd brought the subject up, had no one to blame but herself for the dramatics. She left Marshall in the den to lick his wounds and carefully closed the door behind her as she went back into the entry hall. "I'm sorry, David," she said to Gracelyn, ignoring the other man for a moment. "This has been tough on Marshall." He nodded. "I don't want to be pushed out like this. Rainy was…" Kayla didn't think she could bear to hear this right now. Especially not in front of a stranger. She swallowed hard and dredged up the courage to say what had to be said. "The funeral arrangements haven't been finalized. I'll give you a call when I have those details, as well as anything else I think you might want to know." He nodded again but this time he remained silent, his head hung in defeat. "Go home, David." She gently ushered him toward the door. She didn't spare the cop so much as a glance as he stepped out of the way. "Call me if you need anything else. Coming here isn't a good idea." "Call me," David urged as he walked away. Kayla couldn't help empathizing with him. So many people had loved Rainy…would miss her desperately. As David Gracelyn's car pulled away from the curb she noted the other one parked there. It took two seconds for Kayla to surmise that, though it wasn't a police cruiser, it likely belonged to the tall guy in the wrinkled suit. Last time she checked, wrinkled suits weren't the usual issue for street cops in Tucson. Which could mean only one thing…he wasn't a regular cop. She reentered the house and closed the door. If the Millers arrived she wanted some advance warning. Kayla looked the cop up and down. "I didn't know you guys had special uniforms for Sundays." He gave her the same treatment. "Ditto."
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Well, he had her there. She'd set out to investigate the crash site and had come here right after church. The Sunday-go-to-meeting dress suit and three-inch heels weren't her usual workfare, but there was no help for it. Somehow this guy didn't look as if he'd haunted a church in quite some time. "Detective Peter Hadden." He flashed his credentials. "I suppose you're Lieutenant Ryan." "That's right." Detective? Hmm. Why would a detective respond to a 911 call? And how did he know her name? "To what do I owe the honor of getting a full-fledged detective on a simple breaking-and-entering call?" "I happened to be at the precinct when your call came in and since the Carrington residence is in my jurisdiction I thought I'd take the call." He cocked his head and surveyed her a bit closer. "Mr. Carrington mentioned you were already here when he called." So he knew her name because of Marshall's call. "Didn't miss anything important, did I?" he continued in the arrogant tone that had started to grate on her nerves pretty much from the moment he opened his mouth. "Mr. Carrington indicated to the operator that there might be an intruder. Is that who you just escorted out?" She pushed a smile into place and tamped down the irritation in her throat. "Unfortunately, if there was an intruder he got away," she said, glad to let him know he'd probably wasted his valuable time. The detective rubbed his chin and the motion made her shiver. In revulsion, she assured herself, as her gaze took in his strong hand. Kayla blinked. Gave herself a mental slap in the face. What the hell was with her today? "So no damage was done," he pressed, clearly annoyed to have been called out this Sunday afternoon. She could lie, but that wasn't the way she'd been trained. Just because she didn't like this guy didn't mean she could behave unprofessionally. At least not any more than she already had. "It appears someone has rifled through Ms. Carrington's office. It's hard to tell if anything is actually missing," she added with just as much annoyance as he'd shown her. That piercing blue gaze narrowed on hers. "Thanks for the heads-up, Ryan. But you should remember that this is my jurisdiction. Lorraine Carrington's death, as well as anything connected to her life, is my case now. I don't mind you looking into your friend's death. But, in the future, when you want to look at the vehicle impounded by forensics or anything else related to this ongoing case, you will consult me first." "Whoa!" She threw up her hands stop-sign fashion, fury bolting through her. "What the hell are you talking about?" The accident hadn't happened in Tucson jurisdiction. She said as much, then wondered, furious, if Fred had ratted her out. Surely not. "It is now," Hadden countered smoothly, taking a defiant step nearer. "Just give the chief in Casa Grande a call if you don't want to take my word on it." She hated the way his nearness made her foolish senses react, making her feel as if she'd run five miles in the midday heat. How could he do that and infuriate her at the same time? Not to be outdone, she took the final step between them and stared right back up into that penetrating gaze. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, Detective, but Rainy Carrington was my friend and I'm not about to back off for you or anyone else." "Fine." Full lips that she hadn't noticed before offered a begrudging smile. She blinked, jerked back a step. "I've always been a huge fan of teamwork," he tacked on.
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Kayla had the distinct impression she'd just been one-upped. Whatever. As long as he didn't get in her way, she'd be happy to play on his team. At least now she knew where the priority had come from. What she didn't know was why. Chapter Eight "Final warning, Jazz!" Kayla shouted down the hall in hopes of prompting her sleepyheaded daughter from bed. It was 6:15 already. They had to be out of here by 7:30. Starting back to school after summer vacation was always tough. Kayla remembered how difficult early morning wake-ups were after a summer of staying up all night and sleeping all morning. Her telephone rang, dragging her attention from memories of long, hot summers spent on the reservation with her grandmother. Kayla skirted the sofa and grabbed the receiver before a second ring could split the air. "Ryan." She hoped Jim wasn't going to call in sick this morning. She needed today to focus on Rainy's case. He would have to follow up on the jewelry store robbery. "It's Alex. An intruder was in the morgue at the hospital. He was trying to do something to Rainy." Kayla dropped onto the sofa, her gut instantly tying into knots. She'd tossed and turned all night last night when she'd finally gone to bed. Hours of reviewing the information she had thus far had accomplished nothing. And there was Detective Hadden. They'd gotten off on the wrong foot. She'd even tried to tell herself that they were all overreacting…no one would want to hurt Rainy. But she'd been wrong. Alex's words drove home that point as nothing else could have. The idea that some Tucson detective was interested in the case only made it more real. This wasn't a mere nightmare…it was real. Rainy was dead. Someone wanted her that way. "We've got to get her out of there," Kayla said, her voice reflecting the urgency roaring through her veins, "and back on Athena turf." After they discussed the logistics of moving Rainy, Kayla told her friend about Fred's conclusions on the seatbelt. About the missing files at Rainy's home office and the information Marshall had given her about Rainy's fertility treatment. Alex was in agreement: they had to proceed on the assumption that Rainy had been murdered. "I'll make the arrangements with Marshall to have her moved," Kayla offered. The actual autopsy was finished. Moving the body now would be entirely up to the family. Unless Detective Hadden gave her any grief. She'd just have to make sure it got done before he knew it was coming. Dread curled in Kayla's gut all over again when she considered that someone had tried to touch Rainy. Alex agreed to follow Rainy's body to Athens. Kayla would check in at the office and tie up any loose ends so she could concentrate on Rainy's case. Immediately after ending the call with Alex, Kayla spoke with Marshall regarding the move. He agreed to her request and told her that he'd started the funeral arrangements. Shortly after that she confirmed that the medical examiner would release Alex's body today and it would be transferred to Athens under Alex's careful watch. "Jazz!" Kayla pushed aside all theories for the moment. Right now she had to get her daughter to school. ***
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By late afternoon Rainy's body had been moved to the safety of the small Athens morgue. Kayla had requested a security guard for the body 24/7. With that base covered, she picked up her daughter from school and dropped Jazz at her sister's, with a stern warning that all homework had better be done by the time Kayla got home. With that taken care of, she headed back to Tucson and Rainy's law office. Dr. Halburg was out of town. Unreachable. That left Kayla only one other option. There was always a chance she kept some personal files at the office. It was well past five when she arrived, but Kayla had contacted one of the senior partners, who had instructed housekeeping to allow Kayla into Rainy's office. Marshall had also authorized her admittance. Kayla tried not to let that awkward moment between her and Marshall pop back into her thoughts, but it somehow managed to all the same. She heaved a sigh and assured herself that it was some sort of hormonal misfire. She and Marshall had both been distraught. Stress pushed people to do things they wouldn't otherwise do. Death made a person want to reach out to another living soul. She should stop beating herself up about it. Nothing had happened. Then there was that damned detective. Kayla parked in the elegantly landscaped parking lot of Rainy's law firm. In well over a dozen years she hadn't had this much trouble with men. Why now? Maybe Rainy's death had triggered some sort of biological mating clock Kayla didn't know existed. As if she was running out of time to go for a real relationship. "Truly moronic," she muttered as she slid from her vehicle. The soaring contemporary angles and towering glass walls of the law office reflected the last of the sun's heat as it slowly sank for the day. Hot. Hot. Hot. Kayla pulled her shirt loose from her damp skin. When it got this hot, humidity or no, a person was going to sweat. She studied the generous proportions of the building as she crossed the lot. It fit with Rainy's level of sophistication. Her Harvard law degree belonged on the wall of a joint like this. No shabby dump of an office for Rainy. Kayla stared at the huge wreath on the door for a moment before she rapped on the tinted glass and waited for someone to allow her entrance. The tender white carnations had already wilted in the heat, but they were a tribute to the great lady this firm had lost. It was the least they could do. "Lieutenant Ryan?" the dark-haired woman asked nervously as she poked her head out the door. "Yes, ma'am." Kayla flashed her ID. The woman introduced herself as Josephina Gonzales then ushered Kayla inside and locked the door behind her. "This way," she said before scurrying across the lobby toward a corridor that disappeared behind a row of upholstered waiting-room chairs. Kayla took her time, absorbing the ambiance of the office. She'd been here a couple of times over the years, but not recently. That bit of irony stung. Rainy had lived this close and somehow they hadn't gotten together nearly as often as they should have. Kayla hadn't even known about Rainy's fertility problems. Or the affair, another little voice taunted. She forced that notion away. No way had Rainy cheated on Marshall. Josephina unlocked Rainy's office and stepped aside. "You look long as you want to. I lock up after."
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Kayla nodded and watched the woman rush off to continue her work. Whether she simply wanted to put off what she had to do or was simply tired, Kayla couldn't say, but for one reason or the other, she hesitated. Rainy would never come here again. Never again do the outstanding work for which she'd earned a reputation. Never make love with Marshall again. Never have children. The overwhelming emotions hit Kayla so swiftly that she scarcely grabbed the wall in time before her knees buckled. She let herself feel the wave of hurt and sadness for a few moments, then she sucked it up and stepped into Rainy's professional domain. For more than an hour she set aside all emotion and searched Rainy's desk, her credenza and then the file cabinets and bookshelves. Nothing. Not a damned thing about her personal life existed in this office except the framed photograph of her and Marshall placed lovingly on her credenza for all to see upon entering her office. There was a tube of lip gloss, a pack of breath mints and nothing else. Not a single note or appointment in her calendar that jumped out at Kayla. Nothing on her computer. She tapped a few keys and did a search on the history of anywhere Rainy had been on the World Wide Web. A smile broadened Kayla's lips. Finally. The site where Rainy may have gotten the egg-mining information. "Now we're cooking with gas," Kayla muttered. She dove into the site, plowing through page after page. The sound of a footfall in the corridor jerked her head up. Kayla sat dead still. Listened. "Josephina," she called out. No answer. Not good. Though she didn't hear another footfall, she felt the change in the atmosphere around her. Silence. Yet someone had moved closer to her position. He or she hadn't made a sound but Kayla knew someone was there. Definitely not Josephina. Her weapon was in her hand before the thought was fully formed in her brain. Kayla edged as close as possible to the office door and held her breath. She listened intently for sound…still nothing. Kayla readied herself, tightening her grip on her weapon. It was now or never. One of them had to make a move. She'd never been a patient woman. Delayed gratification was definitely overrated. She gave herself to the count of three and then she swung around the doorway to face the threat, leveling her weapon on the first thing that moved. She stared into the ominous black barrel of a nine-millimeter.
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Chapter Nine Detective Peter Hadden. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. His tone was about as friendly as a malcontented pit bull's. "I could ask you the same thing," she tossed right back. Neither of them appeared inclined to lower his or her weapon, which was fine by her. She didn't trust this guy…yet. Damned if he wasn't wearing another of those rumpled suits. This one in navy. The color accented his eyes. Dammit. Just her luck. He looked even better this time than he had the first time she'd had the displeasure of running into him. "Lieutenant Ryan," he said tightly, "must I remind you that this is my case?" He lowered his weapon, his movements every bit as stiff as his tone as he holstered it. "Now, what are you doing here?" Reluctantly, Kayla lowered and holstered her own weapon. It might have been easier to simply shoot him, but then, she didn't want to have to explain that one to her boss. Besides, she often reminded those she collared of her favorite motto, Don't do the crime if you can't do the time. She had a daughter to raise. Going to prison for killing an arrogant detective wasn't on the agenda. Neither was sleeping with one. Where the hell had that thought come from? Kayla shoved aside the stupid conversation going on inside her head and focused. That he unsettled her like this pissed her off. "I'm investigating Lorraine Carrington's death," she said bluntly. Why beat around the bush? Her intent must be obvious. "I have permission from Marshall Carrington, as well as the senior law partner of this firm to be here. How about you?" Detective Hadden considered her comment a moment then said, "I have a warrant." So he'd one-upped her again. Swell. "That means you'd better come clean or the sheriff will be getting a call." Kayla's gaze narrowed suspiciously. "I thought we were going to make like team players on this." Jerk. She should have known better than to trust a guy who looked good in a rumpled suit. Especially the kind who could loosen his tie and the top button of his shirt and still look sophisticated. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his wider-than-she'd-noticed-last-time chest. Okay, so the guy looks damn good. Get over it. He's probably a rob-ho detective. The only thing worse than robberyhomicide detectives were the narcotics guys. Narcs were way over the edge. Either way, he'd likely long forgotten what it was like to be a real cop. "All right, Ryan. Give it to me straight and we'll do the team thing." She moistened her lips and bit back the first hit of sarcasm that sprang to her tongue. She'd just see how serious this guy was. "Maybe I don't have any real proof for why I'm here. Maybe it's just a hunch." She knew better than that…felt it in every single cell of her body. The intruder at the Carrington home, then at the morgue. Stuff like that didn't go down without reason. He shrugged, one of those aloof, male gestures that meant he didn't know what else you wanted him to say. She planted her hands on her hips and gave him what he wanted. "Someone killed my friend. I don't know how or why, but I intend to find out."
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He considered her blunt statement a moment, his face impassive. "The Carringtons appear to be financially secure." Ah…the good detective was fishing. "That's right. Rainy is…was a lawyer. This firm is one of the best." "And Mr. Carrington is an archaeology professor at the University of Arizona," he stated. "Right again." There was something smug in his voice when he spoke of Marshall. Kayla didn't like that. It made her more suspicious of him. Without another word he moved past her and into Rainy's office. "You said that there were personal files missing from her home office. Is anything missing here?" "Not that I can tell. But that doesn't mean anything." She ventured into the suddenly too-small space behind him. "Don't play games with me, Lieutenant." He swiveled on his heel and glared at her. "Just answer the question." Kayla resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I'll tell you what, Detective, let's make this a little more equal. You tell me something, I'll tell you something." He propped a hip on Rainy's polished mahogany desk. "Fair enough, I suppose." She wondered if fair would play into this in the end. Most detectives she knew didn't want regular cops horning into their territory. "I'm concerned that there are facts about Ms. Carrington's accident that don't make sense just yet." "Such as," Kayla prodded when he was slow to continue. "Such as the seatbelt's malfunction. Of course, that in and of itself wouldn't be sufficient evidence to warrant my uneasiness with the facts." He scrubbed at the five o'clock shadow on his chin. The move made her shiver just like before, and she wanted to kick herself for the reaction. "My turn." "Shoot." She glanced at his weapon. "No pun intended." He didn't smile. "Why did you have Ms. Carrington's body moved without asking my permission?" He kept his expression carefully schooled but Kayla didn't miss the barest flicker of irritation or impatience. "I didn't need your permission." Why pretend? It was the truth. He nodded, his lips pursed in open admission that he'd been one-upped this time. "Let's cut to the chase," he said, after mulling over her response. "Why are you doing this?" He held up a hand to stall her so he could add, "I know she was your friend, but there has to be some reason you feel a personal responsibility to investigate this case yourself. You know that being personally involved distorts your objectivity." There were things she couldn't tell him. Like the affair Marshall had mentioned and Rainy's nonexistent appendectomy. Not yet. She didn't have enough information herself. She certainly wasn't about to cast doubt on Rainy's reputation or possibly that of Athena Academy until she did. But she had to give him something if she intended to keep a spot on his team.
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"More than ten years ago," she began, giving in and relaxing a bit in spite of herself, "Rainy and I were in school at Athena Academy together. There were seven of us who were especially close." She shrugged. "A team." She blocked the memories that instantly bloomed. Couldn't go there just now. "Anyway, we made a special promise that we would always be there for each other, no matter what, and would come to help if called, no questions asked." "Like sorority sisters," he suggested, his own stance softening a little. That rugged profile not quite so flinty. "Right," she allowed. "A few days ago Rainy called all of us. She didn't give any details, but she said she needed to invoke the promise. Her tone was distinctly urgent. So we came together at the time and location of her choosing, but it was too late." It took every ounce of strength Kayla possessed to keep her emotions at bay. The memory of Rainy's call, the urgency in her voice…the utter desperation. "So you believe because she called all of you together for this promise that it means something about her death is amiss?" Kayla looked him square in the eyes. "I don't believe, I know. Something is wrong here and I intend to find out what." Detective Hadden straightened, pushing off the desk to his full height. "Then I suggest you come completely clean, Lieutenant, because I can't help feeling you're holding back on me." Her cell phone beeped, giving her a reprieve. "Excuse me," she said to the detective before turning away. She flipped open the phone. "Ryan." "Kayla, this is Marshall. The Millers and I are here with the funeral director." "Yeah, Marshall, is there something I can do?" "I've tentatively scheduled Rainy's service and I wanted to run the date and details by you." The rest of the conversation was pretty much a blur of information, and only one thing stood out in Kayla's mind. The day that Rainy's body would be lowered into the ground. She almost lost her hold on her emotions before the call ended, but she managed to keep it together. She had no intention of showing that kind of vulnerability to this stranger. When she'd ended the call she turned her attention back to the man waiting for her response to his question. She wanted to get this conversation over with. She had to call the Cassandras…had to find a way to complete her search of Rainy's office computer without him hovering over her. They might have to work together on this case since, technically, he had jurisdiction for some reason, but she wasn't ready to surrender all she knew just yet. She locked her determined gaze onto his intent blue one. "You're just going to have to trust me, Detective. I'm basing part of my certainty upon a promise I made more than a decade ago." She wanted to demand how he'd wrangled jurisdiction and why. Wanted to know why he'd labeled the case priority. But those questions would only give him an excuse to push her for answers she wasn't prepared to give just yet. But, make no mistake, she would know all there was to know about Detective Peter Hadden before this was finished. He searched her eyes, her face, for three beats before relenting, "You don't leave me much choice, Lieutenant." He shrugged. "I guess I'll just have to assume that if you'd go to all this trouble to make good on a promise that old, you wouldn't hold out on me unless you felt it was absolutely necessary." Damn but he was good. He knew she was holding out on him in spite of her best efforts to make him feel otherwise.
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"Then I guess we understand each other," she offered. "Well." He glanced around the room. "I'll let you get back to your hunch." Startled at his complete about-face, Kayla followed him into the corridor, then all the way back to the lobby. She saw Josephina taking a smoke break outside. Kayla would just bet that Hadden had told her to wait there. The only question was, who had tipped him off that she'd be here? He hesitated before leaving. His gaze settled onto hers one last time. "I'm counting on you keeping your promise, Lieutenant." Before she could respond, he walked out into the fading Arizona sun. The door closed behind him, leaving Kayla undecided as to whether he was friend or foe. One thing was certain. He needn't worry. Nothing would stop her from keeping that promise. Chapter Ten Tuesday turned out to be one of those days from hell in a cop's life. The temperature had reached the 106 degrees Fahrenheit mark and every Looney Tune in and around Athens had rushed to run a red light, decided speed limits were only recommendations and gotten in squabbles with their neighbors over the lack of water pressure in the neighborhood. By the time she got home, prepared dinner and helped Jazz with her homework, Kayla was ready for that long relaxing bath she'd been promising herself all day. As soon as she sank into the tub of gloriously scented water, she heard the phone ring. She prayed it would not be Detective Hadden. She'd managed to get through a full twenty-four hours without interference from him. She wanted to keep it that way. Maybe it was Marshall calling back with more funeral information. He and the Millers had changed their minds so many times that Kayla wasn't sure there would be a funeral. A part of her would rather not have to say that kind of permanent goodbye to Rainy. But it had to happen eventually. "Mom!" Jazz shouted through the door. "It's for you!" "Come on in," she mumbled, not one bit pleased at the prospect of having to take a call while she was trying to relax. Jazz brought the phone to her, her expression almost as annoyed as Kayla's must surely be. She couldn't help smiling. Like mother like daughter. "Thanks, sweetie." Her daughter loped off to whatever television program she'd been watching or computer game she'd been absorbed in. v "Ryan." "Was that Jasmine?" v Alex. v Kayla tensed. "Yeah. That was Jazz." She and Alex had never, not once, discussed the child Kayla had given birth to out of wedlock. It wasn't the whole "not married thing" that had gotten Alex so riled up. It was the fact that Kayla had fooled around with the forbidden in her last year at Athena. Had altered the entire course of her life. Alex, who was a year ahead of the other Cassandras and had already graduated and gone on to college, had tried to set her straight, but Kayla had been blinded by what she'd thought to be true love. They'd argued bitterly over the phone and hadn't spoken for years. Until this week. "She sounds…so grown-up."
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For one second Kayla had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something she knew she would regret. But Alex's sigh on the other end of the line told her she didn't have to say it. She knew how much time had passed without her once asking about Jazz. "There's something you should know." Kayla sat up straighter as she listened to Alex explain why she hadn't heard from her in more than twentyfour hours as well. She'd been busy. She had confirmed with the medical examiner that the scars on Rainy's ovaries were very old. Something dark passed through Kayla. The damage could have occurred back when the supposed appendectomy had taken place. The memory of that egg-mining article and its implications when combined with this new information slammed into Kayla. She forced herself to focus on the rest of the call. Just when she'd thought she'd heard the worst, Alex dropped another bombshell. Last night she'd tracked but lost an intruder on Athena grounds. The same as Kayla had done at Rainy's house. Then today Alex had discovered a man claiming to be FBI in the Athena Academy infirmary going through the files! He'd gotten away, using Athena Academy nurse Betsy Stone's arrival as a distraction. "Christ, Alex, are you sure there wasn't something else?" And here Kayla had thought she'd had an eventful day. Silence emanated across the line for too long before Alex said, "I've got a bad feeling about this, Kayla. Could Rainy's death have something to do with Athena?" Hearing Alex voice the same worry she had been experiencing only compounded the anxiety. It couldn't be. Neither of them had any real proof, so further discussion of the topic was pointless for now. Alex would be leaving the next day to go back to her job in Washington, D.C., but she'd be back for the funeral. Kayla promised to follow up on the files at Athena Academy to see if she could find anything out of sync. She also made a mental note to talk to Betsy Stone. Betsy had been with Athena Academy from the start, and would have been there when Rainy got sick. Maybe she could shed some light on the subject. Before ending the call, Kayla gave Alex the scoop on her detective shadow. Alex remained oddly distant on the subject. Kayla tried not to read too much into it. Maybe she was overreacting. The past few days were certainly enough to make anyone a little paranoid. When Kayla depressed the "end" button on the cordless receiver, she realized something else. In working together on Rainy's case, she and Alex had taken another tiny, tiny baby step closer to resolving the issue standing between them. It wasn't much, but it was a start. * * * Wednesday afternoon Kayla parked her Jeep on the Athena grounds and headed toward the building where the medical facility was located. She'd already called Christine, so there was no need to stop by the principal's office in the main building. She still hadn't been able to reach Betsy Stone, but she had Christine's permission to enter the infirmary. The door would be unlocked and waiting for her. The medical facility was located in the same building as the computer and science labs. The familiar sights and smells of the academy raked across Kayla's already raw emotions. Memories of Alex and Rainy, as well as the others, tripped one over the other through her thoughts. Why did it always take a tragedy to make a person realize how much they missed their friends? She had to stop letting life get in the way of living. Silly as that sounded, it made sense. Then and there Kayla made a promise to herself that she would work on her "living" skills. Spend more time with her daughter and family. Keep in touch with the Cassandras…make things right with Alex. The hurtful words they'd hurled at each other all those years ago stung her now. Foolish, foolish. She hadn't been thinking. She'd been in love. She'd been a fool. Last night's call from Alex had reiterated that glaring fact.
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But Kayla would never regret Jazz. Her daughter was worth the hurt she had suffered. That out-of-control time in her life should not have affected her relationship with Alex. He hadn't been worth that price. Thinking of Jazz's father reminded her of the fact that a woman couldn't trust a man…not really. Although Kayla's father and grandfather were exceptions, admittedly. She pushed the thoughts of her pathetic love life from her mind. But Detective Hadden popped right back in their place. Instantly a flash of awareness rushed through her. Kayla hissed a curse under her breath. The very last thing she needed was any kind of attraction to that guy. He was going to be nothing but a pain in the ass. Hadn't he proven that already by sneaking up on her at Rainy's office? He'd be right behind her through every step of this investigation. She glanced around. Hell, he was probably following her now. Oh, well. She'd deal with him when the time came. She'd spent more than a decade making sure no man got to her again. Detective Hadden would be no exception. Not professionally and definitely not personally. The infirmary was quiet as a tomb. The nurse's office proved just as deserted. "Dammit." Kayla could only assume that Nurse Stone had not gotten her message or was avoiding her. But Christine had given Kayla permission to do whatever she needed to, so Betsy Stone's absence wouldn't slow her down. Yet, she wanted to question the woman. To see what she remembered. Kayla wasted no time in locating Rainy's medical file. A stab of disappointment sliced through her when she read the entry regarding Rainy's emergency appendectomy. She'd hoped that maybe she and Alex had been mistaken about the incident but they weren't. It was here in black and white. Alex had said that the form Christine had emailed to her said as much, but Kayla had hoped something in the hard copies of the file would indicate otherwise. She removed the file from the drawer and headed to the copy machine to make herself a duplicate. As the machine warmed up she considered what this evidence really meant. Could it be a simple medical error? Or was it more? The image of tiny eggs, Rainy's eggs, being removed from her ovaries formed in Kayla's head. She closed her eyes to stem the tears. Rainy had wanted a child so badly. She'd sought extraordinary measures…had somehow known something wasn't right. Had that fledgling assumption cost her life? Kayla swayed. She reached for the copy machine. What the hell? The room spun for an instant and then the floor was suddenly rushing up to greet her. The world went black a split second before impact. * * * "Kayla, are you all right?" Her eyes came open and she stared up at Christine Evans's worried face. "What…what…" Kayla suddenly remembered the dizziness and the tile floor rushing up to her face. She winced as the pain from the fall acted as emphasis for the memory. "Lieutenant Ryan, is there someone we can call to come pick you up?" Kayla's gaze shifted to the other form hovering over her. The stern expression of Nurse Betsy Stone greeted her. The sudden recollection of attempting to get out of class by feigning a fever and being caught by Nurse Stone flashed through her mind.
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"I'll be fine," Kayla insisted. She scrambled to her feet, realizing she'd been moved onto a cot in the examining room. She staggered slightly and the other women instinctively reached out to her. "Really," she said sharply as she backed from their reach. "I'm fine." Christine nodded, accustomed to adolescent lashing-out episodes. "Sorry," Kayla murmured. "I don't know what happened." "You're overwrought," Nurse Stone said gently. "That's to be expected. You probably just need a good night's sleep." Kayla met her gaze and the older woman held it for a moment before looking away. "Thanks. I appreciate your concern." She'd thought herself above lashing out at someone who only wanted to help. Apparently the stress of Rainy's death and being here at the academy had sent her spiraling back to her roller-coaster teenage behavior. "Did you find what you needed?" Christine inquired. Kayla glanced around the room. "I was about to make a copy of Rainy's medical file." Outside the examining room, the copy machine was running, its soft hum audible. She moved as quickly as she dared to search the area around the copy machine. The file was nowhere to be seen. "I'll get it for you," Nurse Stone offered. "I picked it up and put it away before you came around." Confusion still clouded Kayla's head. "I'd like to take a copy with me." She turned to Christine as Betsy went to get the folder. "She wasn't here when I came in." It came out pretty much like an accusation. That might not be entirely fair. Most of the girls at Athena Academy had considered Nurse Stone a bit of a hard-ass, but Kayla really had no evidence to accuse her of wrongdoing. "I saw your car in the parking lot and thought I'd check to see if you'd found everything you needed," Christine explained. "When I came in, you were lying there on the floor." She gestured to the space in front of the copy machine. "I immediately called the staff lounge and asked Betsy to hurry over." Kayla swung her attention to the nurse as she returned with the file. "I thought you weren't here. I called —" "I tried calling you back at your house this morning," Stone put in quickly. "But you were gone already. I never could get through on your cell phone. I didn't even know you were here. I was having a late lunch." "Betsy has been getting ready for the new term," Christine added. The whole scene felt off somehow. Maybe it was the lingering fog of having fainted. "I have to get back to my office," Christine said, "but I'm sure Betsy will be glad to assist you." "Certainly," the nurse chimed in. Kayla had absolutely no justification for accusing either of these women of anything, but she wanted to. She wanted to grill them until one of them admitted to having known that Rainy's appendectomy was a hoax or something of that order. But the rational side of her knew that alienating the school principal or the nurse would be a mistake. She had to know more before she pushed. She couldn't take any chances at all about what would or would not make good evidence…what was or wasn't a possible lead. Fertility issues, egg mining, medical records, even affairs. It was all fair game. All involved had to be suspects. Kayla could not risk letting something seemingly insignificant fall through the cracks. This case was far too important.
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She knew exactly what she had to do. She had to start right here with Athena Academy and fan outward, tracing every step of Rainy's life until she found the answer. She'd also have to find a way to work with or around Detective Peter Hadden and maintain access to any information he uncovered. Nothing or no one could be allowed to get in her way. She'd made a promise she intended to keep.
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The Last Chance Lord by Miranda Jarrett Lily Avonwood’s uncle has brought his niece to London to find her a “suitable” husband, but Lily is determined to marry only for love. Facing a future as the wife of a man who desires only her money, the normally quiet and demure heiress impulsively decides to flee. Taking refuge in a stranger’s carriage, Lily soon finds herself face-to-face with the most attractive - and most unsuitable - man she’s ever met! Chapter One London July 1803 For every one of her nineteen years, Miss Lily Avonwood had always been a model young lady. But just like a porcelain teacup, even the best-bred English lady has a breaking point, and tonight Lily had just discovered hers. “What you are offering me, Uncle Herbert, is no real choice at all.” She was too upset to sit, preferring instead to stand before her uncle in the center of his library. “I would rather die a spinster than marry any of the gentlemen you have paraded before me.” “Don’t be stubborn, Lily.” Her uncle drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Spinsterhood is not possible, no matter how you pretend to prefer it. You require a husband to look after you.” Lily forced herself to unclench her fists, striving to sound reasonable. “I’m not a child, Uncle. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.” “Yourself, perhaps, but not your estate.” Her uncle’s white brows bristled together, an ominous sign. “Any of the gentlemen I have introduced to you here in London would give you the guidance your inheritance requires.” “That doesn’t mean I must marry one of them!” “Don’t test me, Lily. Your poor late father was my brother, my partner and my dearest friend, and I intend to respect his wishes regarding your future.” “But Father married Mama for love!” Lily cried forlornly. “Why can’t I do the same?” “I will not quarrel, niece.” The tall clock chimed the hour, and Uncle Herbert rose. “Since you have proven yourself incapable of choosing a suitable husband, I have done so for you. Mr. Simon will be joining us shortly for dinner. Please compose an agreeable acceptance to his proposal before he arrives.” “You have chosen Mr. Simon?” Mr. Simon was a well-respected bank director in the City, but he was also nearly double Lily’s age and not quite her height, with wispy graying hair and a propensity for sucking horehound drops to hide — unsuccessfully — the foul breath that came from his decaying teeth. “Mr. Simon? Oh, no, no!” She turned and fled, the heels of her slippers clicking over the marble floor, so fast she nearly collided with the butler. “Excuse me, miss.” He bowed gravely. “Mr. Simon is waiting for you in the front room, as Mr. Avonwood requested.” “No!” Lily’s dismay mushroomed into alarm. “No, no, no!”
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She felt trapped, cornered and dangerously close to being paired for life to a man who would love her fortune and nothing else. Surely her father would have wanted more for her than Mr. Simon and his horehound drops! But she could not let it happen, and with a determined little gulp, she dodged around the butler, unlocked the brass bolt on the front door and rushed down the steps of the house and into the quiet street. She grabbed her gauzy muslin skirts in one hand to keep from tripping and began to run. Her hair came unpinned, flopping down her back, and she swallowed great, heady gulps of the warm evening air. She heard the butler call her name, following her, and she tried to make her tired legs run faster. In desperation, she saw a darkened carriage parked at the curb ahead of her. She could hide inside, just until the butler passed, and before the occupants returned. Swiftly she unfastened the latch and clambered inside, sinking into the soft leather cushions. She closed her eyes and sighed with relief. “So tell me, my dear.” The man’s voice was rich and deep, gently teasing. “Was it a wolf chasing you through Mayfair, or a tiger with gnashing teeth?” Lily’s eyes flew open. How had she overlooked the gentleman sitting in the shadows across from her? “Forgive me, sir,” she stammered, her cheeks hot as she fumbled for the door. “I’ll - I’ll not trouble you further.” “Don’t go,” he said softly. “Please. You needed a sanctuary, and now you have it.” He leaned forward into a beam of moonlight, and she gasped. He was young, not much older than herself, with bright blue eyes and dark waving hair and a grin so full of wry charm that women must fall at his feet. At least she felt that way. “Thank you.” Belatedly she noticed the aristocratic arms painted inside the carriage’s door. “I am sorry, my lord -” “You’ve done nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. Not yet.” His grin winked with amusement. “And no titles between us. You must call me Rob, and I shall call you - well, whatever you wish.” “My name is Lily.” She smiled tentatively. She’d never behaved so freely with a gentleman, but then, she’d never met one who’d made her want to, either. “But my lord —” “Hush now. None of that.” He reached out and ran his fingertip lightly across her lips to silence her. “I told you, the Duke of Strachen has no place in this magical moonlight, especially not with a spun-silver fairyqueen named Lily.” She pressed her lips tightly together, wishing he’d touch them again. Since when had her pale hair become spun silver, especially to a duke? But maybe that was the magic that came with the moonlight, and maybe it was the moonlight that was making her feel so...so wanton. Rob knew it, too. She could tell by the lazy way he was watching her. “Now tell me the name of this tiger or wolf, fair Lily, so I might slay the wicked beast.” She sighed, wishing her future could be so easily salvaged. “He is not a beast. He is a dull, dry, old banker with breath that smells like the river at low tide, and my uncle — my guardian — has ordered me to marry him.” “Wickedness incarnate,” he declared. “Refuse the fellow.”
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“Then my uncle will only produce another in his place.” She shook her head. “Uncle Herbert has brought me to London to find a husband, and he won’t stop until he’s found me one.” Rob frowned, considering. “Why haven’t I seen you at any of the usual husband-hunting haunts?” “Because a usual husband will not do.” It was an odd relief to confess this aloud, especially to a duke who would himself be too grand to be impressed by her inheritance. “When my poor father died last summer, I became the owner of three textile factories and two shipping concerns, and a shareholder in goodness knows how much else.” He whistled low with appreciation. “You should be the prize catch of the Season.” “Which is why my uncle will only entertain the driest City suitors, and love counts for nothing. He refuses to let some titled wastrel burn through poor Father’s labors. Not meaning you, of course.” “Oh, not at all.” He trailed his thumb along her bare arm, lingering over the inside of her elbow, as his voice dropped seductively lower. “So tell me, sweet Lily. Which is it you truly desire? Love? Or a husband?” “Both.” She shivered at his touch, but didn’t pull away. “I wish to love my husband.” “Now, now, don’t be greedy.” He chuckled and leaned closer, so close she felt the heat of his words upon her cheek. “You see, I can grant you only one wish tonight. You must choose, fairy-queen. A husband or love.” Chapter Two To anyone who’d listen, Robert Dell swore he was a changed man. He claimed he’d finally learned all the lessons in life he’d needed to learn, that he’d forever given up women and gambling and living by his charm and wits, and that his feet now were firmly planted on the path of honesty, sobriety and respectable, gainful prosperity. Miraculously he’d been granted this one last chance, and he wasn’t going to toss it away. But that was before this breathless young lady had hurled herself into his carriage, her blue eyes wide and her round face full of indignant distress. Within five minutes, she’d confessed to him everything that was wrong with her life. In five minutes more, he was offering solutions to her woes that a gentleman in his position had absolutely no business offering to any lady. Yet how in blazes was he supposed to reform when the temptation came wrapped up in so pretty a package, a great heiress with a halo of pale silver curls and a bosom made for a man’s worshipful caress? "One wish, one choice," he said, so close that in the moonlight he could see the dusting of golden freckles over the bridge of her nose. "You must decide, my fairy-queen. A husband or love." Lily sighed softly, but did not push him away. "And I say I cannot make such a choice, because it’s no choice at all. I am greedy. I want to marry a man I love, and love the man I marry." "But not the gentleman your dear uncle has selected for you." Perhaps the girl was some sort of test sent by his noble brother-in-law, but at once Rob dismissed the idea. Not even the Duke of Strachen, with all his money and resources, could find a doxy with this girl’s genuine, intelligent innocence. "Mr. Simon, wasn’t it?" "No. No." She didn’t pause, not even for a second. "Even if we were to wed, I do not believe Mr. Simon possesses the ability to love, and be loved. Not everyone does, you know." "Of course not." Idly he touched one of those spun-silver curls, watching how the hair corkscrewed around his finger. "So you would be the little girl who would have her cake, yet eat it, too?"
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She cocked one brow, more impish than quizzical, as she slowly pulled her hair free of his finger. "I would, I think, prefer something more lasting than cake." "But cake," he said, his voice an amused whisper, "can be shared." "So can marriage, and so can love." Her smile showed she’d thought she’d won, and Rob decided he’d let her think she had. "Which brings us back to your same riddle, doesn’t it?" "A riddle which you still haven’t answered." He knocked on the roof, signaling the driver to go on, and the carriage lurched slowly to life with a jingle of the horses’ harnesses. And so, unfortunately, did her conscience. "What are you doing?" Abruptly she sat upright, peering through the window. "You must stop immediately and put me out. I cannot go with you." "Then tell me where you wish to go, and I shall take you there." He took her hand in his, keeping his touch light, just enough to keep her from escaping. "I’ll be infinitely obliging, and you have my word that nothing will happen against your will." She swept her hair back behind her ear, clearly considering whether to trust him or not. "Your word of honor as a gentleman?" He nodded, and he meant it. No matter what else he’d done, he’d never broken his word, one of the tenuous ways he could claim to be a gentleman. "Your uncle’s house then?" She smiled with sudden defiance. "Uncle Herbert would have my head if he knew I’d been alone in a carriage with a strange gentleman." "There’s no need for him to know." If he had any sense, he’d take her back to her uncle now, and never look back. His fortune-hunting days were done. Besides, there were too many entanglements here, especially when he was set to sail to America in less than a fortnight. But when, really, had he ever displayed a lick of sense where women were concerned? "I’ve no intention of informing him." She sank back against the leather cushions beside him. "You complain that I haven’t answered your question. Perhaps you should be trying a bit harder to persuade me." He grinned rakishly, knowing exactly how to persuade ladies. He slipped his arm behind her head and leaned closer. "I told you, Lily-my-Lily, that I can be most obliging, particularly if there’s cake to be shared." "Oh, yes, the cake." She laughed, a delicious, warm chuckle. "Oblige me then. Tell me something of yourself. Something I should know to help me decide, something to make you less of a stranger, and more someone I could love." He frowned, taken aback by such a request. Here he thought he’d been granted permission to kiss her, and instead she was conducting some wretched interview. He folded his arms over his chest. "I am twenty-five years old. My hair is black, my eyes are blue, and I stand just under six feet without my boots. Is that enough?" "Enough for love? I think not." Disappointment flooded her face in the moonlight. She reached for the latch on the door and, as quickly as she’d tumbled into his carriage, she now disappeared from it, hopping down as the driver stopped at a cross-street. By the time Rob had clambered from the carriage after her, she was already a few paces ahead, her stride long and purposeful.
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"Lily, come back!" He caught her by the arm, and she turned, her eyes flashing and her chin high. "You can’t go leaping from carriages like that. It isn’t wise." "Nor, it would seem, is leaping into them. Good night, my lord." Briskly she left him standing alone on the pavement, empty-handed and foolish. And damnation, for whatever reason — pride or desire or loneliness or something else he couldn’t name — he didn’t want her to go, not like this. "Wait, Lily," he called. "Please." To his surprise, that made her stop, and she turned back on her heel, neat as a dancer. "Love or a husband is a pretty choice, but I won’t make either with a man who’ll tell me nothing of himself. As dreadful as Mr. Simon may be, at least I know he likes asparagus and horehound drops, that his boyhood dog was named Skippy and that raw eggs give him hives. But you, my lord, you are nothing but a handsome, secretive cipher." "I am not," he said automatically. "Test me. Ask me anything, and I promise I shall answer." "Anything?" Intrigued, she stepped closer, the fine white muslin of her gown drifting gently about her legs. "Anything at all?" He nodded, even as an uneasy dread churned inside him. How the devil had this happened? His past was rotten, with secrets he’d rather not share with her. Until these past few weeks, when he’d sworn to reform, his entire life had been built upon deceptions and charming dissembling. Playfully she linked her fingers with his. Her smile was impish, daring, almost a grin, and with an odd jolt he realized again how much he wanted her to stay — not for her money, but for herself. "Very well, my lord," she began. "My Rob. I will choose love with you tonight instead of marriage to Mr. Simon for eternity." He smiled with relief, and raised her hand to his lips. "Ah, sweetheart, you will not regret it." "But perhaps you shall." She grinned at him over their linked hands. "You said you’d volunteer anything to help with my choice, and anything it shall be. Tell me the one thing about yourself, past or present, that you’d least like me to find out on my own." Chapter Three o gentleman would like having to answer such a question about himself. Lily knew better, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized the dangers of them, too. If Rob said something amusing and unsubstantial to please her, why, then, he was proving he couldn’t be trusted to be honest. But if instead he did tell her the truth, then she could learn something far worse about him, something she’d really rather not know. Even sheltered young ladies raised far from London had heard whispers of the wickedness and sin that titled gentlemen explored for entertainment. What if her handsome, charming Rob told her of that? What would that do to her night of love? Uneasily she searched his face, looking for clues. He’d fallen silent, his expression almost pensive. "You’re quiet, Rob. Have you so very many secrets to consider?" She sensed the effort it took for him to brighten his expression, and she wasn’t sure why.
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"Oh, I’ve vastly more secrets than I can count." He smiled. "But while I run my tallies, why don’t we go someplace more agreeable?"She tipped her head. "More agreeable than this?" "More comfortable, then." He drew her closer. "You wished for love along with secrets. Surely you’d prefer both somewhere other than this pavement." She looked down at their clasped hands. "Your home is nearby?" "It’s where I stay when I’m in town," he said, gently drawing little circles along the inside of her wrist with his thumb. He was very good at that, these small, unexpected caresses that gave her chills of pleasure. "Not far from here, on Grosvenor Square, and a far better place it is for sharing secrets. Would you join me?" She swallowed hard, considering what exactly she’d be accepting. She’d already behaved with shocking freedom by riding in Rob’s carriage with him, but this next step — going to his house — could have far more serious consequences. nd yet wasn’t that what she wanted? A night of love to cherish forever, no matter what other turns her life might take? The memory of Mr. Simon’s smug dyspeptic face and clammy hands rose up before her, in unenviable contrast to the warm invitation in Rob’s gaze. You’re unsure," he said softly. "I understand that. God knows I’m unsure, too." "You?" she asked incredulously. How could a great lord like him be unsure of anything? "But you —” "This is different, Lily." He shrugged, almost sheepish, then eased his hand up her arm and along her shoulder, tangling his fingers in the curls at the nape of her neck. "I felt it from the instant you tumbled into my carriage. You are different. I can’t explain it any better than that." "You don’t have to." No gentleman had ever said such romantic words to her in the moonlight. "Not even for — for the cake." The cake," he murmured, lowering his face closer to hers. "How could I forget that?" e kissed her then, and though she’d expected it, he still managed to surprise her. His lips were soft but firm, wooing her, coaxing her own lips to part. She wasn’t prepared for the demanding heat of his tongue, or how she instinctively answered, her mouth widening hungrily as he deepened the kiss. Her heart raced and her head felt as light as the moon in the sky, and when he finally broke away, she was breathless with wanting more. "Your house, Rob," she whispered. She dared to reach up and touch her fingertips to his lips, marveling at the new sensations of that first kiss. "And now, if you please." e smiled, his mouth shifting beneath her fingers before he kissed them. "I do please, because you please me, Lily-my-Lily. And I promise to return that pleasure for you a hundred times over before the night is done." He kissed her again in the carriage, kissing her just enough to muss her gown and dishevel her hair and make her simmer and purr and wish the ride were longer. Especially when she stepped from the carriage and gazed up at the house before her. She’d been raised in most comfortable circumstances, but her father had not believed in display, and her parents’ home would have seemed humble indeed beside this: half a block on Grosvenor Square, four elegant stories of pale stone with row upon row of tall windows. Kissing was all well and good, she thought uneasily, but here was the tangible difference between their stations in life — her new money versus his ancient title. Second thoughts, Lily?" Rob led her past the bowing footman and into the front hall, under the diamondbright lights of the chandelier overhead. "If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll take you back, even though it will nigh kill me to do it."
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"No second thoughts." She smiled, forcing herself to relax. She’d wanted one night of love, not a husband. The differences between their backgrounds shouldn’t matter. "I’ll not leave before I’ve had my share of the cake." He laughed fondly. "Clever lass. Come, this way. There’s always a fire in the grate in here, and I don’t want you to be cold." Lily followed him into the drawing room. She’d never be cold in his company. Watching him bend over to jab the poker at the coals, seeing how his coat pulled across his broad shoulders and how the taut fabric of his close-fitting trousers showed, oh, far more than she’d any right to notice, she felt so warm she was nearly feverish, her palms damp and her breaths rushed. "Here, my Lily, come warm your toes." He bowed gallantly, and she perched on the edge of the silk-covered settee before the fire. With a sigh, he dropped down beside her, stretching his own long legs comfortably before him, with his arm around her shoulders. He smiled down at her, the flames in the grate reflected in his eyes as he traced his thumb along her jaw, neatly turning her lips up toward his. "Ah, sweetheart, you cannot know how glad I am that you made this choice." "My choice," she repeated in a husky whisper, not thinking at all as his mouth found hers. He pulled her close against his chest as they kissed, sprawling her body over his in a most delicious fashion. She was so enthralled with the play of his muscles beneath her, his thighs and his chest and his arms, that she scarcely noticed how he’d begun unfastening the long row of little buttons down the back of her gown, and how his fingers were now caressing the bare, heated skin of her back. Her choice...and with a little gasp she broke free from his kiss and pushed herself up from his chest, not far, not far, but enough to slow down their passion. "You haven’t kept your word, Rob," she said, her voice a throaty whisper and her tangled hair falling around her face. "You haven’t told me your secret." He groaned. "Cannot it wait until later?" She shook her head, smoothing her hair behind her ear as she feathered a kiss over his lips. "Tell me." "Because I promised, my Lily, I will tell you the truth." He sighed again, threading his fingers through her hair, his regret so palpable that Lily nearly relented. "And because you are different, I’m praying that afterward you’ll keep your word, and not leave." "I will," she whispered, "and I won’t." He smiled wryly, his hand stroking back and forth along her back. "My name is Robert Dell. I’m not a duke or a lord or even remotely a gentleman. My brother-in-law is the Duke of Claremont, but I - I’m no more than the illegitimate son of a third-rate Irish actor." Stunned, Lily went very still. She had worried over the difference in their stations, but not quite like this. "You are?" "I am." He waited, unsure of her response. "Have I changed your choice?" "No," she whispered fiercely and she meant it. "No. For this night, it doesn’t matter who we are. All that matters is love." "Love." He pulled her down, their faces nearly touching. "Then tell me where you wish your cake, lass. Here? Or upstairs to bed?" Chapter Four
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"Here?" Lily echoed his question, and by the glow of the fire Rob could see her blush. "In this drawing room? I know you will judge me most foolish, but I always thought that — that —” "That such matters only took place behind the locked door of a bedchamber at midnight, with the candle dowsed and the curtains pulled tight?" He smiled, charmed by her innocence. "I’ll never judge you foolish, pet, but I assure you that when two lovers are so inclined, any place and space will suffice, and any posture that strikes their fancy." "Oh." Her blush deepened as her imagination considered the possibilities. "Oh." "Oh, indeed." He chuckled, tracing his fingers over the curve of her shoulder, easing the small muslin sleeve farther down her arm. He loved touching her skin, as velvety and inviting as a summer peach. "But I think we’ll be traditional, and begin with the bed." She smiled, leaning forward to kiss him lightly. "And here I’d thought we’d begun already." "We began the moment you opened my carriage door." "And I’ve no intention of stopping now." She slid away from him and stood, giving her head a nervous little shake as she tugged her gown back over her shoulders without bothering to rebutton it. "Shall we go ahead then?" He rose and reached for her hand. He couldn’t let himself forget how inexperienced she was, yet he still was sorry this moment before the fire was done. "We’ve all night, Lily," he said gently. "I promise the journey will be as pleasurable as the destination." She took a deep breath and nodded, and when he came to slip his arm around her waist, she rested her head against his shoulder. "Then show me, Rob, because I don’t know for myself. Please. Show me." With his arm still around her waist, he guided her up the curving staircase, their figures casting long shadows across the walls. She fit neatly against him, graceful as a sylph, and he marveled again at how a woman as rare as this one had tumbled into his life. She paused at the top of the staircase, holding together the back of her gown as she peeked over the railing, back down to the hall below. "You needn’t worry about the servants seeing too much, lass," he said, reading her anxieties. "They’re very discreet." "Was I so very obvious?" Her laugh had a nervous little ripple to it. "But of course you are right. His Grace’s staff would be discreet." "Absolutely." To prove it, he turned her into the crook of his arm, gently bending her backward as he kissed first her mouth, then her chin and, finally, the lovely curve of her throat. Her breath was coming in fast little gulps by the time he let her up. Her eyes were dark and luminous with growing desire. She’d lost the last of her hairpins, and her silvery-blond curls clung damply to her forehead before falling loose over her shoulders, the very picture of a wanton. She was learning fast, his Lily, and her eager excitement was contagious. His own blood was hot from waiting, his body hard and ready, and he thought of taking her now, here, at the top of the stairs, to prove to her exactly how blind servants could be. And what in blazes would that accomplish? He swore softly, appalled he’d even imagine such an act where Lily was concerned. She’d trusted him when she’d chosen to come to this house, trusted him with the priceless gift of her innocence. In return he’d promised a night of lovemaking she could remember the rest of her life, and for once, for her, he meant to keep his word.
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Unaware of his thoughts, she shyly reached up and ran her fingers along his cheek. "Where is your bedchamber, Rob?" she whispered, clearly pleased with her own daring. "Isn’t that part of the journey, too?" "It’s a stop on the post road, yes." He smiled, and linked his hand into hers to lead her down the long, candlelit hall. Slow, slower: he must take his own advice. "Especially for weary travelers who wish their cake." "Cake," she repeated with satisfaction. Her fingers curled intimately into his, her palm moist with excitement. "I’m glad of that, you know, because I find I’m vastly hungry." He held the door open for her, and she glided ahead, then stopped and gasped with delight. He couldn’t blame her, for the large corner bedchamber was as grand as any in a palace, with Italian paintings on the walls and crimson silk-velvet upholstery on the furniture. The room’s centerpiece was a bed large enough to be a small chamber itself, hung with curtains of the same silk-velvet and piled high with feather-stuffed pillows. The coverlet had been turned back for the night by the same discreet servants who’d made sure there was a fire in this grate, too, and who had also plumped the pillows and smoothed the sheets. Lily gazed about with unabashed awe. "I have never been in a room such as this, Rob. Your humble poststop is rich enough for a pasha." "Recall that it’s my brother-in-law’s house." He’d spent most of his life happily pretending to be what he wasn’t, but now that he’d confessed the truth to Lily, it had become oddly important to him that she accept him as Rob Dell, no more nor less. "I’m only here on account of my sister Jen." She turned just enough to smile at him over her shoulder. "When first we came here, I was afraid you’d think me too far below your station." "You, Lily?" His surprise was genuine as he came to stand behind her. "How could you ever be below me?" She shrugged away his question. "My grandfather was a weaver who fashioned a new, faster loom driven by the river, and made his fortune from it. He worked with his hands, which is to say he was no gentleman at all. It’s not that I’m shamed by that — I’ve always been proud of him, and who I am — but any true gentleman would look at me and see that common, homely taint of my grandfather’s loom." "You’ll never be common to me, Lily." This time it wasn’t idle gallantry; with her, he meant every word. With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her so she faced the large, gilt-framed looking-glass that hung over the fireplace. "Look at yourself, sweetheart. You’re more rare than any gem, more beautiful than any rose." She smiled wistfully at her reflection. "Only in your eyes, Rob." "And isn’t that what matters tonight?" He hooked his thumbs inside the sleeves of her gown and eased them slowly from her shoulders, following the glide of white muslin with a sensuous glide of his hands across her skin. She leaned her head back against his chest. Her gaze was locked with their image in the looking-glass. He looked, too. How could he not? Her pale hair and skin seemed to glow against the black of his evening clothes, the contrast as starkly seductive as her unfastened gown. With infinite care, he slipped the sleeves lower down her arms, until the gauzy fabric caught on the top of her chemise. He shifted his hands forward and freed her breasts, cradling and teasing the soft flesh in his palms until she moaned and arched against him. The sound was breathy and warm with longing, and he could feel the shudder of unfamiliar sensation thrum through her body at his touch. "Look at yourself, Lily-my-Lily," he said, his voice hoarse with desire. "Look, and tell me you’re not beautiful."
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"Because of you, Rob," she whispered, and twisted around to face him. She looped her arms around his shoulders, drawing his mouth down to hers. "It’s all because of you." Driven by their urgency, Rob gathered her up in his arms and swept her across the room to the center of the oversize bed. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her tangled hair fanned around her face, her mouth red from his kisses, her breasts ripe from his caresses: no wonder he’d never wanted a woman more. She reached up to welcome him, and he lowered himself over her, feeling the feather bed give gently beneath them. He leaned down to kiss her, but to his surprise she held her hand up to stop him. "Wait, Rob, please, please," she begged in a rush. "There’s one thing I must say first...." Chapter Five Rob raised himself up over Lily, his face still so close she could see little else. His breathing was harsh, his jaw taut from holding back. "I swore I would stop if you asked me, Lily, and with you I will be a man of my word," he said raggedly. "But so help me, if this is no more than a whim, then —" "No whim," she whispered fiercely, "nor have I changed my mind! But when I came here with you, Rob, all I had hoped and dreamed for was - was this." "This." Despite his word, he was still teasing the hem of her gown higher, the fabric gliding along her thighs. "So why in blazes must we stop, sweetheart?" "Because no one else has ever treated me the way you have, Rob." She ran her hands restlessly down the muscular length of his back, as unable as he to stop completely. "No one else has given me so much." He made an impatient little grunt, then leaned forward to brush his lips across her forehead and down her cheek to her chin. "I would give you far more if you’d but let me." "I will, Rob." She shivered at the prospect, and closed her eyes so she could concentrate on what she was saying. A mistake. With sight denied, her other senses intensified, and she became achingly aware of his musky-male scent, the taste of his skin, the weight of his body upon hers. "But when - when I made my choice for love, and what I meant then was — was only cake, and now — now — oh, Rob, I do believe I’m falling in love with you, too." He sighed softly, and kissed her forehead, there above her brows. "My dear, darling Lily. You didn’t have to say that, sweetheart." She opened her eyes, desperate to make him understand. "But it is true, Rob. I swear it!" "And I say it can’t be." His smile seemed oddly melancholy, as if he didn’t quite believe his own words. "You scarce know me at all, lass, not nearly enough to love me." "Then tell me more so I do know." Her voice was husky with longing, and she circled her arms around the back of his neck, drawing him down. "Teach me, Rob. Show me what you like best." He did with a kiss full of passion, yet when he finally broke away the last shadow of his doubt still hovered between them. "You wouldn’t stay a moment if you did know more of me, Lily, not if —" "Hush," she ordered, too on edge for more talking. With her gown a tangle around her waist, she shifted beneath him, just so she could feel that intriguing male hardness pressing intimately against her, and with great daring she reached down to the waistband of his trousers and slid her fingers inside. "I know enough. Now show me the rest, darling Rob. Let me know exactly how you like...your...ahh!...cake."
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He answered her not with words, but with another kiss, so dark and possessive she felt as if her very bones would melt from the pleasure of it. How could he kiss her like this and say there was nothing between them? How could he and claim there was no place for love? His hand traveled from her bare hip to her thigh, gently easing her legs farther apart to touch her in a place she hadn’t realized existed. She gasped and shuddered with surprise as his touch grew more insistent, stroking her, teasing her in the most extraordinary way. She’d never felt anything like this before, and instinctively she arched against him, seeking more of the delicious tension he was building within her. But abruptly he left, and the pleasure went with him. "No!" she wailed with disappointment and frustration. "Oh, please, Rob, no!" "I’ve not gone far, sweetheart." He was standing beside the bed, breathing hard as he jerked his arms from the sleeves of his shirt and then tore at the buttons on the fall of his trousers. "And I’m not about to let you finish this particular journey without me." Ordinarily she would have laughed, but now all she could do was gaze at him there in the candlelight. He was a gorgeous man, a glorious man, and the sight of him — all of him — was enough to make her blood race with fascination and fresh anticipation. Swiftly she pulled away her own rumpled gown and chemise before he rejoined her, the bed’s rope springs creaking beneath his weight. "Now, lass, about that cake," he whispered, leaning into her as together they sank back into the featherstuffed pillows. "You still have an interest in such a treat?" "Yes, Rob, if you please," she said, her voice a husky purr as she linked her arms around his shoulders. "I mean to have every last morsel." "Pray, what morsel?" He settled himself upon her, kissing the tip of her nose as he gathered her into his arms. "When we are done, sweetheart, there won’t be a single crumb left between us." She closed her eyes and kissed him, eager to follow wherever he led. It was different this way, with nothing but feverishly hot skin between them, and the more she moved, the warmer she felt herself grow. He caressed her again, readying her, then with a sudden thrust, he was there. She didn’t scream or weep, the way she’d read that virgins were supposed to do, because it didn’t hurt. But she did feel not quite...comfortable, and having him there had made all that splendid rising joy come to an unexpected halt. "I’m sorry, Lily." His voice was strained as he paused for her sake. "But it will be better soon, I promise." She nodded, not trusting her voice. She shifted her position, and felt the first tremor of pleasure return. She rocked her hips, experimenting. He groaned, and she gasped, and she moved again, and so did he. This was better, just as he’d promised, much better, and when he eased her legs higher around his waist, it was better still. With this rhythm together, the joy built all over again, coiling harder, faster, more intensely inside her, and when she thought she’d never be able to survive, she felt herself explode in a rush that was unlike anything else she’d ever experienced. "Lily-my-Lily," whispered Rob afterward, smoothing the damp curls away from her forehead. "What a rare flower you are! So many women have slipped through my life, and not one so perfect for me as you. How can I ever let you go?" She was still catching her breath, oddly caught between laughing and crying. "You don’t have to. Not until morning." "To hell with morning." Gently he rolled onto his back, taking her with him with his arm around her waist and pulled the coverlet over them both. "Would you sail with me to America next week?"
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"America?" Now she did laugh, a laugh with a broken little sob tacked to the end of it. "A wild place full of forests and savages?" "It’s my hope and salvation, pet, and I’ve heard these days it’s quite civilized." His expression was uncharacteristically solemn. "My brother-in-law has made me his agent for his holdings in the Virginian territories. I will have more responsibility than I’ve ever been granted and the chance to build a respectable life of my own. My last chance, Lily, and far more than a rogue like me deserves." She propped herself up on his chest. "You’re not a rogue, Rob Dell." "But I am, lass." His smile was bittersweet, as if he already expected her to refuse. "You’ve risked a great deal to come this far with me, Lily. Will you hazard the rest and come share my future and my love...and as much cake as you could ever want?" "Oh, Rob." Her heart was racing, her head spinning, at all he was offering to her. "You said we did not know one another well enough to love." "You were right, and I - I was wrong. Clearly fate itself plucked you from that bank director’s grasp and dropped you into my carriage to be my match, and who am I to quarrel with fate? I love you, Lily Avonwood. I love you." "I love you, too, Rob," she whispered, her smile crooked with emotion. She thought of what she would leave behind: a loveless marriage to Mr. Simon or another like him, Society that wouldn’t admit her and an uncle who couldn’t wait to be done with her. Then she imagined the endless adventure that life with Rob would be. She would sail across the world with a man she scarcely knew, but already loved. A risk, yes, but perhaps this was her last chance, too, her last chance for happiness and love. And, of course, for cake. He traced her smile with his fingertip. "Tell me, Lily-my-love, tell me — ah, now who would come thumping at the door at this hour?" Chapter Six Lily twisted around to stare at the door, as if she could see through it to whoever stood on the other side. "Let them knock, Rob. We’ve no need to answer." "It’s likely only the footman with the supper I’d ordered earlier." Gently he pulled her back down, so her face was just over his. "But we’ll make him wait for his insolence, won’t we?" The knock came again, more insistent, almost a pounding. Lily laughed softly, a conspirator’s chuckle. "Then we must pretend we’re not at home and let the rascal cool his heels." Rob laughed, too, but even as he kissed her, his thoughts were returning to his earlier question. He had never asked a woman to join her lot to his. Before this night he’d always been content to leave with a fond farewell and an eye for the next lady that would appear in his life. But Lily — Lily was different. That instant connection he’d felt with her when she’d hopped into his carriage had only intensified in a way that would have terrified him if it hadn’t felt so damned right. They’d spent less than a night together, yet already he knew he loved her. He loved her. He’d meant it when he’d said fate had brought them together, because he couldn’t imagine any other explanation. So why the devil hadn’t Lily accepted? What if fate were laughing at him and his rakish past by making the one woman he wanted not want him in return? "Ah, my sweet Lily." He drew her closer, his arm curled around her waist.
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"I’d hide away with you forever, love, if only you’d —" "I know you’re in there, Dell! If you don’t open this door directly and release the lady, I’ll open it for you!" Lily’s eyes widened with indignation. "Oh, my, that is insolent!" "No, Lily, that is my dear brother-in-law, His Grace, the Duke of Strachen." ob swore to himself, rolling her swiftly to one side. None of this made any sense. Brant was a gentleman of the world and always understanding where Rob’s affairs were concerned. At least he had been until now. "Though why in blazes Brant is being so ill-mannered as to interfere in our —" "By all that is holy, niece, if you are in there playing the harlot with this — this scoundrel, then I demand that you come out at once. At once!" Lily yelped with horrified dismay, yanking the sheets up to her chin. "Uncle Herbert! Oh, Rob, however could he have found us here?" "I do not know." Had anything else in Rob’s life gone this hideously fast from so good to bad and then to far, far worse? He scrambled from the bed and grabbed his trousers from the floor, hopping on one foot as he frantically pulled them on. "Unless your uncle has loosed a pack of bloodhounds through Mayfair —" But a key was turning in the lock and the door already swinging open, and in the doorway stood a stonefaced Brant in evening dress and a furious, red-faced gentleman that must be Uncle Herbert. "For God’s sake, Rob, stop dancing around like a jackanapes and make yourself decent," ordered the duke as he turned to the other man. "Forgive me for asking, Mr. Avonwood, but is this lady your missing niece?" "I am sorry to say that it is, Your Grace." Uncle Herbert shook his head, his mouth as pinched as if he’d bitten a lemon. "What your poor parents would say to this, Lily!" "What they would say, Uncle Herbert, is that you are meddling in my most private affairs!" Fuming, Lily hauled the sheet free as she slid from the bed and somehow managed to fling and twist the sheet around herself and into a makeshift gown. "Hunting me down to humiliate me like this!" "If you did not wish to be found, Lily, then you shouldn’t have climbed into a carriage with ducal arms upon the door." Uncle Herbert’s scowl deepened. "You have not only ruined yourself, but you have greatly inconvenienced His Grace, Mr. Simon and me, and you have caused us enormous worry because you have chosen to allow this rogue to — to debauch you!" "He is not a rogue," snapped Lily. "And I can assure you that the debauching was entirely mutual." But Rob had heard enough. He slipped his arm around Lily’s sheet-clad waist, ready to protect her even if she didn’t seem to be in particular need of protecting. No wonder they were such a perfect match for one another! "Here now, Lily, I won’t let you say such things about yourself. Lay the blame on me where it belongs." "For once my brother-in-law is speaking the truth, Miss Avonwood." The duke’s expression was grave. "I fear Rob has, ah, abused your innocence, and —" "He did nothing of the sort, Your Grace." She tossed her tangled hair impatiently over her bare shoulder and placed her hand over Rob’s. "I love Rob, Your Grace, and I know he loves me." "Love!" Her uncle gasped, sputtering with outrage. "This is lust, niece, nothing more! What could you learn of love in a single night?"
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Rob raised Lily’s hand to kiss her fingers. "This lady has taught me more of love in a single night than I have learned in the rest of my life combined. Isn’t that so, sweetheart?" "Yes." Lily’s gaze might be soft with love, but there was also an edge of rebellion that only made her more endearing. "And I have learned the same." The duke cleared his throat. "Then you both shall have the chance to prove it. There is only one way for you to salvage this lady’s reputation, Rob. You must wed her as soon as it can be arranged." "But that cannot be!" cried Lily’s uncle. "Mr. Simon has already asked for her hand!" The duke raised one cynical brow. "He may have asked for her hand, but clearly my brother-in-law has claimed the rest of her person. Rob, ask her to be your wife." Rob gulped. His wife. He hadn’t thought of Lily like that. His love, his partner, his conspirator, his adventurous companion on his journey to America — all those, yes. But before now his life had always been too precarious to share with a wife, too unsettled for the burden that any single woman was sure to become. But wasn’t Lily different? Lily Dell, his wife. It sounded as good to his heart as it did to his ear. His Lily, perhaps his last chance at happiness, his one chance at love. Slowly he knelt before her, her fingers twisting into his as she realized what was happening. "Lily-my-Lily," he began softly, keeping his voice low for her alone to hear. "We’ve gone about this backward, haven’t we?" She shook her head, her voice quavering with emotion. "No, Rob, not at all. We’ve done it exactly right." "Then marry me, lass. Honor me. Marry me, and let me love you forever." Behind them, her uncle sputtered. "If you go against my wishes, niece, and accept this wastrel, then you shall forfeit your inheritance!" How in blazes had Rob forgotten her fortune? He had always sworn that if he ever did marry, it would be for the bride’s rich dowry. Yet now love had so turned his head that all he cared for was Lily herself. But would he in turn be enough for her? Would she be willing to turn her back on her inheritance for the uncertainty of the life he could offer? "I’d wed you if you came to me only in your shift, lass, without a shilling to your name." He was so afraid she’d refuse that his chest felt tight and his heart was pounding. "Please, Lily. Say yes." "Oh, Rob," she whispered, her eyes bright with tears she barely held back. "What else could I say to you? Yes, yes, yes!" He laughed with joy and relief and he swept her into his arms and kissed her. And when her makeshift gown began to slip away and he barely saved her decency before the duke and her uncle, he laughed again at this unexpected, unpredictable and utterly perfect twist his life was taking. "You didn’t truly believe I’d refuse, did you?" she asked breathlessly as he kissed her again. "That I would prefer odious Mr. Simon to you and America?" "You always surprise me, lass." He kissed her until she, too, laughed with joy. "I expect you always will." "Then you should know my uncle is wrong about my losing the inheritance.
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That was only when I was younger, and now I am quite, quite of age. You must take my mills and the rest with me." He was startled by how little it mattered. "I suppose I can learn to love a rich wife as well as a poor one." "Of course you can." She pushed away from his chest, her expression suddenly solemn, or at least as solemn as she could manage while dressed only in a rumpled sheet. "But there is one more thing, Rob." He frowned, leery. "Only one?" "Yes." She nodded gravely, but couldn’t keep the twinkle from her eyes. "The minute we are married, I shall expect from you the most extravagant wedding...cake ever given to a bride." "Ah, Lily-my-love," he said, laughing again as he drew her back into his arms. "I’ll never make an easier promise to keep."
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The Cinderella Valentine by Liz Fielding
Polly had allowed herself plenty of time. She was leaving nothing to chance. She'd even used two alarm clocks, set at five-minute intervals, both of which had performed on cue. Emma Valentine had come through for her with a life and a sanity-saving job at Bella Lucia, her famous family's chic, elegant, A-list group of restaurants. Hard work, but big tips. This was not the day to turn over and go back sleep. The bus—incredibly—arrived on time and dropped her off at a spot a mere two-minutes walk away from the classic, ornate Georgian building in the heart of Chelsea, where the first of the fabulous Bella Lucia restaurants had opened fifty years earlier. For once in her life, Polly hadn't messed up. Even the sun was shining. "Excuse me?" Polly turned to see a harassed mother encumbered by a three-year-old, a baby and a buggy struggling to get off the bus. "Would you mind…?" In an all's-right-with-my-world glow, Polly took the buggy and did what she'd done a hundred times when babysitting her nieces and nephews—flicked it open. The buggy didn't open. It sprang wide like a hungry tiger, taking a chunk out of her tights. As she bent to check the damage, the three-year-old generously thrust the rusk he'd been chewing into her. A thick beige smear appeared on the front of her waistcoat. She was already off balance when a speeding motorbike, skimming the curb to dodge the traffic, finished the job and dumped her in the road. It could have been worse. She could have fallen under a bus. All was not lost, Polly thought, as she picked herself up. She was early. With luck she'd be able to slip into the staff washroom, clean up and change into the spare pair of tights that she'd fortuitously slipped into her bag before Mr. Valentine saw her. She scooped up a strand of hair that had sprung loose, tucked it behind her ear, rang the bell on the wrought-iron gate that guarded the rear entrance and was buzzed through. It was only then that she discovered what she should have known the minute the buggy attacked her: she had carelessly left her luck, like a forgotten umbrella, on the bus. Not missed until the heavens opened up and she actually needed it. Right now the sun was shining, but, as the man blocking her dash to the staff washroom slowly turned, she could have sworn she heard a clap of thunder. Maybe that was because he bore more than a passing resemblance to the devil himself. His hair, a pelt of thick, crisp curls, was a glossy black. His nose proclaimed that his ancestors had once ruled the known world. His brows were bold, straight, dark and not even the sensual curve of his lower lip could override the impression that he was more used to giving than taking orders. All he lacked was a pair of little horns, although curls that thick could hide a lot. His eyes, the colour of warm treacle, might have softened the image, but they were regarding her with a long, critical look that took in her hair—she could feel her own curls springing free of pins loosened by her fall—the sticky smear of rusk decorating her left breast, her torn tights.
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"Polly Bright," she said quickly, getting that in before he could voice what he was so plainly thinking. She met his eyes head on, and offered her hand in the manner of a woman whom, despite appearances to the contrary, knew what she was doing. He did not take it. Wise move, she decided, realizing too late that, in her attempt to save herself, she'd placed her hand in a patch of oil. "It's my first day," she added, but with rather less conviction. "No, Miss Bright," he replied as, with the slightest movement of one hand, he addressed her appearance, "it is not." Polly, entranced by the soft, seductive, fall-into-bed accent that matched the Roman nose and Mediterranean colouring, was, for a moment, oblivious. Then what he'd actually said sank in. Not? Not! Oh, no, she wasn't going to take that, allow this long-legged demon to dismiss her without even giving her a chance to explain. This job was too important. It was an opportunity to get back on her feet, to prove to her family that she wasn't a complete screw-up. It was a chance to start again… The familiar sounds of a kitchen gearing up to serve a hundred plus diners reached her and, name-dropping like mad, she said, "Emma Valentine will vouch for me." Polly had met Emma Valentine, the Chelsea BL's chef, when she'd been booked to give a cookery masterclass at Polly's catering college. Not that Polly was taking part; her exclusion was punishment for a piece of nonsense involving an ice sculpture. Polly had found Emma in the student washroom, throwing up from nerves; she'd fetched her some ginger ale, distracted her with the woeful tale of "Little Willy," made Emma laugh so much that she'd taken Polly into the class as her assistant leaving the principal with no option but to accept this fait accompli. "Or Mr. Robert Valentine," Polly continued. Emma would be up to her eyes at this time of day. "He interviewed me." "Mr. Valentine is at the Mayfair office this morning and his daughter is in Meridia organizing the coronation banquet." In other words, what kind of nerve did she have thinking either of them would have spare time to pull her irons out of the fire? "Max Valentine is in the office," he offered, with a touch of amusement. "Maybe you'd prefer to have this conversation with him?" "No!" She'd met Max when she'd come for her interview. He was scary, unlike his father who was a sucker for a smile. "No," she repeated, "I'm sure he's busy." "Then I'm sorry, Miss Bright, but all you have is me." Well, if life gave you lemons, you made lemonade. She tried the "sucker" smile. "And you are?" "Luc Bellisario. I may not be a Valentine, but Bella Lucia was my great-aunt, if that makes me an acceptable alternative?"
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Seductive sarcasm, she noted, but then he was not just some uppity Italian waiter with a power complex. Not even an Italian restaurant manager with a power complex. He was family… ""This lunchtime I am acting manager of this restaurant," he continued, without waiting for her to confirm that he was. "And you, Miss Bright, are not in any state to polish its floor, let alone serve food to the people who dine here." "Mr. Bellisario…" She pulled out all the stops, reprising the smile that had worked so well on Robert Valentine. "Luc." Then, with a sweeping gesture that took in her bedraggled appearance, she appealed to his sense of fair play. "You don't imagine that I set out from home looking like this, do you?" "That," he replied, unmoved, "is beside the point." "No!" Then, because actually he was right, "Well, yes, obviously it is, but I had an accident." As he frowned, his brows drew down at the centre, emphasizing the devilish look, drawing attention to his eyes. They were, she realized, threaded with streaks of gold lightning. "What kind of accident? Are you hurt?" "Hurt? Oh, er, no." Surprised into a genuine smile by this evidence that he was, after all, human, she said, "I had an argument with a buggy." She raised her leg, apparently to display the damage, but well aware that they were one of her better features. The buggy, she realised belatedly, had taken more than nylon. "You are bleeding." His expression softened a little and the devil took on a different role. Pure temptation. "Oh, no," she said, not entirely in response to this statement. Men, even sexy Italians, had been banished from her life. Then, using his concern to her advantage, she said, "Well, not much." She rubbed at her elbow. "A bit of a bump when I fell off the pavement, that's all. The motorcycle barely touched me…" She ground to a halt as she realized she was coating her shirtsleeve with oil. About to assure him that all she needed to do was clean up and she'd be ready to go, she decided to save her breath. Luc Bellisario, rot-his-socks, was right. Who, in his right mind, would let a disaster like her practice the dangerous art of silver service in a restaurant full of the rich and famous? "Okay," she said. "Okay?" he repeated, totally Italian. Totally gorgeous. "I give up. There's always an opening at Burgers-R-Us." Luc watched the woman rescue a pale blonde corkscrew curl that had escaped its pin, smearing more oil on her cheek as she tucked it behind her ear. She was a disaster, no question, and after learning that Robert Valentine had employed her, his first response had been nothing short of astonishment. His second had been to send her home. Losing a day's pay—more importantly, a day's tips—would give her time to dwell on the standards required from staff working in a restaurant like Bella Lucia. His third… His third had been purely physical as she'd smiled—the real smile, not the one calculated to turn him into her slave—eclipsing the late September sun, heating him down to the bone. It was a raw, totally male reaction that went a long way to explaining why Robert Valentine—Luc's cousin had made meeting beautiful women his life's work —had employed her. "Wait," he said.
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She stopped, looked back over her shoulder, blew another escaping curl from her face. Had she any idea how sexy that was? Well, obviously. Like her first smile, it was a move calculated to snag his attention, keep him hooked. It was working. "What?" she demanded. Then, when he didn't answer, "Don't tell me, you want me to leave the uniform?" He swallowed, fighting the image of her peeling it off, piece by piece and dropping it at his feet. "Would there be any point?" he asked, striving manfully for cutting sarcasm. "It's only fit for the dustbin." She was trouble. He should do everyone a favour and let her go, but in a month he'd be back in Italy, stepping into his father's shoes. Assuming the role to which he'd been born. Trapped… The word dropped into his mind like a stone weight. He blocked it out. Concentrated on the problem facing him. Miss Polly Bright. Luc saw, behind her sparky, couldn't-care-less in-your-face attitude, a loss of hope that tugged at something deep inside him. Something that he couldn't bring himself to crush. "Come," he said, turning abruptly, and walking towards the housekeeper's room, resisted the urge to look back, check that she had obeyed him. She'd followed. "Housekeeping will find a dressing for your leg and a clean uniform. When you're fit to be seen, come to the restaurant and report to Michael, the head waiter." He came close to smiling. "I warn you, he won't be impressed by a smile and unlike me, he won't give you a second chance." "You won't regret it, Luc," she said, earnestly. Then, "Mr. Bellisario." "Be sure," he warned her. "You"ll be sorry if I do."
*** All through the busy lunchtime, the rush of media stars, artists, the unexpected arrival of a minor royal whose party had to be found room in an already packed restaurant, Luc kept an eye on her. Polly wasn't slick. He didn't know what she'd told Robert about her previous experience, but it certainly hadn't been as a waitress at the luxury end of the business, he decided, after witnessing a couple of close calls with the silver service. Far from irritating high profile diners who were used to the best, however, they responded to her startled "oops" with good humour, encouraging her efforts, tipping her extravagantly. Watching her might be wrecking his nerves, but she had a way about her, a warmth that people responded to. A smile that could melt permafrost. Max Valentine joined him, followed his gaze. "Isn't that Emma's friend? How's she doing?"
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"Living dangerously. If she gets through lunch without tipping a bowl of soup into someone's lap, it'll be a miracle." "Oh, great, that's all we need. A lawsuit." Then, "Look, Dad wants me at head office and he warned me it's likely to be a long one. I realise it's your evening off, but I wondered if you could stand in for me?" "No problem." "Thanks, Luc." Then, "Keep an eye on that girl." That wasn"t a problem, either. It was looking away he was finding difficult.
*** Polly made it through her first day on pure adrenaline. It would have been easier if Luc Bellisario hadn't been watching every move, making it plain that he thought she was a disaster waiting to happen. It hadn't and by the end of the week, even the perfectionist head waiter had given her a nod of approval. But the devil just didn't quit. Every time she looked up, it seemed, his dark eyes were fixed on her. Every time he spoke to her, he had found something to criticize. Her hair, mostly. Today, though, she really was in trouble. At one of her tables, a woman whose face was a permanent fixture on the front pages of the gossip magazines, had drunk her way steadily through a bottle of wine, waiting for a lunch date who never appeared, not touching the bread, the herb-flavoured olive oil, the tiny antipasto appetizers that Polly had brought, hoping to tempt the woman to eat something… Luc, a sixth sense alerting him to trouble, looked for Polly. But for once she wasn't causing the drama—she had diffused it. She calmly, lent an arm to the infamous diner as if she was a dowager rather than just unsteady on her feet. Luc moved to help, but Polly stopped him with a keep-back I-can-handle-this look, and helped the woman move towards the rear exit to escape the paparazzi who were outside hoping for a gift like this. It was nearly an hour before she returned. "Where the devil have you been?" Luc demanded, when she finally appeared. By then he was almost out of his mind with worry. "Sorry. I didn't have any money with me so I had to walk back." "What!" Misunderstanding him, she was instantly on the defensive, "I had to make sure that poor woman got home safely." "It's a pity she didn't have the same thought for you." "She was distraught." Then, "So? Am I in trouble, Mr. Bellisario? Do I get shot for desertion in the face of the dessert trolley?" "Nothing that painless, Polly. Your punishment is to sit next to me at lunch." For a moment she looked beaten, but she rallied. "Brave man."
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He thought that foolhardy probably better described his action as sat beside him at the staff lunch table. He was much too close to the fine spirals of hair that had worked free of the pins that never could quite restrain them. Much too close, altogether. "Tell me," he said, in an effort to distract himself, "what were you doing before you worked here?" So, that was what he was after. Digging into her background to find some reason to get rid of her. "Not this," Polly said, and since there was no point in pretending, listed all the jobs she'd had in the last year—always two at a time—cooking fast food, slow food, pub food just to pay back the bank, keep a roof over her head. This had the effect of rendering Luc momentarily speechless. A relief. She could resist his good looks—if she closed her eyes—but his voice never failed to reduce her bones to putty. "You're a cook?" he asked, while she helped herself to a spoonful of risotto. She wasn't planning a long lunch. "According to any number of gold-edged certificates with my name on them," she assured him. "In fact until a year ago I was a partner in a catering business I started straight from college." "So?" She looked at him. The lightning in his eyes had softened to flecks of gold and she discovered that it wasn't just his voice… "What happened?" She swallowed, concentrated very hard, remembered how to speak. "One of my partners had a baby." "And the other?" She swallowed, took a slow breath. "Was the father," she said. It had been a year. She was over it, she told herself. Looking into Luc Bellisario's eyes, she could even believe it. "They wanted their capital back. It was tied up in the equipment." "You had to sell it?" "Yes." At a thumping loss, which she'd carried. She'd have done anything to escape… "This is my way back. Emma told me about the tips your people earn. A year and I'll be able to start over." This time on her own. Then, "Is that it, Mr. Bellisario? Inquisition over? Because I'm done here." "Luc," he said. Then stood as she pushed back her chair, "We got off to a bad start, Polly, but I want you know that I appreciate what you did today." "Oh," she said, doing her best to ignore her stupid heart doing that stupid little fluttery thing. "Just …" Too soon… "What!" she demanded. "Next time take a taxi," he said, with unexpected warmth. "We"ll pay."
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He'd misjudged her, Luc realized, as she walked away. He now watched her, not for mistakes, but for the pleasure of it. Nearby, Robert Valentine, his attention caught by a burst of laughter, smiled. "Pretty little thing, isn't she?" "More than that, sir. A lot more than that." She'd had a setback, but was determined to start again. That took courage. Heart.
*** "Polly…" "Luc, if it's about what happened with the princess…" Three weeks and she hadn't dropped anything. Not that she still didn't get the wobbles when she caught Luc looking at her—not from nerves, but because now he looked away. But today, he hadn't been fast enough and she'd been surprised to see something in his expression, something almost tender and she'd come close to spilling some chocolate confection into the lap of a minor royal. Not that Her Highness had complained. On the contrary, she'd smiled away Polly's apology, and said, "My dear, if that man smiled at me like that, I wouldn't drop just my pudding…" "No. That was not your fault." He knew what he'd done, then… "Are you going out? Lunch is about to be served." "Thanks, but I could do with a break from food." And sitting next to him. Since that first occasion, the place had been left for her, as if everyone could see that she wanted to be there—even if she refused to admit it to herself. "You can enjoy your lunch for once without holding your breath, wondering if I'm going to tip something down myself." "Instead I'll be worrying that you're being attacked by a buggy, or run down by a motorbike," he said, his voice grave, even while those little gold flecks were dancing in his eyes. She caught her breath and stifled the laugh that responded to the way the corner of his mouth tilted up in an invitation to join him in a little self-mockery. No. She really wasn't going to be that stupid. He would be leaving soon. Going back to Italy. She stuffed another brick in the wall guarding her heart and said, "I'm sorry, Luc, but right now all I want is some air." "You've been working non-stop for three hours and you've got a tough evening ahead of you. You can't do that on fresh air." "I'll pick up a sandwich." "That's not enough. You need proper food." Confronted with his Michelangelo good looks, liquid Italian accent and spare broad-shouldered, narrowhipped figure, bricks were useless and a girl had to save herself any way she could. "You do realize," she said, "that you sound exactly like your mother?" This affront to his masculinity was supposed to drive him away. Instead, with a wry lift of his left brow said, "You've met her." Then, before she could recover, he took her elbow, opened the door for her and said, "Very well, fresh air first, then we eat," and refusing to take no for an answer, he steered her out into the street. Smooth and silky as chef's ice cream, she thought. First the freeze, then the sweetness as it thawed on the tongue. "Besides, someone has to ride shotgun on your uniform."
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It was the delicious combination of the American expression and Italian accent that got her. "What?" he demanded. "What did I say?" She shook her head as she pulled her lips hard back against her teeth in an attempt to smother the burst of nerve-fuelled laughter. Then, losing it, "You're a fan of spaghetti westerns?" It took him a moment, but then she discovered that despite all evidence to the contrary, Luc Bellisario knew how to laugh. And when he laughed he looked younger, less threatening. But a whole lot more dangerous. Yet she still found herself walking along the King's Road with him. While she'd planned to do nothing more than window shop, enjoying exotic and beautiful things she couldn't begin to afford, Luc apparently had other ideas, a destination in mind. But when he turned a corner into a narrow street, away from the shops, opened a gate that led down to a basement flat, produced a key and opened the door, she dug her heels in. "You won't get much fresh air pounding the pavement, Polly. I have a small garden. You can sit in the sun and I will make you lunch." His smile was reassuring, his hand extended like a lifeline. And for the first time in a year, she was hungry. "Small?" she exclaimed, a moment later when he'd ushered her through to a courtyard where a two-seater bench—there wasn't room for anything bigger—occupied the only space that wasn't filled with pots of sweetscented culinary herbs standing, hanging everywhere. "This is pocket handkerchief-sized, But fabulous." And while Polly the woman suspected she was making a mistake, Polly the cook didn't care as she plucked a warm leaf of basil, and rubbed it between her fingers to release the scent. "A touch of home in London?" she said, taking the cold drink he passed to her. "If you forget the sea, the boats, the long wide beach," he said, wryly. "It sounds lovely." "There's an ancient square where people gather in the evening. Mountains." He made broad, encompassing gesture. "Everything." "You must miss it," she said, settling herself on the bench. "But you're going back soon." He joined her, leaning back into the seat, not quite touching her. "Next month. The Bellisario family is in the restaurant business, although not on the grand scale of the Valentines. Not yet. I came here to learn from them so that when I go home and step into my father's shoes…" He didn't look that excited at the prospect. And in a heartbeat, she found herself wanting to reach out, touch his hand. Invite his confidence. "And you, Polly?" he asked, before she did anything so reckless. Turning the attention from himself to her. "What are your plans?" "Not to step into my father's shoes, that's for sure. I'm the family failure." "Your catering business? That is not failure, that's experience." "You could say that." Then, because she wanted him to understand, wanted him to know everything… "One of my partners was my fiancé, Luc. The baby…" He was the one who took her hand. Stopped her. "I was so busy building an empire that I didn't notice what was going on under my nose. I'm too stupid to live, let alone be entrusted with a business." "No…" Then, softly, "He was the stupid one, Polly."
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And he should know. He could teach her a thing or two about stupid, Luc thought, as Polly closed her eyes, effectively closing the subject as she lifted her face to a sun that continued to shine on into October, suspending autumn in a perfect Indian summer. At least she'd had the courage to follow her dream, while he would be living the one his father had invented for him: to emulate his famous cousins, the Valentines, taking their own restaurants into a new level of luxury, elegance. When Max had asked him to delay his departure to give them all a little breathing room, he'd grabbed at it. Anything to delay the inevitable. His father had understood. The Valentine family was in turmoil with skeletons falling out of every closet. Grey faces, long meetings, Stephanie with a face like thunder after a confrontation with her stepfather, Robert Valentine. Debts had to be paid. Honor demanded it… And how much honor was there in living a lie when with Polly's example—with the hope of Polly at his side— his own dream beckoned so much more brightly. Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and, leaving her to drink in the sun, went into the kitchen and began to assemble a simple lunch. The sooner it was done, the sooner they could return to the restaurant. To sanity. "What are you doing?" He glanced round. She was flushed from the sun, her mouth sweet as the fat cherries that grew in his grandmother's orchard. "Making lunch. Nothing as exciting as a sandwich," he said, unable to resist teasing her a little. "Just pasta, wild mushrooms, a little cream." "Ambrosia," she said, laughing. "Food from the gods." "I … No…" Flustered, quite possibly blushing—the devil had lost his cool—he said, "My grandmother taught me to cook." Then, "I need parsley…" "I'll get it." And when she returned, she took a teacloth, tucked it around her waist. He moved over. There was just enough room for the two of them at the stove. "Polly…" As she glanced up from chopping the herbs, as he'd known she would, a stray curl bobbing over one eye. She blew it away. No, he realized, she had no idea just how sexy that was or she wouldn't risk it here, alone with him… "Yes?" she prompted, when he didn't say any more. "Nothing," he said. "Just Polly." Then, "What kind of name is that?" "It's short for Mary." "How can it be short for Mary? It's longer." "I guess it's one of those things you have to be British to understand." "Mary." This time she just carried on chopping, using the razor sharp knife like the professional she undoubtedly was and without warning the dream in his head, the one he'd buried so deep that he'd almost forgotten it, dissolved into the one that had been haunting him ever since Polly Bright had stuck out an oily hand and introduced herself, smiling at him.
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"Maria…" She scooped up the herbs, dropped them into the pan of mushrooms. "Bella Maria." And this time when she looked up, he bent to kiss that smile. He just might have retained his hold on sanity if she had not kissed him back. If her kiss had not been the one his soul had been waiting for, if she had not been the woman who would complete his dreams making anything seem possible.
*** A kiss, one kiss, was all it had taken to break down the wall she had spent the past year building around her heart. No. Three weeks of looks that had moved from cold to a sizzling heat. From tight smiles to tender ones. Three weeks of looks and one kiss. And a little pasta with mushrooms and cream served by a man who looked not like the devil, but Adonis. After he'd kissed her, he hadn't said a word. He had simply served her lunch and then walked her back to the restaurant. And that evening, all through the long hours while they cleared and laid the tables for the next day, he didn't look at her once. She understood that. If he had, if their gazes had met, she'd have crumpled up into a little pile of mush right there on the floor. But then, at the end of the evening, she waited for him. Michael said, "If you're looking for Luc, he's holed up with Max. It looked as if it was going to be a long one. Can it keep until tomorrow?" "Yes. Yes, of course." Except that tomorrow, Luc Bellisario was not there. It was Robert Valentine who broke the news that he'd returned to Italy. "Luc put his plans on hold to help us out over a difficult few weeks. He'll be a tough act to follow, but…" She stopped listening. He'd left without a word. Gone home to his small Italian town by the sea where his father's shoes were waiting for him. She would have walked out then, but she owed Emma for the chance she'd been given. It wasn't as if she had to see him. But she kept on looking up, expecting to see him… Polly gave a week's notice and for six days she performed like a well-oiled automaton, on the outside at least. She was the perfect waitress. Efficient, calm, invisible. Not an "oops" or a dropped pea. Not much laughter, either. All emotional responses had been shut down. What was there to get emotional about? One kiss. What was that? Nothing, she told herself and was congratulating herself over how well she was holding everything to together—just this last day to get through—when the restaurant door opened bringing in a rumble of the thunder that had been threatening to bring the Indian summer to an end, a draft of cool air. And something else… Luc. When she looked up he was standing there, watching her and six days of perfection came to an end as the tray she was carrying slid from her hands.
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Luc was beside her even as Michael moved in smoothly to restore order. Beside her, murmuring softly, reassuringly. "Cara …forgive me… I could not speak…" With his arm about her, he swept her into the office, closing the door, held her as she cried out, tried to escape… "Before I could speak to you I had to talk to my father. Say what I should have told him long ago. That his dreams are not my dreams. That I cannot walk in his shoes. Only then could I come back for you, my Bella Maria." "You're giving it all up?" "I'm surrendering my father's dream for one of my own, Polly. A small restaurant overlooking a sheltered bay." He was so close that she could hardly breathe. "How did he take it?" "Philosophically. And my sister is very, very happy." "Oh. So, this restaurant…" "Somewhere full of warmth, life, where the food touches the soul. Is that a dream you could share?" "What you're saying," she said, carefully, "is that you're looking for a cook?" "What I'm saying is that I would like you to be my partner." He took an envelope from his pocket, took out a document. "Here are the deeds." She glanced at them, saw the name—Bella Maria. She was shaking, close to tears. "And if I say no?" she whispered. "Then I will keep asking you," he said, "Like this…" He brushed his mouth against hers, melting the bones in her legs so that she was forced to lean into him for support. "I'm not sure…" she said. Then, he'd kissed her again. "This may take some time." "Come to Italy, my Bella Maria," Luc said, taking her hand, leading her into a new life, a shared dream, "and I'll take as long as you need."
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Rosa by Maggie Cox Tasked with procuring Rosa, a painting that has sentimental meaning to her kindly old employer, companion and housekeeper Serena Hammond attends an auction in London — only to be outbid by handsome, but arrogant, millionaire Ethan Galbraith! Now Serena must devise a plan to get Ethan to agree to sell the work of art back to her — but will she lose her heart in the process?
Chapter One No! no! no! Although she hadn't articulated the words out loud, they echoed in Serena Hammond's brain like cannon fire. When the auctioneer's gavel finally came down on the bid, she stared down at the wooden paddle in her hand in trembling disbelief. While the murmur of voices around her grew into a virtual crescendo of approval for the successful bidder, Serena was filled with disappointment and sorrow as she contemplated her failure at not achieving her goal. The whole reason she was in this intimidating London auction house was to procure a particular painting on behalf of her ailing elderly employer. Godfrey would be heartbroken that she hadn't succeeded. Serena hardly knew how she was going to break the news. The exquisite portrait that his childhood sweetheart had so adored meant so much to him. It had always hung in the hallway of his family's Georgian mansion — until the Baillon clan had fallen on hard times and had to sell it. When Godfrey had heard that it was up for auction after all this time, he had almost been beside himself with excitement. It was practically the first instance in three whole years since Serena had started working for him as companion and housekeeper that she had seen him so animated. And now he had been robbed of his joy by the smug-looking individual who had easily outbid Serena. A man who — judging by his immaculately tailored suit, glinting gold cufflinks and arrogantly handsome profile — clearly had money to burn. Serena hadn't had a cat's chance in hell of outbidding him. As it was, Godfrey had sold practically everything valuable that he owned to raise the funds to buy the painting. As she turned to regard the man who had outbid her, their gazes collided and for a long breathless moment, Serena found herself trapped by his almost taunting, green-eyed gaze. Disturbed by the totally inappropriate heat that his glance had wrought inside her, Serena forced herself to concentrate. What if she spoke to him? Her mind raced feverishly? What if she could tell him face-to-face just how much the portrait, Rosa, meant to Godfrey? How it had been in his family for generations, and how it would bring him such pleasure to be able to have it back where it belonged? People around her were moving and the auction was clearly at an end. Rising shakily to her feet and leaving the paddle on the plush velvet seat pad, Serena saw with alarm that the man who'd bought the portrait was leaving, too. Tall and broad-shouldered, something about him suggested a strong belief in his own superiority and that immediately rankled her. He just seemed too self-satisfied for words. Probably because he'd been able to purchase the painting and she hadn't. "Excuse me." "Yes?"
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Once again that unsettling green-eyed glance locked with hers and Serena couldn't help but think that diamonds would not glint with such an impenetrably hard sheen. His haughty gaze would have repelled royalty! Garnering all her courage and thinking only of Godfrey's heartfelt disappointment, Serena reached out and touched the sleeve of his flawlessly tailored jacket. "Might I have a word with you?" she began, quickly withdrawing her small, pale hand when he glanced down at it almost distastefully. "What about?" The man gave her a thorough once-over and Serena squirmed in her slightly too-small burgundy suit, which she'd borrowed from her cousin Jenny. She tried to hear herself think above the roar of her heartbeat. Refusing to be diminished by the arrogant assessment of her "assets" that she'd seen reflected in that belittling gaze, Serena let her dislike of the man override any nerves she might have. "I need to talk to you about the portrait you've just bought." "You lost the bid, Ms. —?" "Hammond." "You lost the bid, Ms. Hammond, and I'm sorry if that is disappointing for you, but I outbid you fair and square. As far as I'm concerned there's nothing more to be said." As he began to turn his back on her, Serena touched his sleeve again. He considered her as though astounded she had the temerity. "What is it this time, Ms. Hammond?" "Perhaps I could buy you a coffee and we could talk?" "I'm sorry…this may be hard for you to hear, but pretty as you undoubtedly are — you really aren't my type". Appalled at his deliberate misunderstanding of her offer to buy him coffee, Serena felt outraged heat suffuse her cheeks. "I wasn't trying to proposition you!" A woman brushing past her in a waft of Dior perfume smirked and Serena glared back. Directing her attention back to the man she was talking to, she continued passionately, "You know perfectly well I wanted to talk about the painting! I wanted to ask you to please consider selling it to someone who has been searching for it for years — the man I work for — Godfrey Baillon." "Once again I find myself in the position of having to disappoint you, Ms. Hammond. Now, I have to go and sign some documentation before making my way to another appointment in Kensington, so my answer has to be an unequivocal no. Please do not try and delay me any longer because quite frankly, you are wasting your time and mine!" "What if I told you that my employer is ill? That buying this painting would probably go a long way to speeding up his recovery?" The man smiled and although the gesture made his ruthlessly handsome features even more devastating than they already were, Serena couldn't help concluding that a cat playing with a mouse would not taunt so cruelly. He hardly needed to utter a single word to let her know that he was mocking her. When he did speak, she was left in no doubt. "Then I would have to say I think you are a very devoted and loyal employee if you would resort to emotional blackmail to get me to sell you back the portrait. Unfortunately for you, I am impervious to that sort of
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sentimental plea-bargaining. I did not get where I am today by being a pushover. Learn how to be a good loser, Ms. Hammond, that is my advice to you. Goodbye." Learn how to be a good loser?! Serena almost glanced round for something handy to throw at him…preferably something heavy. But two seconds later he was gone, moving purposefully through the well-heeled clutch of interested buyers that had attended the auction with arrogant ease, his mind clearly on his next appointment and having already dismissed the hazel-eyed, rather "desperate" brunette who had accosted him. She turned away in frustration to see an official collecting the wooden paddles that people had left on their seats. "Excuse me…do you know the name of the man I was just talking to? The man who made the winning bid on that last portrait?" "Yes, miss." The elderly official smiled courteously. "That's Mr. Ethan Galbraith. His business supplies cars and up-market property to visiting dignitaries from abroad. A real connoisseur of art he is, too, by all accounts." "Thank you." So the man clearly owned several desirable paintings. Why should it matter if he sold Godfrey only one? And one that held such poignant meaning for her employer? It really wasn't fair! But even as she took umbrage at Ethan Galbraith's rather callous dismissal of Godfrey's understandably great desire to repossess the portrait, Serena was already concocting urgent plans to make a dent in that hard-bitten armor of his and win him round….
Chapter Two "Godfrey? It's Serena. Things didn't go too well at the auction I'm afraid and someone outbid me on the portrait." She held her breath imagining her employer's devastated face and she couldn't help grimacing in dismay as she held her mobile to her ear. The waitress in the coffee shop placed the café latte she'd on the table, and Serena indicated her thanks with a brief smile. Godfrey Baillon sighed heavily at the other end and there was a wealth of pain and disappointment in that sigh. He'd been pinning all his hopes on Serena successfully bidding for Rosa, the exquisite portrait that had hung in his family's residence for years until they'd had to sell it. Serena would have done anything to avoid giving him bad news about it, especially when he was so ill. "I suppose they offered a small fortune?" "Something like that." Serena picked up a spoon and stirred the froth on her coffee. An all too vivid picture of Ethan Galbraith's lean mocking face slid into her mind and a burn of dislike simmered in her stomach. She was still smarting from the sardonic rebuff she'd received when she'd asked him if he'd consider selling the painting back to Godfrey. "But listen…don't be downhearted. We're not beaten yet! I found out the name of the chap who bought it and I'm going to track him down and try to talk him into selling it back to us. With that in mind, I wondered if it would be okay if I stayed in London for a couple of days? He works in the city and I could stay at my cousin Jenny's place while I'm here."
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"Serena, my dear, I appreciate your loyalty I really do but I certainly don't want you confronting this man and possibly getting yourself upset on my behalf! Why don't you just get the next train back and come home?" Godfrey suggested kindly. He was such a dear sweet man with a heart of pure gold and Ethan Galbraith — despite his too-confident looks and comfortable bank balance — wasn't fit to shine his shoes in Serena's opinion! She began to secretly warm to her task. She'd win back Rosa if it was the last thing she did! "Honestly, I'll be fine! This is too important to just give up on, Godfrey. Give me a chance to tell him what this picture means to you — I'm sure he'll come round! In the meantime, I'll ring Violet at the nursing home and ask her to pop in and check on you while I'm gone." "Well…" Hearing the hesitation in her employer's tone, Serena pressed home her advantage. "Please, Godfrey — nothing ventured, nothing gained, remember?" "Just make sure you take care of yourself and get back here safely on Friday, that's all I ask my dear — and keep in touch!" "I will". Serena spooned some of the creamy froth from her coffee into her mouth and tried to convince herself she wasn't completely mad to even imagine that she could persuade a ruthless man like Ethan Galbraith to sell a much-wanted prized possession!
*** He'd been dreaming about Rosa — the gypsy girl in the painting — and had woken rather abruptly when the face of that Hammond girl, who had been so persistent in trying to corner him at the auction house, disturbingly took her place. For a moment or two Ethan Galbraith just lay in bed recalling her glinting hazel eyes and that mane of pre-Raphaelite brown hair that kept threatening to unravel from its clip. A flash of unwelcome heat shook him out of his temporary reverie and made him throw back the duvet angrily. Troublesome woman! She had real nerve trying to entreat him to sell the picture when he'd only just bought it! Did she imagine for one second that he would even consider it? Let alone drop the asking price back down to one her employer could afford! The painting was important to him because it had been important to his mother. Now that he had it in his possession, Ethan was in no hurry to be dispossessed of it…no matter how beguilingly her hazel eyes glinted! As Ethan stepped out of the gleaming black Rolls later that morning, his chauffeur Adam handed him his daily copy of the Times newspaper. Glancing up at the rather grand Edwardian building that housed his company's offices, Ethan smiled with satisfaction. He had traversed a long road from poverty to wealth and all the sacrifices he had had to make along the way had been worth it. So what if he had a reputation as a rather cold fish? God knew there were enough warmblooded women clamoring for his attentions to make that tag bearable. And if he didn't believe in "falling in love" or having just one woman in his life to wake up with each morning — then his wealth brought him many enviable compensations, such as the ability to buy Rosa, a portrait that was clearly coveted by many. "Good morning!" He turned at the sound of that reluctantly familiar voice, all the hairs on the back of his nape bristling. "What the —?"
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He couldn't believe she was smiling at him…smiling for God's sake! "And how are you today, Mr. Galbraith?" Her use of his name took him aback for a moment. Swallowing hard, Ethan frowned a warning. "I don't have time to converse with you, Ms. Hammond. What the hell do you mean by tracking me down at my place of work?" He knew he sounded ridiculously pompous, but he was furious that she had the brass nerve to seek him out again! Yet seeing her smile waver, he experienced a kick of something like regret in the pit of his stomach. The woman pushed back the wayward hair that was again threatening to break loose from whatever feminine frippery held it behind her head and her slender shoulders lifted in a slightly uncertain shrug beneath her short black coat. "We got off to a bad start yesterday and I wanted to apologize. I — I shouldn't have approached you like I did when you were still enjoying your triumph at buying the painting. Will you accept my apology?" Was she in earnest? Obviously not! A flash of impatience assailed him and Ethan's face hardened. Of course the woman wasn't in earnest! She had a very real and all too transparent ulterior motive for seeking him out again and he should make it clear to her once and for all that he was on to her little scam — despite that glimpse of uncertainty he'd seen at the end of her smile. "All right, Ms. Hammond…I accept your 'apology,' but let this be the last time you harass me in the street, understood?" "Harass you?" The fire in her offended hazel eyes was back — glinting gold and fuelling an entirely reluctant heat inside Ethan that both amazed and confounded him. He'd meant it when he'd told her at the auction that she wasn't his type! "Just because I find myself needing to have a conversation with you doesn't mean that I'm harassing you! What am I supposed to do to get you to talk to me? Make an appointment?" "Got it in one, Ms. Hammond." Presenting his back to Serena, Ethan walked through the revolving doors of the building and disappeared inside. "Make an appointment?" Her lips split into a wide, mischievous grin. "Now why didn't I think of that?"
Chapter Three Ethan Galbraith must have known that Serena hadn't a hope in Hades of getting an appointment with him for at least the next three months. The man clearly had a work schedule to match the queen of England's! What infuriated Serena was that he had suggested it so smugly, just to build up her hopes! Well, if he thought that was going to deter her from trying to persuade him to sell her back the portrait of Rosa — then he had another think coming! Serena had gone back to her cousin Jenny's place and racked her brains to come up with a new strategy. "Why don't you try good old-fashioned 'womanly wiles?” Jenny had suggested. "He's a man isn't he? Doesn't matter who he is or how much money he has, he won't be immune. Trust me."
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And so, at just past five-thirty in the afternoon when most offices were turning out, Serena waited nervously in the lobby of Ethan's building in full make-up, a tight she-means-business black dress, killer heels and generous spritz of French perfume. Idly picking up a magazine, she barely registered the emaciated fashion models wearing the latest designs from the catwalk — her nerves were so strung out at the thought of what Ethan's reaction would be when he saw her again. But no matter how uncomfortable her current get-up was — Serena was usually a passionate devotee of casual jeans and T-shirts — she would be willing to endure any amount of discomfort if it meant getting Ethan to relent his decision over the portrait. Her employer, Godfrey, would be over the moon if she could pull this off and perhaps when he had the painting once more in his possession, where it clearly belonged, his health would get back on track, too. The elevator doors swished opened and four or five people emerged onto the plush maroon carpet in reception. Straining to examine their faces, her heart almost jumped out of her chest when she finally settled on Ethan's handsome, preoccupied features. Serena took in a deep breath and slowly pushed to her feet. "Hi." Although she was striving for calm and composed, her insides were leaping around like a snow-globe that had been shaken too hard. His compelling green eyes looked astonished at first, then frosty. Watching them skim up and down her body in her uncharacteristically glamorous attire, Serena had to secretly admit that she'd only gone for Jenny's suggestion of "feminine bombardment" because — for a moment — she'd allowed herself to feel desperate. Now she wished she'd given herself more time to think of something else… "Well, well, well…" Briefly waiting for the other people who'd shared the elevator ride with him to disperse, Ethan considered Serena with ill-disguised exasperation. "Didn't I tell you that you had to make an appointment to see me, Ms. Hammond?" he snapped. His teeth were very even and his nose aquiline — almost sharp. He had a very precise clean-cut jaw and his green eyes had the same glitter as emeralds being washed in a crystal fountain. Up close he was so devastating to look at that Serena almost wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of standing so near such a man. She'd already detected the suggestion of hard toned muscle beneath his flawless tailoring and it just about finished her off. A ripple of intense heat electrified her spine. She had no business being so distracted! What she needed to do right now was focus on achieving her goal…nothing else mattered. "Yes, you told me that, Mr. Galbraith…but you also must have known it was practically nigh on impossible to get an appointment with you! Unless of course, I was Prince Charles or the sultan of Brunei! Which I am clearly not." There was a flicker of sardonic amusement in Ethan's disturbing gaze. "You're perfectly right, Ms. Hammond — only a lunatic could mistake you for anything other than the extremely feminine and distracting creature you are!" She was dumbstruck by the compliment, then completely undone by the deliberately sexual way he allowed his glance to roam over her body. Serena sensed her breasts tingle and grow heavy inside her close-fitting finery. "All dressed up and nowhere to go, Ms. Hammond? Or were you just popping in to see if you could catch me on the off-chance? Somehow I don't believe that you're a woman who leaves very much to chance. If you've come to proposition me about the painting again then I have to tell you that you are wasting your time. If, on the other hand, you would care to join me for a drink…then I wouldn't exactly be averse to such a prospect."
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Ethan could hardly believe how he was acting toward this woman. He was perfectly aware that she had no interest in him other than his possession of the portrait — but even though he knew that, he couldn't help but crave her company. Her luscious body in those sexy clothes was bait enough for a man who had an admittedly high sexual drive — but besides that, the woman had started to get to him. He didn't know why, but what harm would it do to encourage her a little, he asked himself? Tonight he was only going home to an empty house and a microwaved supper, and deliberating between that and those rather ravishing hazel eyes of hers… Well, there was really no contest. "A drink?" Ethan could see that his invitation flustered her and he couldn't deny feeling a warm glow of purely male satisfaction. "Yes, Ms. Hammond… What is your name, for pity's sake? I can't keep calling you 'Ms. Hammond' all night!" "It's Serena" "It suits you. Shall we go?" He put his hand beneath her elbow and was surprised to feel her hesitate. Ethan sighed. "I suppose you're now going to tell me that you have a husband or boyfriend waiting for you at home…is that it?" That wasn't it, because Serena had neither. She hadn't dated in quite a while because she'd been so involved with looking after Godfrey and everything that entailed. Sad…but true. She'd hesitated because she really hadn't expected him to suddenly let down his guard so conclusively and invite her out for a drink! He was a wealthy, drop-dead gorgeous businessman and she was a simple uncomplicated girl from the wilds of Dartmoor. She'd never craved London life as Jenny had, and was happiest when tramping across fields and hills, the wind in her hair and the sun at her back. There wasn't a sophisticated bone in her entire body! Even Godfrey had teased her about being a dyed-in-the-wool country lass! "No." She finally answered him and saw the sudden tension in his jaw visibly relax. "I'm single. Look, Mr. Galbraith —" "Ethan." That took her aback. "I can't pretend to you that I won't want to discuss the painting and I think you know that." "You can discuss the painting to your heart's content, Serena, but it won't do you a bit of good. I told you…I won't be swayed. Even if the sight of you in that rather obvious little outfit is testing my self-restraint to the maximum!" Assimilating his outrageous compliment with a racing heart, Serena stared at him in complete disbelief. "What?" Ethan's answering smile was lethal…
Chapter Four Well. Serena had fielded Ethan's unexpected and blush-inducing remark about her outfit without fleeing. Now to her trepidation, she found herself sitting opposite him in a dimly lit corner of a rather posh London hotel bar; a tuxedoed pianist playing soft jazz to entertain the smartly dressed clientele that occasionally drifted in to experience the relaxing ambience.
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While her heightened senses keyed in to the disturbingly sexy cologne Ethan wore, Serena sipped awkwardly at her chilled white wine and wondered what on earth she was playing at. She was no "femme fatale" that was for sure. She hadn't a clue how to beguile a man so that he would give her what she wanted! And all she really wanted, she told herself, was to get down to the business of discussing the portrait she wanted to buy from him. Rosa —the painting of the beautiful gypsy girl whose lovely face had gazed down on her employer Godfrey Baillon's family for generations until they had been forced to sell it because they'd fallen on hard times. Godfrey had every good reason in the world to desire the painting, while Serena was sure that Ethan Galbraith only wanted it to add to his already no-doubt impressive collection of art. He probably collected beautiful things just to appease his ego and show off what the fortune he'd made could buy for him. He wouldn't understand an ill man's yearning to have something precious from his past back in its rightful place. Serena released a heartfelt sigh. With an amused glance, Ethan deftly undid the buttons on his suit jacket and reached for his glass. "Have you run out of things to say to me so soon, Serena?" he mocked. "You know perfectly well I only really want to discuss the painting!" she replied waspishly. "So…what is that deliberately provocative ensemble you're wearing in aid of then?" Once more Serena felt the touch of his disturbing gaze on her body. "To 'taunt' me? To get my attention? Well, you've definitely got that if you're at all interested to know. Question is — what are you going to do with it now that you've got it?" Torrid heat advanced in an enervating wave throughout her body and Serena barely knew what to do with herself, fazed by her disconcerting reaction. Her little plan to get to talk to Ethan was so not working out the way she'd imagined it would! "I'm not looking for the kind of attention you're obviously inferring! And if I could only have gotten an appointment to see you at your office, I'm sure you wouldn't be talking to me like this either!" When she saw the slight clenching of his jaw and the angry glitter in his arresting green eyes, Serena wondered if she'd gone too far. Swallowing down her apprehension, she leaned forward a little and touched his knee. She hadn't really meant to do such a thing but she was, by nature, a reach-out-and-touch sort of person when it came to communicating with people and the deed had been done before she could help herself. The slight reddening of Ethan's jaw seemed to warn her that it was definitely not the right thing to have done. With some difficulty she forced herself to remember what she'd been going to say. "Please. Godfrey…the man I work for…he's loved that portrait for years. He's getting on now and he's practically the last living soul in his family, apart from a nephew. For the past year he's been in and out of hospital with one thing and another. Sometimes I catch such a look on his face that it makes me think that he's giving up…that he feels he has nothing left to live for! When he discovered that Rosa was up for sale, it was the first time I'd seen him animated for ages. It gave him hope thinking about having that portrait home. Surely now you can understand why it's so imperative that he should have it?" "Just because a person greatly desires something, doesn't mean that it is 'imperative' that he have it. What if I told you that I, too, have desired that particular painting for a long time? Who is to say who is the most deserving?" Leaving his glass on the table between them, Ethan fixed Serena with a steely glare. Now her blood ran cold instead of warm and she knew there was nothing she could say or do that would persuade this icy and remote man to relent.
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Frowning in distress, she pushed back a wayward strand of silky brown hair from her face and sank deeper into the plush velvet chair. "Are money and possessions so important to you?" she dared to ask him. "More important than helping to make people happy?" "If you knew where I'd come from you wouldn't have the temerity to ask me that, Ms. Hammond!" "I'm sorry…I meant no offence. So…you absolutely refuse to consider selling us the painting?" Now sitting stiffly in her chair, her heart heavy at the thought of having to go back home to Godfrey in Devon with disappointing news, Serena couldn't help being curious as to what exactly Ethan had been referring to when he'd replied so vociferously just now. Obviously she'd touched a very raw nerve and now the man was viewing her as though she was his sworn enemy. Strangely, she couldn't help regretting that. "You already know my answer to that. I shouldn't have to repeat myself," he said tersely. "Then I won't take up any more of your time. Thank you for the wine. I'll see myself out. Don't get up." The girl had no idea who she was dealing with! Ethan thought furiously. What gave her the damn right to arouse feelings in him that he'd prefer to leave dormant? He'd been quite prepared to entertain a sexy little "fling" with her, for the sake of his very healthy libido —but he expressly was not prepared to dice with emotion no matter how briefly! The past — his past — was definitely off limits. There was nothing but misery and regret there and Ethan had thankfully left that behind a long time ago. And in his opinion he wasn't responsible for anybody else's happiness but his own, which is why he'd made a vow to steer clear of such threatening chains as marriage and commitment. Now it was Ethan's turn to reach out and touch. His hand clamped possessively around the fine bones of Serena's wrist like an iron band as she rose to leave. The action was so surprising that she slowly sank back into her chair with his hand still around her. "Stay." "What?" "I asked you to stay," Ethan told her, holding her startled gaze with an earth-shattering intensity that stole her breath. "Why?" Serena's brows drew together as she glanced down, perplexed, at the long lean fingers that captured her, which seemed extraordinarily reluctant to set her free. Inside his chest, Ethan's heart was beating surprisingly fast. What was it about this infuriating, intoxicating woman that was getting to him so badly? Perhaps all he needed to do was work that out with her in bed? The enticing idea quickly took hold. Ruefully disengaging his hold on her wrist, Ethan smiled. "Why don't you stay and have dinner with me?" he suggested. "Who knows? By the end of the evening you might decide I'm not the insensitive and cruel ogre that your eyes seemed to suggest I am after all." Serena would have laughed if it weren't for the cold hard fact she was quite unremittingly terrified…
Chapter Five Ethan had invited Serena to spend the rest of the evening with him by having dinner at this stylish London hotel, and he must have known when he'd suggested it that she could do nothing else but refuse. Having dinner with Ethan Galbraith would be like agreeing to jump into a lake full of sharks! She didn't like him and he didn't like her and whatever was going on in that calculating, impenetrable mind of his, Serena was sure it wasn't going to assist her in getting the portrait, Rosa, back for her employer, Godfrey.
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Now as she regarded his cool guarded expression as he sat across from her in the hotel's elegant, discreetly illuminated bar, she also knew she needed to decline for another reason. Somehow, at some imprecise point in the conversation, Serena had become too aware of Ethan's potent attraction. It scared the life out of her that she could be even remotely succumbing to the idea of prolonging her time in his company when her feet should be burning a hole in the carpet to get away! He'd told her yesterday that she wasn't his "type" and lord knew, he was so far away from hers that it was almost preposterous! She didn't date much because of the demands of looking after Godfrey, but when she did, Serena went for much more down to earth and nice men. Had any sane person ever referred to Ethan Galbraith as nice? "You can't be serious?" she said, taking sudden refuge in the glass of wine she'd so recently abandoned. "Is it so impossible for you to imagine that I might find you interesting enough to invite to dinner?" Ethan questioned her, a hint of irritation in his deeply modulated voice. "Yes, frankly…it is. I don't think you find me 'interesting' at all, Mr. Galbraith. Consequently, I have to deduce that you're maybe just using this opportunity to satisfy a more ulterior purpose." Even as she finished her sentence, Serena sensed fierce heat rush into her face with a vengeance. To her humiliation, he threw back his head and laughed. "And what, pray, might that 'ulterior' motive be, sweet Serena? I'd love to hear your theory." "I'm sure I don't have to spell it out for you! This is just some kind of sophisticated, annoying little game that men like you indulge in and I'm not remotely interested in playing! I told you before — all I want you to do is to think about selling the portrait back to Godfrey. Apart from that, there's not one thing about your hateful company that I crave!" "Oh no?" Before Serena could gather her wits and intuit his intention, Ethan plucked the glass of wine from her fingers, put it on the table and getting to his feet, hauled her forcibly up into his arms. As his hard warm chest imprisoned her and the smell, touch and feel of him descended on her body in a veritable cyclone of sensation — Serena felt his demanding, unforgiving lips on hers and her mouth opened irresistibly to allow the hot velvet entry of his beguiling tongue. She swayed and Ethan held her tight so that she wouldn't fall. What was happening to her? Had she completely lost her mind, letting him kiss her like that? And in public, too! But even though she was furious, her outrage vied with a deeply overwhelming need to experience more of the same. The idea that she didn't want the kiss to end shocked Serena to her boots. Surely it wasn't normal to so dislike a man, yet yearn for his touch so implicitly that you thought your very survival might be under threat if you didn't have it? A woman that blushed so easily and so prettily was a rare creature indeed in Ethan's experience and he'd found himself feeling more and more turned on by the idea of taking her to bed as the minutes ticked by. He'd already sampled her passionate nature and if she was resisting him because of her anger at his intractable stance about the portrait — then that could actually be turned to his advantage. That simmering rage of hers could definitely be put to good use. It could ignite the kind of sparks that developed into an arousing inferno in the bedroom! Despite his interest in the arts, Ethan wasn't a man with a proclivity for poetic license — yet while kissing Serena he couldn't help but unleash a creative streak within him that would match Keats himself! The very realization unbalanced his equilibrium as powerfully as though a deep fissure had cracked open beneath his feet. He knew it would be futile to pretend it was nothing more than a hot hungry kiss that he had callously stolen because he couldn't help himself. Touching this woman, making intimate contact with her enticingly curvaceous body and her tender, entrancing lips, Ethan knew he had to have her in his bed or risk being frustrated forever.
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At the end of the kiss her sweet warm breath feathered softly over his mouth and she didn't immediately break away from him, all "guns blazing," as he had suspected she might. Instead she stared up at him, those transfixing hazel eyes of hers appearing distinctly dazed. "Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice almost lowered to a whisper. "Come now…you can't be that naive!" "What are you suggesting?" Serena looked alarmed. "That I wanted you to kiss me?" Ethan's smile was mocking. "You didn't exactly fight me off, darling!" "Why don't you do the world a favor and just drop dead!" He caught her hand as she raised it to slap his face and his grip on her fine-boned wrist bit with a chastening but possessive brand. A dizzying leap of anticipated pleasure and excitement shuddered through him at the knowledge that her spirited nature was as wild as he'd guessed. A soft-footed waiter appeared carrying a tray. Glancing from Serena to Ethan, his eyes reflected concern. "Is everything all right, madam? Sir?" Immediately Ethan dropped Serena's wrist and provocatively stroked his fingers across the fierce rosy glow on her cheek instead. "Yes, of course everything's all right! My wife and I had a little tiff, that's all. You know how it is?" "Yes I do, sir" With a glimmer of sympathy and a conspiratorial male smile, the waiter moved discreetly away. Serena's heart was pounding so thunderously in her chest that it seemed to crowd out any other sound in the room. Her wrist and her cheek felt nothing less than scalded where Ethan had touched it — like he had left his brand on her for the rest of her life. "Your wife?" He shrugged dismissively at her display of outrage. "What else should I have called you? My escort, my paramour — my lover?" "You are so bloody arrogant, it's beyond belief!" "Forgive me if your little insult doesn't wound me, but I've heard worse, Serena, believe me! Now why don't we stop all this arguing, hmm?" Straightening the immaculate cuffs on his suit jacket, Ethan met Serena's furious glance. His expression had visibly softened to something far more beguiling than she had ever witnessed on his handsome face. All the strain and mockery of the past few seconds seemed to dissolve and from the moment she'd registered the impact of that disturbing glance deep in her belly — she knew she was in deeper trouble than she'd even first suspected. "If passionate feelings are going to be aroused… why don't we go back to my place and arouse them together… in bed?"
Chapter Six How many words were there in the English language that meant weak-willed? Serena speculated nervously as she watched Ethan throw his suit jacket onto a bedroom chair, then loosen and remove his silk tie.
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More to the point… what about words meaning a "lack of morals" or "disregarding all common sense?" Her head spun at the implications of what she was about to do — what she was agreeing to do — having come home with Ethan to his terrifyingly elegant house in Belgravia. "What are you thinking about, hmm?" Placing his hands on her shoulders, Ethan drew her towards him, his disconcertingly intense emerald gaze, intimately examining her face. Overwhelmed by the fascinating detail in his arresting visage — for instance, the way the tips of his dark golden lashes almost touched his sculpted cheekbones when he blinked — Serena's glance cleaved to him in awe. The intriguing shadows in the angles and planes of bone and flesh gave him an air of mystery that made her stomach leap. And that mouth — in turn strong, yet curiously vulnerable and suggestive of secrets rarely, if ever, spoken — was just mesmerizing. Then her gaze skimmed the beautifully framed works of art so perfectly positioned on his bedroom walls and she wondered if he'd had the portrait of Rosa — the painting she'd so desperately wanted to buy back from him on her employer's behalf — professionally hung yet And if so, where? But thinking about the portrait and the fact that Ethan was clearly adamant that he wouldn't even consider selling it — Serena bit guiltily down on her quivering lower lip, feeling like the worst kind of traitor, and if the truth were known,; a bit of a tramp, too. She'd always believed she had a low sex drive, which was why, up until now, she'd been quite happy to date the few men she'd met — but not sleep with them. After regretfully losing her virginity at nineteen to a musician she'd met on holiday in France, the event had left Serena feeling disillusioned and disappointed. Nothing spectacular had happened, as she'd naively hoped it might; she'd felt awkward and self-conscious about her body and her partner had been so busy taking his own pleasure that he forgot to be concerned if she was getting any kind of similar satisfaction at all. But this — this maelstrom of desire and emotion she was feeling around Ethan — was just in a different league entirely. Especially as she really shouldn't even like the man, let alone allow him to make love to her! "Am I supposed to be 'thinking' now? Ethan, if I were thinking, I wouldn't be here at all!" She colored hotly and looked away. He chuckled and tipped up her chin so that she was compelled to meet his gaze. "I want to see you with your hair down" he said, his voice slightly rough. Before she could reach up and undo the butterfly clip behind her head, Ethan had completed the task for her. Moments later, her long brown hair tumbled past her shoulders in a silken cloud. "Beautiful," he said, and Serena saw that he meant it. The Lady of Shalott was the pre-Raphaelite painting Ethan admired the most, and with her hair down, Serena Hammond bore an almost uncanny resemblance to the sweet-faced beauty in the painting by Waterhouse. The same model the artist had used in many of his soul-stirring works had died, tragically, as a young girl. Catching some beguiling strands between his fingers, Ethan was captivated by its incandescent loveliness. He was captivated in other ways, too. This woman seemed to possess the power to stir some very unexpected feelings deep within him, besides sexual ones. Had she bewitched him somehow? Feelings were usually the last things he'd concede he desired in a relationship — but was this the start of something more or just a fling hot enough to combust between two fiery, spirited people? Suddenly Ethan banished all thought but one when his desire to be even closer to Serena hijacked his needy aching body in a hot hungry wave and he brought his mouth down on hers with an edge of near savagery. She met the hungry demand of his kiss with equally desperate fervor and minutes later he had her beneath him in bed, the fine Egyptian cotton sheets tangled and their clothes discarded carelessly around the room in their haste to be together, skin to skin.
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Cupping the sweet, plump curve of one satin breast, Ethan bestowed a deeply sensual smile on his lover before bending his head and taking possession of its beautiful dusky tip into his mouth. Demonstrating how deeply this action affected her, with a huskily vocal sigh Serena arched upwards towards him and he slid one knee between her velvet thighs and seductively parted them "Ethan," she breathed, catching such a glimpse of voracious desire in his answering glance that any words she had been intending on uttering were momentarily snatched away. "I — we can't do this unless you have some protection…" "Of course." He moved immediately to retrieve the necessary from a bedside drawer. Ethan claimed her lips in a sensually stirring open-mouthed kiss before sheathing himself. In the next instant he was pushing himself inside her, pausing briefly in surprise to look into her passion-dazed expression as he sensed the particular tightness of the hot silken muscles that were enfolding him. She was either a virgin or her sexual experience up until now had been scant. Ethan had been with enough women to know the difference. A sense of awe, then protection, engulfed him. He began to move inside her with more care — not wanting to overwhelm her with his growing need and his muscles strained to hold back the sheer force of his desire. But then he claimed her softly damp mouth again in a kiss that blew every last vestige of emotional reserve apart. He felt her tremble hard beneath him as she unraveled in his arms and Ethan could at last find his own shattering release. Finding the most extraordinary pleasure at having him fall against her — feeling the fine, silky hairs on his long muscular legs tickle her smooth limbs, his warm breath fanning deliciously across her bared breasts as he lay with his head on her chest — Serena shut her eyes and was almost shocked to find not the merest shadow of guilt spoiling the exquisite moment. What had she to be guilty about? she asked herself in annoyance. Desire was natural and normal, wasn't it? She didn't have to make such a big deal about this. She was a grown-up and her life was her own. And she was far too sensible to start fantasizing that she was in love with the man! Besides…how could you possibly fall in love with someone you didn't even like, let alone have anything in common with? No…in a few minutes' time Serena would quickly get dressed, call a cab to take her back to her cousin Jenny's place where she was staying, and relegate what had just happened to a rather delicious but misguided mistake. She was absolutely certain that Ethan would want to do the same. "Serena?" "Hmm?" "Why don't you stay the night?"
Chapter Seven Peering into the large gilt-edged bathroom mirror in Ethan's rather intimidating and luxurious bathroom the next morning, Serena reviewed the tell-tale smudges beneath her hazel eyes that plainly revealed her lack of sleep and felt her heartbeat thud with dizzying dread. What had she done? Now, in the cold, clear light of day, she looked back on her night of uninhibited lovemaking with Ethan Galbraith — a man who had both mocked her and refused to sell Serena's kindly employer back the painting of Rosa that meant the world to him — with a kind of numbed disbelief. Never before had she let her hormones dictate such an unsound lapse in morals and behavior and quite frankly, she was appalled at herself!
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Not only had she let herself down by sleeping with this man — this arrogant, somewhat ruthless businessman who seemed to care for nobody but himself, but she'd also let down Godfrey — her friend as well as her employer. He was a dear sweet man who wouldn't hurt a fly! Who knew how much getting back the painting would have contributed to his full return to good health? Now all Serena could do was return home to Devon feeling like the most unbelievable traitor. Yet in spite of her shame, she could not deny the powerful wave of emotion she was experiencing towards Ethan. He had been the most sensational lover — definitely passionate yet conveying a surprising tenderness, too, and Serena wondered it he had the capacity within him to express that tenderness emotionally, as well as physically? She was leaving this morning and would probably never find out… Armed behind another frighteningly immaculate tailored suit, Ethan knew his cool, collected appearance belied the cyclone of emotions coursing wildly through him when Serena found him in the dining room drinking coffee. He wryly reflected it was as though she had drawn upon some ancient female magic to enchant and enslave him, because even though he had pretty much slaked his lust for most of last night, he ached for Serena all over again the moment she walked in. "Found everything you needed?" he asked conversationally, folding his newspaper beside him on the highly polished cherry-wood dining table. "Yes, thanks… You want to be careful you don't do the leading chain of chemists out of business with the array of toiletries you've got in there!" Her teasing smile caused Ethan's heart to squeeze. What the hell was the matter with him? A love-struck schoolboy couldn't be more smitten! But even though he deplored his current inability to stay somewhat detached — as he usually managed with ease around women — he was extremely reluctant to relinquish the presence of this particular woman. "I aim to please." Getting up from the table, he made a beeline for Serena, noting she was in stockinged feet, her high-heeled shoes carried down by her side. "So…what are you up to today, hmm?" he asked her, sliding his hand round her small, exquisite jaw. "I'm going home." "And where's home?" Ethan smiled, enjoying the intimate sensation of the dewy skin he caressed with such compulsion. "Ilverton-in-the-Moor… it's a small village on Dartmoor." "So…you only came to London to go to the art auction?" Ethan asked thoughtfully, gently following the line of her jaw with his thumb. "That's right." Serena swallowed hard, wishing he wouldn't devastate her so easily with his touch, making her wish that she was staying right here instead of traveling back home. "I have to go home and tell Godfrey —my employer — that I didn't manage to get the painting. That's going to be hard…I told him I was going to try and persuade you to sell it back to us. No matter how much he'll tell me it doesn't matter, he's going to be so disappointed that I didn't manage it." Her words burst the bubble of the almost unbelievable hopes that Ethan had started to entertain concerning this woman and his heart sank. Was that why she had so easily succumbed to his seduction last night? Was it because she'd been hoping that if she did, Ethan would relent and sell this "Godfrey" she worked for back the painting? He dropped his hand and stared, feeling swift rage replace the previous warmth that had crowded so easily into his chest at the sight of her.
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"So… that's what last night was all about, was it?" He snapped out the words like they were brittle shards of ice. "You must care about this 'Godfrey' a hell of a lot more than most employees care about their employers if you'll even stoop to sleeping with someone to get what he wants!" Horror-struck, the beautifully furnished room seemed to spin sickeningly around Serena. Why oh why hadn't she stopped to choose her words more carefully? Of course she hadn't slept with Ethan because she'd hoped to use her body to entice him to sell them Rosa! The very idea made her feel quite ill! She'd slept with him because she couldn't help herself — telling herself she didn't even like him. That was a lie. She knew that now. Seeing the devastation and disappointment in his handsome face, Serena knew she had been beguiled by the man himself — by what she was, albeit reluctantly, beginning to feel for him. But he was never going to believe her if she tried to explain… not after what she'd just blurted out so unthinkingly! "How could you even come up with such an appalling idea?" She brushed back her hair with a shaking hand. "I may have pursued you to try and get you to reconsider selling the painting, but the only persuasion I had in mind was with words, Ethan! What happened between us last night was completely unexpected for me…. You must believe that! If you knew my past history as far as men were concerned, you'd know immediately that I was no femme fatale!" "You do yourself an injustice, Serena," Ethan mocked, a nerve in his cheek jerking furiously. "Last night that's exactly what you looked like! And no doubt coming home with me and sharing my bed was precisely what you'd been planning for! More fool me for falling for your despicable little ruse!" All Serena wanted to do now was escape. It was nearly killing her to hear Ethan's condemnation. Suddenly the quiet, peaceful beauty of the place she lived was far more preferable than staying in this cold hard city with its cutthroat values and mistrustful inhabitants — people like Ethan who believed that everyone was a potential deceiver, out for his or her own gain. "I'm really sorry that you have such a poor opinion of me. I wish you didn't. I wanted to come home with you last night for myself, Ethan, not for anybody else or for any other reason! As much as I admit I wanted to get the painting back for Godfrey — last night wasn't about him, not for a second! Anyway…I'll go now. I can see that nothing I can say will change your mind about me." When she'd gone and the only sound to be heard was his own harsh breathing, Ethan caught a glimpse of his haggard expression in the mirror facing the dining table and thought that even that didn't reveal the full extent of his own shockingly devastated feelings…
Chapter Eight He'd never noticed before the little flecks of gold in her beautiful eyes. They drew a man's attention as compellingly as pollen drew bees. They instantly reminded him of another bewitching creature — someone he should never have let escape so easily and would now no doubt, live to regret that deed. All because of stupid pride! As fierce, helpless longing arose inside him, Ethan gazed at the stunning perfection of rippling dark hair flowing over buttermilk-smooth shoulders and silently concluded that the bewitching Rosa was everything a man could desire in a beautiful woman — the epitome of femininity. And so was Serena. He'd become aware of her lack of experience when he'd so eagerly bedded her — there was no way that she would have even considered going that far, just to get him to sell her the portrait! But now she was gone and he had had no idea how to even get in touch with her. It served him bloody well right! He shouldn't have been so quick to judge her.
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Laying the portrait to one side, he released a long heartfelt sigh. His mother had adored the painting — she'd told him how she'd envied the imagined freedom and way of life that Rosa seemed to epitomize. Emily Lucas — with her own difficult unhappy circumstances, had good cause for envy. Ben Galbraith — Ethan's father — had been a bastard to her. He was long dead now — his addiction to drink having killed him — and so was Emily. She'd taken her own life to escape the pain of such a disastrous marriage. A twist of pain in his gut, Ethan began to read a letter his mother had given to him before she died. It was from the man she'd been in love with and it had been years since Ethan had looked at it. Ghosts — he seemed to be surrounded by them. He hung his head, longing for the warmth of human touch more than he could possibly say…
*** "It's a bit chilly out here — shall I fetch another blanket?" Fussing around the distinguished silver-haired man seated on the garden seat facing the immaculate lawn, Serena tried not to focus on the strain that was grooved deeply into Godfrey Baillon's weathered and lined face. No matter what he had said to try and comfort her, it had still been a blow to him for her to return home without the portrait. Her stomach fluttered nervously with helpless longing when she thought about the man who now owned that portrait — Ethan Galbraith. He probably loathed and despised her after what had happened between them in London. Was it really only a bare week since she'd seen him? Now she knew she would never see him again. A destroying ache gripped her heart. "I'm not cold at all! I know you mean well, Serena, but I'm enjoying the first spot of real sunshine we've had for days. Now come and sit down beside me and relax for a little while." They both glanced round in surprise at the sound of car tires crunching on the gravel drive. "See who that is, will you dear?" Godfrey instructed.
*** "Ethan!" Trembling in shock, Serena stared at the rueful expression crossing his irresistibly handsome visage and put the flat of her hand against her stomach to calm herself. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?" "Thank God for the village post office that's all I can say! You told me you lived in Ilverton-in-the-Moor and that it was on Dartmoor. Everyone here has heard of Godfrey Baillon it seems, so it wasn't too difficult to track you down. Aren't you going to invite me in? I've had a hell of a drive." Serena was still shaking as she led Ethan into the house and out through the patio doors into the sun-filled garden. What his presence meant exactly she hardly dared speculate, but she hoped it wasn't anything that was going to upset Godfrey. He was so fragile right now and they had to guard his health. "Godfrey? We have a visitor — Ethan Galbraith — the man I told you about from London. Remember?" Her hazel eyes devoured Ethan, noting with secret delight how gorgeous he looked dressed in casual black jeans and a white linen shirt, opened at the neck. "Mr. Galbraith — pleasure to meet you!" Godfrey extended his hand and Ethan stared, apparently dumbfounded by shock. "But you're blind!" he exclaimed.
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Godfrey smiled. "You are wondering why I would be so interested in buying a beautiful portrait if I had not the sight to appreciate it? I do not need to see the face of Rosa again to recall how bewitching it is, dear man! Her face has been imprinted on my mind for more years than I care to recall. All I wanted was to have it near again… to know that it was back where it belonged. Forgive me if that causes you any offence." Ethan felt a rush of blood to his head, turned his glance towards a frowning Serena and sensed a rush of blood go to a far more controversial place. She looked pretty as a picture herself out here in the sunshine — a ravishing rose amongst a garden of gorgeous roses. He swallowed hard and diverted his attention back to Godfrey. "No offence taken. You knew my mother I believe? That's one of the reasons why I've come." "One of the reasons?" Serena asked quickly. "Do I, dear boy?" "Her name was Emily Lucas. She's the reason I wanted to buy the portrait. When it hung in your family home all those years ago when you first met, she loved it so much. Sadly she's gone now, but when I saw it was up for sale, naturally I wanted to buy it." "Emily? You're Emily's boy?" "I had a copy of a letter she had from you years ago. The connection clicked with me when I became aware of your name and address at the top of the page. I suddenly recalled Serena mentioning that she worked for someone with that name and that you lived in Devon. It all fell into place then. Why you were so desperate to buy the portrait back… Everything." Ethan's mother had been Godfrey's childhood sweetheart? Astounded, Serena felt her own eyes blur with tears. Now it all made sense why he'd been so adamant that he didn't want to let the portrait go. Both men had an intimate connection to that lovely picture. Ethan hadn't wanted to acquire it just for the sake of adding to his already considerable collection of art. "'Money' was expected to marry 'money' in those days," Godfrey explained brokenly. "Your mother came here from London to work as a home help and although my parents liked her, they absolutely forbade me to marry her. Consequently, Emily went her way and I, mine. I am so sorry that I wasn't strong enough of character to make her my wife." Seeing the older man's distress, Ethan laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. "It's all 'water under the bridge' as they say. I've brought the portrait with me, Mr. Baillon…. I want you to have it" "My dear boy!"
*** "I knew you had a soft streak beneath that hard-bitten veneer!" Smiling provocatively in the shade of an apple tree heavy with flower, Serena finally found herself alone with Ethan and in his arms. "You're right. It is just a veneer. Underneath I'm a veritable pussycat!" He did a mock growl and grazed her neck with his teeth. "Seriously…it was a wonderful thing you did giving Godfrey the portrait." "It's where it belongs, my darling, just as I am where I belong!"
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When Do the Fireworks Start, Anyway? by Stevi Mittman It's been almost a year since Teddi Bayer's soon-to-be-ex-husband tried to convince her she was going crazy. And Teddi is slowly getting her life back on track—including starting up her own interior decorating business. But as Independence Day approaches and Teddi feels anything but independent, she starts to ask herself, when do the fireworks start, anyway?
Chapter One "I don't like to kvetch." I can say kvetch here in Dr. Ronnie Benjamin's office because my psychiatrist is Jewish and she knows that it means "to complain." Heck, I suppose everyone on Long Island knows what it means to kvetch, since everyone here pretty much does it all the time. "You're expressing your emotions, Teddi, which is a very good thing," she tells me. This is why I'm still seeing her nearly a year after we discovered I wasn't actually going crazy, that my husband was just trying to make me (and the rest of the world) think I was. Dr. B gives great spin. "It's just that it's nearly Independence Day," I say, hearing the whine in my voice and hating it. "And I'm so not independent. I mean, not only do three kids depend on me—" "—which makes you dependable, not dependent," she corrects. (See what I mean about her great spin?) "I'm not there yet," I say. "Now I've got a mortgage payment I can't make this month. So non-independent Teddi Bayer is going to have to borrow yet more money from her father. I mean, at thirty-eight, I should be on my own." She reminds me that at thirty-seven I had to start my life over, this time with a bit of baggage. And now that I have my degree from Parsons, everything will change. "You've chosen to stand on your own feet. You just needed a little support to get there. Now that you've finished being a full-time student, you can be a full-time interior decorator. People will pay you for your advice, you'll be making the world a more beautiful place and you'll have your parents paid back in no time." I shrug, because I really haven't come to see her about owing my parents money. And I don't really resent my kids, except on certain days of the month, when I also resent the sun for shining, the women on TV for being skinny and my neighbors' lawns for being green. And mint chocolate chip ice cream for having so many freakin' calories. What I'm really here for… "I dreamed that Rio and I were making mad, passionate love. He was running kisses up and down my arms, and then his lips meandered—" "Erotic dreams are very normal," she assures me. "And they represent—" "The fact that I'm hornier than hell. No duh. But Rio? After all he did? Not just the affair with Marion, but trying to drive me crazy? I could want sex with him?" Dr. Benjamin tells me that dreams aren't necessarily about what we want. They're just thoughts that we refuse to let surface in our conscious mind and so, needing an outlet, they are released in our dreams by our unconscious mind.
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"So my conscious mind knows the man is scum, but my unconscious mind doesn't care? It just wants the sex. Great." It has been so long. Nearly a year. To think I used to dread the thought of another night of sex. And it's not like my soon-to-be-ex wasn't good at it. I mean, he did this thing with his tongue, and his breath, warm and cool and, oh! He could drive me crazy. Oh wait. He almost did.
Chapter Two Ronnie ask me how my Dad is doing, and I tell her that he's all right. "He's been released from the hospital and my mother is hovering over him like a black hawk—the bird, not the helicopter. They don't eat their mates or anything, do they?" "Those are black widow spiders," she tells me with a laugh. I wonder what mothers who eat their children are called. What about ones who just nibble at the edges of their children's self-confidence? Not, of course, that any mother would do that… "He's agreed to sell Bayer Furniture," I tell her. My father is Bayer Furniture, The Home Of Hassle-Free Shopping And Headache-Free Financing! (You've probably seen the ad.) I can't imagine him not going to the store every day. I can't imagine never getting free furniture and all the other little items, like subscriptions to decorating magazines, which he paid for and wrote off as a business expense. And the timing? Now that I'm a decorator and his connections could be the key to my success? Of course, I'd rather have him alive and well, which is why I had to tell him that not only wouldn't I come and work for him, which was the plan, but that I needed to prove I could do it all on my own. "He wanted to keep it going, no doubt so that I would have a secure job, but between my mother and the doctors he had to give in." "I thought he was saving the business for your brother," she says. I swear the woman has a mind like a steel trap. She forgets nothing. I had a mind like a steel trap once. Unfortunately, the spring broke and now everything just comes and goes willy-nilly. "David told him that he's never coming back from the Bahamas—he owns a piece of a hotel down there and that's his life. But I don't even know if it's true. We all had to convince Dad that selling the business was in everyone's best interest. I told him that even if he kept Bayer, I wouldn't come to work for him." She tells me that she thought that was the plan, for me to get my degree and then work at Bayer while the kids were in school. It was a great plan, but it didn't include my father having a heart attack. "So how is the search for new clients going?" she asks. She's already traded my services for hers and her office couldn't look better. Gone is the leather chair that was cold in the winter and sticky in the summer. Gone is the Herculon couch you could stick a pen into without damaging anything. Gone is the carpet with the dots I was always connecting in my head. I lie and say it's going great. And then my hour is up. If I was feeling even bitchier I might point out that she didn't get half a carpet one week and another quarter the next because her freaking time was up. No, I fixed her problems straight through. No clocks involved, except the one I chose for her credenza, which is discreet and doesn't tick audibly. I think I may still have resentment issues. But they'll have to wait until next week.
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Chapter Three Bobbie, my best friend and neighbor is having coffee with me at my house. Okay, so I'm having coffee and she's complaining about how I only have decaf (see what I mean about the kvetching?). Hey, at least I'm using the Braun coffee pot my mother insists is far superior to my good old Mr. Coffee, so I should get some points for that, anyway. Points? you might ask, and well you should. The fact is that there is this secret handbook of Long Island rules (or what I like to call The Book) that I can't seem to get anyone to admit exists. But it must, because everyone but me knows the right clothes to wear, the right car to drive, the right handbag to carry. And they know the right coffee to serve. Did you know that your coffee choice now determines your status in life? Maybe you've noticed it, too? It's not just the pot, but whether the coffee is caffeinated or de-caf, flavored or straight, with milk and sugar or without somehow ranks you on the social scale. If I could learn to drink Starbucks' Arabian Mocha Sanani black, fresh ground (you have to buy it whole at the store and grind it at home, apparently) I think I would rate a respectable score in The Book. At least for coffee. Unfortunately, I drink decaf Chocolate Raspberry—with milk and sugar. The only thing that allows Bobbie even to speak to me is that I don't get the stuff at Waldbaum's, but at a little hole-in-the-wall shop in Huntington that charges twice as much. Supposedly, if you drink it black you can tell the difference. I wouldn't know. Anyway, I filled the pot with bottled Poland Springs water—because I understand that using a domestic is permissible for coffee and tea—and I use the gold filter Bobbie gave me, but Bobbie still doesn't want any. "You know what you need?" she asks. I know what she thinks I need, so I disagree. "I do not need sex." "That's not what I was going to say," she says. "But now that you mention it, you do." "Fine. Then Starbucks is what I need, right?" Bobbie is nothing if not predictable. Only that's not it, either. "Wrong again, Swami Bayer. What you need is a partner." "Back to sex," I say, but she shakes her head. "No. For your new business. You need me." Okay, yes, she was my partner when I was painting kids' furniture and selling it in a couple of boutiques on the Island, but that was sort of a hobby. It's something I hope I'll have to give up in favor of my new business. And while I don't want to hurt Bobbie's feelings, what she knows about interior design could fill a thimble and leave room for paint samples. She acknowledges this without my having to say it, because that's what real friends can do, and Bobbie is my real friend, through thick and thin—which, lately, describes me and her, in that order. "I have good business sense," Bobbie says. "I'm a fabulous shopper, I'm a people person and I am a natural-born saleswoman." This is true. Bobbie, like my soon-to-be-ex-husband, could get the Pentagon to buy lipstick—probably on the basis that it would boost morale. Bobbie continues. "I could help you get clients. I could keep the books. I could pump up your ego and sit around telling you how great your sketches are." I remind her she already does the last one.
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"And then there's the fact that I could shop with someone else's money," she adds as the coup de grâce while pulling out my personal phone book from the kitchen drawer. "What's the name of that neighbor of your mother's? The one your mother is always complaining about?" "There's only one?" I ask, because my mother complains about everyone. I don't offer a name because the last thing I need is clients in my mother's neighborhood running to her with their complaints about me. "Adelstein!" Bobbie says. "How convenient that it starts with an a." And before I can stop her she's dialing Adele Adelstein's number.
Chapter Four Adele Adelstein looks like she could have been the witch in Hansel and Gretel, down to the mole on her chin. She needs a makeover more than her living room does, but I don't get paid for that kind of advice. I still can't believe that Bobbie convinced her to see me. Must have been the line she threw in about how I'm still recovering from the awful ordeal of nearly shooting my ex-husband that suckered the woman in. Nothing like some good healthy prurient interest in your neighbor's child. "So how are you?" she asks with that tone that implies I will never get over this chapter in my life. She seems very disappointed when I tell her I'm fine. "But the shooting," she insists. "It must have been awful." "It was a paint gun," I remind her, leaving out that I didn't know that at the time, that my husband had made me think someone was breaking into the house and when he burst through the kitchen door—next to which he'd conveniently left his paint gun—I picked it up, aimed and shot. "But your mother used a real gun, didn't she?" Adele asks. I nod, remembering how my mother shot Rio in the thigh, though that wasn't exactly where she was aiming. The woman doesn't mess around. Apparently having lost a toddler to a swimming pool, she wasn't prepared to now lose a daughter to the insane asylum. Of course, knowing my mother, she could have just been afraid that I was horning in on her territory, planning on being the princess of Woe-Is-Me, the dominion over which she's had exclusive rule as queen for over thirty years. "We're trying to put all that behind us," I say. "So what did you have in mind for this room?" She looks around like she's never seen her own living room before. "It's just so sad for the children," she says. "The living room?" It's dreary, but I'm afraid if she opened the drapes we'd actually have to see what the place looks like. As far as I can tell, she hasn't redecorated since they moved in two years before I was born. "No, your situation." Adele moves two magazines to the corner of her coffee table as if the gesture has now set her place to rights. "Always so sad for the children." I agree. And in this case, not only did we all have to say goodbye to Rio, but we had to say goodbye to the man we all thought he was. Well, except little Alyssa, who, at six, was too young to figure out what the whole break-up was about. She still has no idea that Rio was playing tricks on me to make me think I'd lost my mind, and she doesn't know it wasn't all right for him to love Marion while he was supposed to love me. Adele wants to know how they are taking it. I want to know what she has in mind for the living room. She hasn't seemed to give the matter any thought.
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"Well, do you have a favorite color?" I ask, noticing that her home resembles a Candyland board: primary colors everywhere, with some pink and turquoise thrown in for good measure. Not surprisingly, the answer is no. I ask if she can narrow it down to say, three? Three colors can usually be combined in a very nice palette if they are balanced right, and if the right intensity and hue are chosen. Adele asks if I am going to get a divorce. I ask if she is going to have her living room redecorated. She says my mother says I am going to get a divorce and what with my father selling Bayer Furniture, she doesn't know how they'll support me. I say that I am fully capable of supporting myself and my children. When she asks how, I remind her that I'm an interior designer and that I make a living giving people advice about their furnishings and decor. She looks at me like they should have kept me at South Winds Psychiatric Hospital last summer. "People actually pay you for that?" I look at my watch. Another afternoon down the drain.
Chapter Five "When are the fireworks?" Alyssa asks me for the millionth time. I'm grateful when Jesse, my nearly ten-year-old son, answers her this time and tells her the Fourth of July is still almost two weeks off. "And they're very noisy," he warns her. "But you shouldn't be scared because Mommy and I will be there and we'd never let anything happen to you." I hate Rio Gallo almost as much as I love the son he and I produced—the son who shouldn't have to be the big man in the family just yet. I remind myself that no one ever said life was fair, least of all anyone in my family, or my mother would have hit them with "If life was fair, I'd have my bouncing baby boy on my knee." Of course, at this point, had my little brother Markie lived, his thirty-five-year-old bounce would break my mother's seventy-year-old knees. "It'll be great fun," I tell Lys. I don't add because it's free, but I think it. Dana, the oldest of my children at twelve, says something sarcastic about how it'll be as much fun as watching mold grow, but I choose not to notice. She's mad because this summer she will not be attending Camp Runamok, even though her grandfather offered to pay her fees. I am not any happier than she is that she will be home all summer with only her siblings to play with and only the community pool to swim in. I've pointed out to her that she's lucky to live out in the suburbs, where the Fresh Air Fund sends its children, and that she really doesn't need organized activities to have a good time. She's pointed out to me that had I not had the pool construction stopped and the hole filled in, they'd at least be able to invite people over. Silly me, worried about something like a pool in the backyard after having seen my brother drown all those years ago. Dr. B cheered for me for getting rid of the pool. So did Bobbie. But I can't blame my kids for not feeling the same way. I suggest Dana invite her friends to play video games like Jesse, and she rolls her eyes at me in that way preteen girls do that says I'm an idiot who will never understand. "All my friends are away at camp," she reminds me. "And new friends might come for a pool, but not for a stupid Xbox they have already." So my question is, has anybody (besides my oldest child) missed the fact that my life sucks, that it's circling the drain, gathering speed like water in the spit bowl at the dentist's office?
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And that if something doesn't turn around quickly, if I don't get a client, a man or a winning lottery ticket, I'm going to have to resort to desperate measures? Lys starts crying about not getting to go to camp, though last summer she sobbed bitterly about having to go.
Chapter Six "I dreamt about Rio again last night," I tell Bobbie, who brought her own mug of Starbucks with her this morning. "There was this thing he used to do…" I feel myself blushing just at the thought. Bobbie is all ears. "I think it's a very bad sign," I say, especially since I can feel myself growing moist in places that haven't seen any action in nearly a year. I squirm in my seat. "You know what you need?" Bobbie asks. "I already have a partner," I tell her. I've agreed to let Bobbie go into my business with me, and Bobbie has even put up a little capital for advertising—not to mention spending half a day telling me I'm wonderful and that I will make us both a fortune at this thing. "Not a partner," she says. "A vibrator." I spray the counter with the tea I'm drinking. "What happened to a man?" I ask when I've recovered. "We've given up on that?" She tells me she doesn't think I'm ready for a man. "What you need is casual sex with someone you can trust," she says. "And you're not the kind of woman who could make love without feeling love. Which means that either you or he would be in for heartbreak, and I'm not risking that." "You're not?" "Hey, I have a stake in your business now, not to mention I have to put up with you when you're miserable. So today we buy you a vibrator." She takes a sip of her coffee. "Starbucks and sex. Life doesn't get better than this." I look down at my cup that is filled with green tea because I didn't want the whole coffee lecture from Bobbie, but I only had some leftover bags from sushi take-out which taste more like grass than anything else. I think about the sex I'm not having with the husband I don't want anymore, and I'm not seeing my life the way Bobbie's seeing hers. "My life sucks," I admit. It's a big admission for me, and Bobbie cheers. "I bet your Dr. B would say something like, 'Now that you recognize it, you can do something about it.'" She probably would, but I'll never admit it. Bobbie pulls out my Yellow Pages and I read over her shoulder. "I can't go to one of those X-rated sex-toy stores," I tell her. "At least not alone." Bobbie says that's no problem. I've got her. "And not in this neighborhood," I say, though, of course, there aren't any porno stores in our neighborhood because nice people in the suburbs get their sex on Cinemax.
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She says that's what the phone book is for. "What's it called when the solution to a problem is the root of the problem?" she asks me. "A conundrum?" I ask. "Isn't that some kind of oral sex?" she says with an evil grin. Bobbie's sworn off booze, but I'd swear there's something more than caffeine in that coffee she's swigging. I ask her how the solution to my problem is my problem. "Well, Rio'd know where to get this stuff in a heartbeat, wouldn't he?" I admit he probably would. "And he's the reason you need it, right?" she asks. "That's called irony," I tell her. "And I've changed my mind." In fact, it wasn't my idea in the first place, as I recall. Jesse saunters into the kitchen and I slam the phonebook closed. "Too late," he says, and I decide that my life, sucky as it was, is now over. "V is for video games. Guess I know what you're getting me for my birthday." "Guess you do," Bobbie says. "And I guess I know what I'm getting your mother."
Chapter Seven In case you are ever in the market for one, vibrators are not listed under v in the yellow pages. We tried sex shops, we tried adult toys. Then we got into the car and tried Route 110 in Farmingdale, home of discount furniture, discount cosmetics and discount crap. Bingo. "I'm not going in," I say when she pulls into a parking space in front of a store whose windows are completely covered with signs that say Adults Only; Nude, Hot And XXX. My cheeks feel like they are on fire. To tell the truth, so do other regions. Bobbie agrees and says, "Fine. We'll just go to the supermarket and get you a cucumber, instead." Then, to indicate that despite what she says we are most definitely going in, she reaches down near my feet and grabs her newest handbag, which probably exceeds size restrictions for the overhead bin on Jet Blue. I tell her she isn't funny. "I do not need sex, and if I did need sex, I'd like some hunky guy whispering he loves me while I'm having some." Bobbie reminds me that my need for love to be associated with sex is the reason we are in the market for a vibrator in the first place, and bets that they have one that talks to you while you use it. I imagine muffled words from somewhere down between my thighs. Would such a vibrator have choices? Dirty/dirtier/dirtiest? Loving/encouraging/demanding? I imagine my vibrator insisting on his turn and I grimace. I imagine removing the batteries, and smile. I imagine Dana or Jesse finding the thing in my nightstand drawer, and freak.
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"Forget it," I say, but Bobbie's already out of the car and I find myself sitting alone outside a porn shop while people in the traffic that passes by stare at me. I throw myself across the front seats, my head on Bobbie's seat, her gear shift getting personal with me. And then, because someone up there has a good sense of humor, a car pulls in beside ours and a man gets out and glances into ours. I imagine what he thinks he's seeing. I mean, paint this picture yourself—a woman waiting in an SUV, her head ready to rest in the driver's lap when he returns with his porno purchase… The man's jaw drops and he licks his lips as he closes his mouth—not lasciviously, just unconsciously. His face is beet red. To save us both embarrassment, I pretend to have been fiddling with something under the dashboard, and I right myself and open the door so that I can explain that I'm having car trouble…or stopped to take an aspirin and dropped it…or heaven knows what I'll make up. Only the guy jumps into his car, saying something that sounds like thanks, but no thanks, his wife would kill him. And he's gone. "Come in here," Bobbie yells from the doorway where she is clearly holding several items. "They have great stuff!"
Chapter Eight "If I'd come here a year ago," Bobbie tells me as she leads me down the aisles, "Mike never would have had his affair with what's-her-name." "Phyllis Hep—" I start, but Bobbie glares at me. I should know by now that we never mention the woman's name. It's one of those rules. Men who leave get nicknames like Bigfoot, or Mr. Landerer (first name being Phil). If they come back, it's the "other woman" who gets the name. We call Mike's mistake Circa '69, when we refer to her at all, because she wears flowery dresses and thinks she's a hippie. "I'm getting one of these," Bobbie says, handing me a rubber ring on a card that promises longer, harder erections and asking me to hold it because her hands are full. "And this is for you," she says, handing me a fourteen-inch rubber penis, which I have no choice but to hold because dropping it would be a sort of Lorena Bobbitt move, and while I was really tempted last summer, I've gotten over that urge rather well. Maybe too well, if my dreams are any indication. Meanwhile Bobbie is pulling things off shelves and wall racks like an alcoholic at a liquor salesmen's convention, grabbing things and pushing them into my hands, piling them against my chest. "This will be fun," she says, and tickles my nose with a feather as we come to the end of the aisle and turn to go up the next. Which is where we run into Bill Frankel, the man who used to live down the block with his wife, Adrienne, before he had his sex-change operation. Billie, as he's now called, is wearing a frilly blouse, long hair and lipstick. But there is no mistaking him…er…her. She stares at us. Bobbie stares back at her. I choose to stare at my feet. Billie points a finger at Bobbie, draws a line to me, keys in on the rubber penis and makes a very pretty little o with her lipsticked mouth. "It's not like that," I say, but Billie thinks she knows better, and Bobbie seems to be enjoying her misperception. "Really. These are gag gifts for her sister's shower." Look, it's the best I can come up with under the circumstances. "Diane's getting married?" Billie says, eyes wide, which is understandable since Diane is gay.
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"Commitment ceremony," I say, and Bobbie laughs. "Yeah," she agrees. "We're all going to get committed." I tell Bobbie I'm leaving. I put the rubber penis back on the shelf and tell her that I'll leave the rest of the stuff on the counter. Bobbie brushes the hair out of my eyes, a gesture meant to guarantee Billie's suppositions and I duck out of range. On the way out of the store I see an ad for cheap business phone services and snatch it up so that I can appear busy in the car. By the time Bobbie comes out I've already called the phone service and set up my outgoing announcement. I tell Bobbie we're in business. She hands me a plain brown bag which appears to hold a loaf of French bread, or something very similar. "We sure are," she says.
Chapter Nine Bobbie and I are off to see our first prospective client. We are dressed in black and white, so as not to clash with the already existing decor or with any samples we might present. The house we are going to is in Woodbury, a neighborhood that has some older homes and a lot of new developments with names like "The Gates," "The Woodlands" or "The Ponds"—all of which are interchangeable. We take Jericho Turnpike, because everything worth finding on the north shore of Long Island is either off that or Northern Boulevard, which doesn't extend this far east. Bobbie reads off the address and I turn into "The Knolls." "What are knolls, anyway?" I ask as we take McAllister to McAdams to McFarland. "Must be something Irish." "Aren't they like those little trolls?" Bobbie asks. "That's gnomes," I say. "I think they're like little hills. Mounds." "So maybe girl gnomes," Bobbie says. She's been trying to talk dirty for two days, ever since we went to the porn store. "You know, Venus mounds?" "Mons," I correct, stopping in front of a condo that looks exactly like the condos to the left and right of it. "And get your mind out of the gutter." Bobbie tells me she isn't going to stop until I tell her I've used her little gift. I tell her that her "gift" is anything but little and she asks if I want to know about the things she bought for herself and Mike. "No," I say adamantly, reaching into the back of the car for my attaché case—a really good imitation Louis Vuitton my mother bought me to impress potential clients. She'd have bought the real thing, she said, but, "If I can't tell the difference, no one can." Then she told me that, of course, she actually knew it was a copy the moment she saw it, so I should be sure to keep the case at least ten feet from any client. And hope they don't have her eyesight. I like Marge Barone the instant she opens the door. She's got a wonderful smile and she and her husband welcome Bobbie and me into their home like we're honored guests. "All this blue," Bobbie says, and I realize she may have to become a silent partner. Literally.
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"Blue is a wonderful color," I say. "It works so well with anything." Except more blue, I think. Marge asks me if I think it's too blue. I tell her that more of another color would set the blue off better, make it zing. "Picture white trim against these blue walls," I say. "A white chair rail. White picture frame molding creating three large rectangles on this wall." I point to a blue expanse — one of many. I see the Barones picturing. And liking. "Now try this. Picture deep mahogany door moldings, wainscoting—" I gesture up the lower portion of the wall. "Nice," Vince Barone says, nodding. I ask them about the blue carpeting. They're willing to pull it up. Yes! "I'd go with bleached wood for the white trim. Dark wood—but not the same—if you're going with the mahogany wainscoting." "I like how you think," Vince says. Marge wants to know if she decides to go with the white, am I thinking wicker? "Too casual for this living room," I tell her. "Though if you like that open, airy look, we could certainly do accessories in it. That or a white wrought-iron New Orleans sort of look." Her smile says it all. I explain about my fees, how I prefer to charge an hourly rate rather than add a percentage to their purchases and they seem to like that. I unzip my LV bag to pull out the cards with our new business phone number that I've printed myself on the computer, and my "French bread" leaps out. Apparently my partner folded it inside like one of those cans of snakes I used to send the kids at camp. Mortified, I say something about having taken the briefcase to a shower while Bobbie says something about some "business" we're redecorating. This is the last call Bobbie will make with me. With all the dignity I can muster, I hand my card to Marge and look deep into her eyes. "I hope you'll call me," I say. Vince puts out his hand to shake mine. "If she doesn't," he says, "I will."
Chapter Ten On our way out the door I see a familiar car parked tail-to-tail behind mine. It's familiar because I used to drive it, but now it belongs to my can't-be-soon-enough-ex husband, Rio Gallo. I ask what he's doing here, and he tells me he wants to take the kids out for pizza tonight. "And you've never heard of a phone?" I ask. It creeps me out that he follows me around. It's not the first time, and I've reconciled myself that it won't be the last. He says he figured I'd hang up on him. Another not-the-first-nor-the-last event in our relationship. I tell him he can't take the kids for pizza. He can't have anything to do with them. "I'm their dad, Teddi," he reminds me, and he's smart enough to say it sadly instead of shoving it down my throat. I had all the shoving down my throat I could take when we were married, if you get my drift. "You want them to think I don't miss them? I don't care what happens to them? That they don't mean anything to me?"
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Dr. B says I'm easily manipulated. I prefer to think that I have the ability to see issues from both sides. Some people call it rationalizing. I call it survival. I tell him that he can take them out for pizza only, that Bobbie and I will be in the same restaurant, and that I will take them home. He agrees. And he says that I can bring the kids, too, if I want to, and he'll just meet us there. And then he asks me for money to pay for the pizza. I give Bobbie a can-you-believe-this look and reach for my handbag. "I'll give it to you there," I say, instead of handing it over, thus insuring—I hope—that he won't disappoint my kids by "forgetting" to show up. Rio gives me his pathetic puppy dog look. "I miss you, Ted," he says. "The smell of your skin, the way you used to—" "—fall for all your lines? Well, I'm not the woman you used to be married to, Rio," I say. "I wish you were," he says wistfully. The truth is, I wish we could go back, too. Be in love, and ignorant, and be looking forward to the future together. Now the best part of my future is that he isn't in it. Except for tonight. I tell him to meet us at Pastaeria at six, and he tells me he'll be there and hops into his car. We get into mine and when I start it up I realize the gas gauge, despite my filling it up last night, reads nearly empty. Now, back in the day when he was driving me crazy, Rio used to somehow remove my gas and make me think I hadn't filled up when I was sure I had. But I'm not going crazy anymore. "Son of a bitch!" I say before I can censor myself. "He stole my gas!" Bobbie hides her laugh behind her hand, and I try to see the humor in an ex-husband who is destined to be in my life as long as I have children. "Forget Rio. They're going to hire us," Bobbie says, gesturing with her head toward the Barones' condo. "I know," I say, and try as I might to fight it, I'm smiling and this excitement in my chest is bubbling up and threatening to overflow. "We should celebrate," Bobbie says, and reaches for her oversized handbag as we see Rio's car circle the block. Figures that he can't find his way out of the McDevelopment. She hands me her makeup case and continues to dig in her bottomless purse. "Don't even—" I start thinking she's got something from the porn shop in there, not to mention the entire contents of a small CVS. "You've got a dirty mind," she says, as if she isn't the one who put the embarrassing plastic member in my attaché case. From her bag she pulls out a small bottle of champagne "Ta da!" she says as she hands it to me. "What? No glasses?" I ask. She digs further as we see Rio's car once again. "Do you think he's waiting for us to leave?" I ask, as Bobbie unearths two plastic champagne flutes. "Who cares?" she asks, and she takes back the bottle and pops the cork. "To us!" I watch Rio drive by slowly. "To Independence Day!"
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Chapter Eleven We wait three days and hear nothing from the Barones. I am painting superheroes on step stools at forty dollars a pop. I just can't believe we didn't blow them away. Bobbie has a friend who works at a children's furniture store. She gets some names of expectant mothers out of her and we make cold calls all afternoon. Seventy calls later we get one woman to bite. She is willing to talk to me about possibly doing her new baby's room. "I'm just interested in hearing your ideas," she tells me. Read: I'll listen, I'll steal, I'll do it myself. Still, you never know what might come of it. It's the only way to give our free samples, and it only costs me my time. I set up an appointment with her and start thinking baby thoughts. Bad idea. Makes me want another baby. Of course, Alyssa comes in whining about how she hates the kids at the week-long day camp I've enrolled her in, hates the counselors and wants to visit her grandmother. This cures my baby-lust quickly. Bobbie warns me against going to my mother's in what she calls my "fragile state," by which she means that I am in perpetual fear that I won't be able to support myself and my kids, that I'll have to sell the house, move to an apartment somewhere out in Suffolk and bag groceries for the rest of my life. I ignore her and go anyway because "Hopes springs eternal" or because "There's no place like home" or some other cliché that doesn't actually apply in any way to my mother or my feelings about the home I grew up in. I know—you think you've got problems with your mother. Well, let me ask you this: Did you ever come home with a friend from school to find your mother dressed to the nines, her hair freshly done, with her head in the open oven and a note on the counter that says she's sorry there are no freshly baked cookies but she needed the oven for a more pressing matter? And, if you did, were you seven at the time and did you need the housekeeper to read the script for you? She hasn't gotten any easier. It's gotten so that the doctor left commitment and discharge papers on file at South Winds Psychiatric Hospital to facilitate her comings and goings. It's not that I have no sympathy for my mother. I don't know what I would have done if one of my kids had drowned (poo, poo, spit on the evil eye, don't even think about it, cross your fingers, yech), but it's hard not to get the sense that she's spent thirty years not in tribute to him, not putting her grief to some good use, but in proving that she's a good mother because she's still grieving. It sounds harsh, but you don't have to live with her. "Hello, sweetheart," she says, greeting my daughter. "Take off your shoes. They're dirty. And don't go in the living room." "Hi, Mom," I say. "Like this you go out?" she asks, looking at my white jeans and T-shirt in which I thought I looked really good. Casual, but good. "No wonder you have no clients." My father comes in from the kitchen and he lights up at the sight of Alyssa and me. "My shayna maidelas," he cries out. My pretty girls. "Don't pick her up," my mother says when he goes to hug Lys. "You'll have another heart attack and then we won't be able to go to Boca."
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"Hi, Dad," I say and peck him on the cheek. He's getting his color back, filling out a little. "I snuck you some rugelach," I whisper in his ear. "Lys has it in her toy bag." My mother pretends not to hear, though I know she has the ears of a dog and hears frequencies the rest of us don't, like new-merchandise-is-in calls from Henri Bendel and Tiffany's. "So, clients beating down your doors?" my father asks. "Need a stick to keep them away?" My cell phone rings and I tell him that yes, it looks like we do. "Hello?" "The Barones don't want us," Bobbie says. "They said they most definitely don't want what you apparently have in mind."
Chapter Twelve "So what I think," I tell Dr. Benjamin, who doesn't seem inclined to believe me, "is that Rio somehow scared off the Barones. He was circling the neighborhood, hanging around when we left their place, and I can't find any other explanation for their complete turnaround. I mean, they loved my ideas." She supposes it's possible that Rio spoke to them, but in a tone that says she thinks it's as likely as Condi Rice resigning from politics to take up water ballet. "Why would he do this?" she asks. "Because if I can't support myself, then maybe I'll take him back," I suggest, remembering how he said that he missed me and choosing to believe that he meant it. He did show up for pizza with the kids, after all. "And then he could support you?" she asks pointedly, knowing that my father fired him when he found out about his tricks and about Marion. "Well, no, but—" "Does he know about your father's heart attack and selling the business?" she asks. Of course, the kids have told him. "So if he foiled your business plans, he would support you how exactly?" "He'd get a job," I say. Something he apparently hasn't been able or willing to do since I kicked him to the curb. "And he'd like that? It's something he'd want to do?" Well, of course he wouldn't, so my whole theory falls apart. "Are you wishing he would come back?" Dr. B asks me. I tell her I wish for it every night, just after getting cancer and before Armageddon. She doesn't appreciate sarcasm. "You were dreaming about him, as I recall," she says. "Still having those dreams?" Not exactly. "Well, I am still having very good sex with him in my dreams," I admit. I don't tell her about my new toys because they haven't come out of the bag yet. "In these, he's more tender, more contrite. The sex is slower, better…" I take a deep breath. The truth is that those dreams are making Bobbie's accoutrements irrelevant. Rio is even better in dreams than he was in reality, and that was pretty damn good. I think what makes it really good, though, is the end of my dream. "And?" Dr. B asks.
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"And then, when I'm done, when I'm totally satisfied—I mean in the dream, he tells me that it's his turn. And I agree." Dr. B's eyebrows rise ever so slightly. I think if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't even notice. "And I scramble off the cot—he's doing me in the room I had at South Winds, I think—and he stands up, and I get down on my knees…" I'm enjoying telling her almost as much as I enjoyed it in last night's dream. "And I reach under the bed, grab a gun, and blow his privates off." Ronnie nods. "I'm glad to see you're making progress," she says and puts up her hand. I high-five her and tell her I'll see her next week.
Chapter Thirteen Dana is sleeping over at a friend's house. She insists the girl is not a friend, because then I'd be able to claim she has someone to do something with while all her real friends are away at camp. Or maybe she's afraid of being disloyal. Anyway, she's sleeping over at a person's house tonight. Jesse is camping with Danny Tahany and his dad. He was reluctant to leave me alone, but I kept telling him all the girly things I wanted to do, like shave my legs and dye my hair. And when I mentioned depilation, he was out of the house with his sleeping bag faster than I could say "scalding hot wax." Alyssa is having a sleepover at her grandmother's, the impetus for which, I believe, is my mother's wish to leave a legacy of good taste and upscale values—and she's given up on me. She took Alyssa to her beauty parlor this afternoon for a haircut and a manicure. I'm sure it sounds better than it was, since Alyssa's requests would be overridden (and yes, I do mean ridden over, as in roughshod) by my mother's dictates (and yes, I do mean dictates, as in dictatorship). What all that means is that I am all alone, and after shaving and waxing and dyeing and plucking, it's still only nine-thirty and it's just me and my loaf of "French bread." After leafing through the latest issue of MORE, (a subscription my mother gave me and almost canceled when I reminded her I was not over forty, but if I was, just how old that would make her,) I give in and pull Bobbie's bag from its hiding place at the back of my closet. Then I go downstairs and make sure all the doors and windows are locked up tight. It's still nearly eighty degrees outside, but I figure I can open the windows again later, or turn up the a/c. Back in the bedroom, I approach the plain brown bag with caution. I don't know what Bobbie's bought, and I'm not sure I want to know. Annoyed with myself, I say aloud, "You're being an idiot," and dump the contents of the bag on the bed. Upon seeing what's there—potions and lotions and gizmos and gadgets—I change my mind. "No, you're not," I answer myself, shoving back into the bag one or two things that I don't even want to know what to do with and stare at the rest. "Hey, it's not illegal," my adventurous side says. This is new, this talking to myself aloud, and I don't think I like it. I have a very abrasive tone, as if I find myself both disappointing and ridiculous at the same time. When I was losing my mind (or thought I was) I saw The Supremes dancing in my kitchen, telling me to "Stop! In The Name Of Love." At the time, I was throwing china.
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Now I'm hearing something that sounds a lot more like Christina Aguilera singing "Lady Marmalade." So I "Go sister, Soul sister" in my underwear, which isn't as sexy as Rio ever wanted it to be, and I strut my stuff in front of my mirror before meandering back to the paraphernalia on the bed. "There's no harm in looking," Miss Adventurous says. "Or touching." "Not that!" Miss Prudy Pie says, when I pick up a very realistic-looking rubber penis. "See if anything X-rated is on Cinemax," Miss Adventurous says. "But don't forget to shut the blinds!" This from Prudy Pie. I shut the blinds. I turn the lights off and light a candle near the bed. I remember once Rio and I started a small fire when, in the midst of passion, we knocked a candle off the night stand and it started to burn the carpet. I figure there's no danger of that this time, so I leave the candle burning. I lie on the bed, feeling like a total dork. I flip on the TV. There's a Monk I haven't seen. One of the good ones, with Sharonna. "Tape it and watch it with the kids," I mutter, and I change the channel. I'm not sure I can do this. And then the phone rings. Caller ID lets me know it's my mother. I can't remember being this happy to have her call.
Chapter Fourteen It's hot. I painted furniture all morning and I don't know who is more bored, me or the kids. Bobbie is melting on the lawn chair in my driveway. "Okay, fine," I say. "Let's all go to the beach." Yelps of joy greet me. Lys runs inside to tell her brother and sister, and only an hour later, after packing toys and food, changing bathing suits several times, Dana calling every non-friend she's made this summer, and getting Jesse's friend Danny to join us, we are in Bobbie's SUV on our way to the beach. One nice thing about living on Long Island—and despite my griping, there are many nice things, like a gazillion stores including five T.J. Maxx stores within fifteen minutes of my house, Carvel, fabulous restaurants, Dunkin' Donuts, great beauty salons, Friendly's, incredible medical facilities—is that we are surrounded by beaches. To the north is the Sound, which separates us from Connecticut. Up there are mostly town beaches—pretty rocky, though not compared to lots of other places I've been. Out east, the Hamptons are all chi-chi upscale million-dollar bungalows owned by the likes of Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley—separately, of course. And to the south and running almost the length of the island is Jones Beach, where we're headed. A World Class beach which has, in addition to fab white sand, some of the best-looking bodies those aforementioned beauty salons and medical facilities can produce. "Don't they know that tans aren't healthy?" I ask Bobbie, as she wipes her drool off on the edge of our towel.
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Suddenly, someone who looks like he just walked out of the pages of GQ is heading in our general direction. "Oh my God," I say, trying to ditch the watermelon in my hand, three kids and five pounds. He stands over the blanket, the sun blazing behind him. I shield my eyes, pretending it's the sun that dazzling me. "Aren't you that decorator I met on the train?" he asks me as my cell phone rings the familiar Looney Tunes theme which signals my mother's calling. "And you were so excited about getting your degree?" "It's Grandma!" Alyssa shouts, scrambling over me to get to my phone. "Give it to me," Jesse directs her. "You're not supposed to answer Mommy's phone. It could be business." "No, it's Grandma," Dana yells at him. "Let Lys get it." I pretend there are no children pulling intimate things out of my beach bag, that there is no ice cream dripping down my leg. I pretend my life is not, as it always is, on public display. "Yes, I'm her…er …she …the girl from the train…uh…woman from the train." "I'm Brad," he says, reaching down and I'm thinking not Pitt, but close. Very, Very close! "Grandma wants to talk to you," Lys says and hands me the phone. I'd just hang up, but he's staring at me expectantly, so I say, in my most genteel voice, "Hi, Mother." And she says, loud enough to be heard in Jersey, "He's too young for you." "Thanks for calling, Mom," I say, wondering how anyone's timing can be that good. Must be the shock therapy she had at South Winds that gives her special receptors. "I got you a client," she says. "And not Cheapo Adelstein. I don't know what made you call that ditz." "Mom, I have to go," I say, while my statue takes a few steps backward. "Call Rachel Lampert. Her house is a disaster. I told her you could absolutely change her life, introduce her to something she's never had before—a clean house." I tell her I have to go, wondering if this Rachel person is a friend of my mother's, and if she is, why? Meanwhile, the statue has settled several blankets away. I summon every nerve I have, resist the urge to have one of the kids deliver it, get myself up, walk over there with my thighs sticking to each other, and not just from the ice cream and hand him one of my new cards. "Call me," I say, and see the body next to his turn over, revealing boobs on the front. The goddess with the blond locks pushes up her sunglasses to stare at me. "About decorating your house," I add. Brad winks at me. He. Winks. At. Me. And then says he'll call. I float back to our towel to be greeted by four expectant faces. "I have to go pee-pee," says the smallest one.
Chapter Fifteen
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Later that night I get a call from Brad-Nearly-Pitt. He reminds me that I met him on the train and then again yesterday. "Brad, from the beach," he says. "Remember?" Like anyone could forget that Brad? "I'm interested in your services," he says. "You know, the business from the card?" I pretend I'm happy that's what he's interested in. He sounds younger than he looked. Maybe my mother was right. "You do this with your kids?" he asks. "I don't mean with them, I mean even though you have them?" "Working mom," I say breezily, as if that's easy. "Right, I guess. I mean, it's what you hear, right? Anyway, I didn't want to leave a message on that number," he says. "So I looked you up in the book. I hope it's okay. I just felt funny about it, you know?" No, I don't, but I tell him sure, and say it's fine for him to call me at home. Anytime. "And the woman you were with at the beach? Is she your, um…" "My partner," I say. "Yes." "Wow. So how does this work? I mean, what do you charge?" I explain how my fee is hourly, that I come up with a plan, we discuss it, I do whatever he wants me to do, make sure he's satisfied… "I'm sure your services will be more than satisfactory," he says in this voice that could melt marble. "I have lots of satisfied clients," I lie. "If you'd like references, I could—" He suggests we keep this little arrangement to ourselves. "I wouldn't want anyone to know I needed any sort of…" "…help," I say. "I wouldn't have put it that way," he says. "It's not like I usually pay for it. Women just—" Well, I don't have any trouble believing that. "But this time you'd like a professional," I say. He agrees. "Two. I mean, if that's okay. When you pay for something…" he says. "…you get exactly what you want," I finish for him. "So, sure. We can both be there." "That's what I'd like," he says. There's a very pregnant pause, and then he asks when I'm free. I tell him that I'm very busy at the moment (I don't tell him I'm knee-deep in Play-Doh that is stuck to my couch and my rug) but that I could fit him in on July fifth. "I suppose you're busy July fourth," he says wistfully, like a holiday would work better for him. "Sorry," I say. I've promised the kids we'd take in the fireworks, and I leave it to their father to disappoint them. That way they can tell us apart.
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"I just thought, what with the fireworks and all, well, it could be over the top, if you know what I mean." "Of course, " I say, feeling like we are having two different conversations here. "Red, white and blue, and all that. Nice in a beach house." "The best in a beach house," Brad says. "Do you have one?" I tell him I don't, but I've done plenty of them. He chokes on something. "So then it'll be my place, I guess," Brad says. I tell him that of course it'll be his place, that we'd have to use our imagination in mine. He bets my imagination is very, very good. In fact, he says he's counting on it. "I'll bring my imagination, my partner and a bunch of samples on the fifth, then," I say. "Samples?" he asks. "Oh. Right. Of course. Well, all right, but I've got plenty here." Which strikes me as odd, unless I'm not the first decorator he's interviewed. I ask him if he can give me some idea what kind of look he's hoping for, so I can do some prep in advance. "What do you mean?" he asks. "Well do you want to do the whole house, or just a few rooms?" I ask. "Holy shit," he says. "We could do the whole house? You mean every room?" I tell him I'd love to. That it's always my preference to do the whole house. "Is that extra?" he asks me. I remind him I charge by the hour. "However long it takes," I tell him. He tells me he can't wait until the fifth and to bring a lot of samples. "I hear ribs are good," he says. "I mean for girls." "Corduroy?" I asks. "Is that a new brand? I usually use Trojans," he says and hangs up. "Trojans?" I hear myself croak as I stare at the phone and try to replay our conversation in my mind.
Chapter Sixteen At my mother's urging, I call Rachel Lampert. In the background I hear dogs yelping wildly. She has no idea who my mother is, but says she held a charity function for a local theatre a few weeks ago and supposes my mother could have been in the house then. "She didn't like it?" Ms. Lampert asks. I apologize and explain that my mother is a difficult woman, that I must have simply misunderstood her and that there was clearly some sort of miscommunication, as I was under the impression that Ms. Lampert was seeking my services. It is incredibly awkward and I want to thrash my mother even more soundly than I
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usually do—want to, that is. I don't actually thrash my mother. Not even in my dreams, because somehow she'd know and get me for it. Ms. Lampert says there's no harm in my coming over and taking a look. "If you don't mind dogs," she says. Actually, I like dogs. I'd promised the kids one when they were older, but at the time I didn't expect to worry about feeding the mouths I already have. I make an appointment to see her at ten o'clock on the sixth and give her the number for my business phone in case she has to change the time. The kids come in soaking wet and laughing, and I grab a towel to dry off Alyssa while Dana tells me how they were watching her play under the sprinkler when Danny Tahany came by with a water pistol and suddenly it was war! "It was like a snowball fight, sort of," Jesse says, reaching into the fridge and pulling out juice boxes for everyone. He tosses one to Danny, who catches it one-handed. "Boys against girls," Danny tells me. I can just imagine who won. "Dorks against Beauty," Dana says. Jesse hands her a juice box. "Which one are you?" I look at my brood and feel like the Kool-Aid mom. If I can't be a cool mom, I'll settle for that. The phone rings and it's my mother, wanting to know if I've called Rachel Lampert yet. I tell her I have an appointment on the sixth and she tells me that I have to take her to the dermatologist then. "Your father has a golf date and you know I can't drive after my Restylane treatments." I try to tell her how this is work, the kind that feeds my children and keeps a roof over our head, but her selective hearing loss kicks in and she just doesn't hear me. It's easier to change the appointment with Ms. Lampert, so I get off with my mother and call her. The conversation goes like this, with the woman's voice rising steadily: Me: Hi, Ms. Lampert, this is Teddi Bayer. Her: I tried to reach you but I got your message. Loud and clear, I might add. Me: Hmm. I didn't get any message from you. Her: I didn't leave one. Your mother knows what you're doing? Me: She's trying to help me out. (I don't say that some kind of help is the kind of help we all can do without.) Her: And she thought I needed your services? What, did she poke in my bedroom? Me: Excuse me? Her: I don't need what you're offering. Me: I'm sorry I bothered you then.
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Her: You should be. Calling people up— Me: It's a new business, and it's very hard to get it up and running. Her: Well, I don't have trouble in that department. Me: Excuse me? Her: Your mother has her nerve! Me: Yeah. I've heard that about her. But she's only trying to help me. Her: Well you have your nerve, too. I don't need your services. Click. I wonder how many strikes I get before I'm out.
Chapter Seventeen "So I think my mother did it on purpose," I tell Dr. B later in the afternoon. "To embarrass me," I add because I know she's going to ask what reason my mother would have to sabotage my new business. "And because she wants me to fail." "You really believe that?" Dr. B asks me. I tell her there's always been a certain competition between my mother and me. I remind her that I was sitting on my father's lap the first time my mother tried to commit suicide. "And you've never gotten over that," she says. "It's time, Teddi." "Me?" I squeak. "Of course I've gotten over it. It's my mother who is still competing for my father's affection. Not that she values it." I sound like a jealous, spiteful child, and I don't like it. Dr. B just looks at me. "I'm tense," I say. "Stressed. There's a lot going on in my life and maybe I'm overreacting a little." Dr. B tells me to unload. I tell her about how one after another my potential clients are bailing. And that they just aren't mildly disinterested, but seem angry with me for even soliciting them. She makes sympathetic noises. "And the kids are bored," I say. "Just the kids?" I nod. Her eyebrows rise. "Okay. It's possible that I'm sexually frustrated. There. Are you happy now?" "Oh, entirely," she says. She's rarely sarcastic, so I'm not really sure that's what she's being until she adds that it is her mission in life to make sure that all her patients are frustrated. "Some sexually, some emotionally. I take whatever I can get. Keeps me in business, you know?"
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"I'm kind of biting off heads," I say, and then blush. God, I'm turning into Bobbie. Everything has sexual overtones for me these days. "What I mean is that I'm angry all the time." "Keyed up?" she asks. I nod. I tell her Bobbie's theory, that it's all because I'm not getting any, and she says it's certainly possible. "Sex is definitely a release. One of the reasons that most couples make love last thing in the evening is that it uses up that tension in the body, leaving then ready to relax and fall asleep. How have you been sleeping?" "I'm multitasking," I tell her. She looks at me questioningly. "Last night I dreamed about George Clooney. He was running for president—which should happen. I was his campaign aide, and I looked like Donna Moss, you know, from The West Wing? But it was me, anyway. And he gave this wonderful impassioned speech about the Arctic Circle melting, which I think came straight from Al Gore's movie, but anyway, he was magnificent." "And?" "And then we had fabulous sex. Incredible, could-melt-the-polar-ice-cap sex. So, multitasking. I can sleep and have sex at the same time. In fact, that's the only way I can have sex." She asks if Rio still haunts my nights. "No," I tell her. "He just haunts my days." She reminds me that last week I thought he was sabotaging my business. And this week I thought the same thing about my mother. I think about the reaction I got from Rachel Lampert this morning. "Well, someone is."
Chapter Eighteen I decide that Elise Meyers, my only appointment for July third, is going to make me or break me. Bobbie, ever my champion, insists that I will land this client without fail. "And if you don't," she said as I was leaving the house, "you can always hock your new penis." Which is why I am here, at Elise Meyer's front door, alone. She shows me in to a house done in early Fortunoff, by which I mean crystal chandeliers, matching chairs and tables and faux art. I follow her into the living room. "I want all this sports stuff out of here," she says. I ask if her husband will be taking it with him. "You know something I don't know?" she asks. I tell her I didn't mean to assume anything, but when a woman wants all traces of her husband's stuff removed…I mean, that's something I can identify with.
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"If you could remove him, too," she says with an evil grin, "I'd pay you double whatever your fee is." I try to laugh it off, but Elise Meyers doesn't seem to be joking. "The man's going to get his," she says, while I try to get back to the business of re-decorating her house. I'm learning as I go that this job is fifty percent decorating and fifty percent therapy. Now that I have my degree in interior design, I'm thinking I may have to go back and get one in family counseling. "So your husband has quite a collection," I say, taking in a half dozen basketballs signed by the Knicks, the photos signed by two famous women golfers even I've heard of, a bat signed by Derek Jeter. "He's quite a sports fan." "He's an agent," she says. "You know, like Arliss? On HBO?" I nod, pretending I know who she's talking about when lately the only premium channel I've been watching is Cinemax, and you know why that is. "He's supposed to screw their managers, but—" she taps on the picture of the golfer with a man I take to be her husband "—I know damn well he's screwing them." "Okay, so you want these things removed. Does he plan to sell them, or—" She tells me he doesn't want to get rid of them. She does. I want to tell her I'd rather not get in the middle of a custody battle over basketballs, but the greeter job at Wal-Mart is looming large in my mind. "I want them the hell out of my living room," she says. I ask if they might be put somewhere else in the house. She asks if the toilet suits me. "I was thinking we could move the wall here to expand the hallway slightly, make it grander," I say, judging from her taste in chandeliers that the grander the better as far as she is concerned. "And make the hallway a sort of Hall of Fame. Impressive for an entryway, out of the way for entertaining in the living room." "You are brilliant!" she tells me. "I love it. Even Jack will love it, and he hates everything. Except cheating. He loves cheating, whether it's sports, marriage or income tax." "Just as long as he's not paying decorators," I say, trying to make a joke out of it. Elise laughs, but she doesn't reassure me any. She takes me on a tour of the rest of the downstairs. Tacky, tackier, tackiest. We wind up in her kitchen, which she wants to look like some sort of Middle Eastern bazaar. "Bizarre," I agree. Luckily my comment sails over her head. I can do this, I think. Every house doesn't have to reflect my taste. "And that'll go well with my idea for upstairs. I want it to look like a pasha's harem," she tells me. "My room, that is." "And his?" I ask. I've never known husbands and wives who didn't share a bedroom. "What do I care?" she asks me. "Right?" I swallow hard. "Right." "His room last. Maybe he'll be gone by then." I figure I'll insist on getting paid as I go. I give Elise my card. "Just so we're clear," she says as she takes it. "I really don't want him screwing you."
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I nod, wishing I knew just which way she means.
Chapter Nineteen "When are we going?" Alyssa asks before I have my eyes open. It's July fourth, the day she's been waiting for and destined to be, apparently, the longest day of my life. "Honey, it's only—" I open one eye and glance at the clock beside my bed "—five-thirty?" I give her two choices. She can crawl into bed with me and go back to sleep for three hours, or she can go downstairs and watch TV and take a nap this afternoon. She tells me that she doesn't take naps anymore, that she's too old. I tell her even Grandma takes naps, and get in a dig that no one's older than she is. "You won't be able to stay up for the fireworks," I warn her. "You'll fall asleep at the beach and miss the whole thing. And there won't be more fireworks for another whole year." She snuggles in reluctantly beside me, tossing and turning until there is clearly no chance that I will fall back to sleep. At which point she begins to snore ever so softly, that baby snore that I will miss when she gets just a little older. I sneak out of bed and creep downstairs to my computer. Bobbie, I can see, is already online. I instant message her. WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP SO EARLY? SPYING ON MIKE. WHAT? HE'S CHEATING ON ME AGAIN, I THINK, she types. PHYLLIS HEP— I type, but then I see she's sending me a message. NOPE —ANGELINA JOLIE. VERY FUNNY. YOU SHOULD SEE THE SHEET HE'S SLEEPING UNDER. A FAMILY OF STARVING GYPSIES COULD LIVE UNDER THAT TENT. I'M MAKING COFFEE. YOU WANNA COME OVER? There's no answer, but soon I hear a knock on my kitchen door and there she is, a mug in each hand. "I don't think I'm gonna make it," I tell her, letting her in and taking one of the mugs. "Nobody wants to hire me. I have no clients." "First off," she says, coming in and sitting on a stool at my counter, "there's muscle boy from the beach. He hasn't bailed yet. And really, wouldn't you rather do his place than Adele Adelstein's?" I ask if there's anything else because if there isn't, I better see if the local Wal-Mart needs any greeters. Bobbie reminds me our ad hasn't come out yet. "You know what you need?" she asks.
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I've already got a partner, a vibrator and a cup of Starbucks, so I admit I don't have a clue. "A Web site." Usually I think Bobbie's opinion of what I need is way off base, but this one has potential. "You could put up decorating ideas, strut your stuff, you know. Every business has a Web site these days." I did a Web site when Alyssa was born, and another when the whole family took a trip to Cooperstown. I've never done anything really big, though. "You could name it Tips From Teddi, or something and put the Web site on your card, and have pictures of the great stuff you do and everyone would want to hire you." She folds her arms. Case closed. "You could always sell the furniture you paint on it, Mom," Jesse says, coming into the kitchen in his pajamas. The bottoms reach just below his knees. The sleeves are ripped off the top. He looks like he became the Incredible Hulk overnight. "Who told you you could grow so fast?" I ask him and he smiles, proud of himself. I ask how anyone would ever find me and Jesse launches into great detail about search engines and links from other sites. "But you have to be real careful naming it," he warns me. "Once, at school, Mr. Flannigan was showing us something, and he put in whitehouse.com instead of whitehouse.gov. Wow." "Wow what?" I ask. He and Bobbie can't believe I don't know that it was a porn site. "I think they finally changed it," Jesse says. "When I tried it again—" "When you what?" I ask. Bobbie points at him and says, "You're so busted!" Jesse looks a little embarrassed. But it doesn't stop him from telling me to be sure to spell Tips right before he runs out of the kitchen and upstairs.
Chapter Twenty It is a gorgeous night. Not a cloud in the sky. A perfect night for fireworks, if you don't count the mosquitoes feasting on my children. "Is this where we were the other day?" I ask Dana, who looks at me vaguely and shrugs. "When are the fireworks going to start?" Alyssa asks, but we all choose to ignore her, since, after asking twenty times, she no longer seems to require an answer. "What difference does it make where we were then?" Dana asks as we traipse across the sand, picking our way through people, nearly knocking off heads with our belongings. "All we're going to have to do is look up. It's not like we have to see over other people's heads or anything." Bobbie, who has dragged Mike with us, makes some sort of comment about me wanting to "look over other people" which I choose to ignore. "What's wrong with right here?" Jesse asks, having found a one-foot-squared area of unclaimed beach. "Only that there are six of us, moron," Dana says. "I still don't see why we can't just watch from the car." Just ahead of us, Bobbie and Mike are holding hands. I miss that. I miss real sex a lot, but I think I miss the gestures of love even more. "When are the fireworks going to start?" Alyssa asks again.
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And then there are the products of love… I remind Dana to hold Lys's hand so that we don't lose her in the crowd. Jesse assures me she's still attached to his leg and eventually we all settle down on the only bit of unoccupied space. "So I think Elise Meyers is really going to call," I tell Bobbie once we are all seated. "Where have I heard those words before?" Dana says, and we all just stare at her until she apologizes. Which I accept because, hey, the only thing worse than being thirteen, as I recall, is being twelve. "I thought she'd call today," I say. "I really did. Maybe Dana's right." "If you had a Web site," Bobbie says, "and clients could see what you've done —" "It wouldn't do me any good," I say. "Nobody wants me. I turn off everyone I meet." "Oh woe is you," Bobbie says sarcastically. I could maybe try a Web site. With a Before and After, I think. And a journal that clients could follow which explains step-by-step how you get from the Before to the After… I decide to leave myself a message, and call the business line to do it. Might as well be good for something. No one but me is calling it. As I wait to be connected, I spot Brad, and he waves at me before subtly touching his crotch. Maybe I'm wrong about turning off everyone I meet. I stare at him while I wait through my message. Only, instead of my message, I hear this: "You've reached Sexual Encounters of the Third Kind. Instruction, Experimentation and Threesomes. Let me redesign your life." Numb, I look at my phone and see the number is the one on my card. A beep sounds, signaling a message and dazed, I punch in my code. "Teddi? This is Elise Meyers. Wow! A two-fer! Who knew? So, I'm interested in hiring you for the job we talked about yesterday. I think you are positively brilliant. And Teddi? I'm very interested in this other business of yours." I sit with my cell phone in hand staring at it, and hear Lys ask Jesse for the millionth time, "When do the fireworks start?" And I hear him answer, "Now!" And from somewhere down the beach comes the hiss of a rocket climbing. And the sky explodes, along with my laughter. White stars fill the sky, golden corkscrews circling them. I see Brad looking at me expectantly and I shake my head adamantly. I have a real client—once I explain to her that I only do houses, not clients. I gather up my kids against me and shout, "Happy Independence Day!"
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Tomorrow I'll put a new message on the phone, one that says to visit me at TipsFromTeddi.com, and I'll get started on that site. But like Scarlett, I'll worry about that tomorrow. Tonight I'll just savor my new independence.
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Welcome to Tulips by Tina Leonard Single-mom-to-be Marnie McGovern has worked tirelessly to complete a set of stunning stained glass doors for The Tulips Saloon before her impending due date. The last thing she expects is for a handsome stranger on a Harley to drive right through them! Or for him to offer to play nursemaid to her newborn while she starts over and recreates the artwork from scratch!
Chapter One Marnie McGovern heard the crash and knew that the beautiful stained-glass doors she'd taken months to create had just met a tragic end. She rushed out of the Baked Valentines bakery in Union Junction, Texas, not expecting to see a handsome man turn off his motorcycle and survey the damage he'd created. "Are you all right?" Marnie quickly asked the stranger. "I am. These doors aren't." His gaze met hers. "Someone's going to be very angry." Trembling hit her knees. "I can't say angry is exactly how I feel, but it's close." She pushed back the tears as she realized there was nothing left of the doors that could be salvaged. In her eagerness to get the project done before the birth of her baby, whose due date was in a few days, she'd put everything into her creation. Hired by Pansy Trifle and Helen Granger to design a door worthy of the love they felt for the town of Tulips and the saloon they owned, Marnie had identified with their vision. The beautiful doors were to have been delivered and installed that afternoon. "I'm glad you're not hurt, though." "I don't suppose I can replace them." She could barely take her gaze off of the fragments twinkling on the street in the late August sun. "No. But thank you for offering." John Colby, wealthy daredevil, entrepreneur and philanthropist, realized for the first time in his life he'd come across something money couldn't buy. From the heartbroken slump in the very pregnant woman's shoulders, he knew he'd destroyed something that mattered more to her than money. He wished he'd seen the artwork and stopped in time. He hadn't been going fast, but the delicate glass was nearly translucent, with gentle touches of pink and red. He hadn't seen it as he'd turned his large Harley into the street. Now not a piece of glass remained in the door frames that had been leaning against an old-fashioned wooden sawhorse. A truck pulled up in front of the bakery, and a tall, muscular cowboy jumped out. "What happened?" "Mason," Marnie said, "I won't need you to drive me to Tulips today after all." John looked at Mason evenly. "I'm afraid I've done some damage here." "I'll get a shovel from the girls." Mason directed a frown at John. "And a broom and trash can," he said, striding toward the Union Junction hair salon. John wasn't sure why the cowboy thought a shovel would be found in a hair salon, but he was from the city, not a small town. He supposed things were different here. On a cross-country trip across the United States by Harley, he'd seen a lot of things he'd call stranger.
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He looked back at the beautiful woman, wanting more than anything to put a smile on her face and take the sadness from her eyes. He noted a lack of a ring on her finger, but that could mean anything. But if she was a single mom… "I take it you're an artist, and this was your work." Lying in the street in shards… She nodded, her pageboy haircut sending a light brown wave of hair across her cheek. So this was also a financial blow he'd dealt, and John decided to see if he could at least make that part of it up to her. "If you could tell me the cost of the doors, I'm happy to replace your supplies, though I know I can't replace your time and effort." Her hazel gaze settled on him. "Thank you." She turned away. John realized she was holding back tears she didn't want him to see. He didn't even know her name, and he'd made her cry. John put his hands on her shoulders to comfort her, regretting his impulse when her shoulders stiffened. "Tell me how I can make this up to you." Marnie wasn't sure what this man might be offering, but it was obvious that he wanted to take some responsibility for his actions. Having had a fiancé who'd decided that married life wasn't what he really wanted, she no longer expected that from any man. Marnie didn't know if her surprise at the stranger's offer was due to the fact that he was extraordinarily handsome and she'd expected him to be shallow. Or maybe it was his motorcycle, which made her think he was one of those men who just liked to pass through life without commitments. She was prejudging him. Mason returned with two shovels, handing one to the broad-shouldered newcomer. "What's your name, stranger?" "John Colby. From West Virginia." Mason nodded. "I'm Mason Jefferson of the Double M ranch. Used to be known as Malfunction Junction. This is Marnie McGovern," he said, finishing up the introduction curtly. "Start shoveling, John. Marnie, go inside and have Valentine fix you a cup of something and sit down. You're making me antsy that you'll go into labor or something." Marnie's gaze settled on John. He stared at her with deep apology in his dark eyes. But she didn't need apologies from a man. She'd heard a lot of those. She went inside the bakery. "Marnie's a single mom," Mason said to John. "With a baby on the way, she won't be able to do another set of these doors. She's going to have her hands full." John handed the shovel back to Mason. "Thanks for the tip. Hang on a sec, would you? I'll be back to clean up my mess." John followed the tiny brunette into the bakery. "I'm not just talk," he said. "I intend to stay here and help you." "You're an artist?" she asked, surprised. He didn't seem the type to sit still long enough to even draw a stick figure. "No. But I can watch that baby you'll be delivering soon while you work on another set of doors."
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Marnie stared at the man who'd destroyed her dreams, her heart nervously thundering, her attention caught. Sensing her resistance, he smiled a slow, sexy smile. "Come on," he said, his voice a sinful lure. "I'd make a great house husband while you work. I promise the service is delivered with a smile, satisfaction guaranteed."
Chapter Two Marnie stared at the confident man who was offering his services. "What makes you think I need help? What makes you think I'd trust you with my baby?" "I owe you." John seemed sincere. "How much were you paid to create those doors?" She could barely think about the destruction. "That's between me and the ladies who commissioned them." "Front doors aren't cheap. I had some installed on my house last year. They were five thousand dollars and didn't have any glass in them, much less artistic rendering." She wondered where he lived that would require such elaborate doors. "Actually, I didn't charge Helen and Pansy except for supplies. They were helping me find a home in Tulips." He glanced around the bakery. "This seems like a nice enough town." "It is. But I live across the street in the Union Junction salon with the other girls. I have my studio in one of the back rooms. But with a new baby, I need a place of my own." "Girls?" She smiled. "Stylists." "So you're a hairstylist who does fabulous stained glass doors on the side?" "I'm hoping to. The Tulips Saloon was my first actual commission for doors. I wanted it to go well so I could include them in my portfolio." She touched her stomach. "I'd like to be close to my baby, at least for the first few years, and working in a home studio would allow me to do that. When I have my own place, that is." "You can't buy a house here?" Her gaze slid away from him. How could she explain that it was hard to live in a town where everyone knew she'd been deserted by her fiancé? And that she hadn't heard from him? She couldn't outrun what had happened, but she could start over fresh, keeping old friends, making new ones, expanding her horizons. John saw the dark shadows pass through Marnie's eyes and knew he'd stirred up uncomfortable memories, probably of a deadbeat mate. He felt an urge to kick the jerk into next week. "So. Taking me up on my offer?" She shook her head. "I can't. Just pay for the supplies and we'll call it…even." "I want to do more. You deserve more." She hesitated, and he realized part of her was truly tempted. "Not all men are recipes for disaster, Marnie." "Anybody ordering?" demanded a pretty redhead at the counter. "By the look on your face, Marnie, you could use a blackberry tea and some lemon cookies. You, stranger, I'm not sure about."
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"Thanks, Valentine," Marnie murmured. "This is John Colby. He just rode into town." "And totaled her doors," John said because Marnie was too ladylike to say so. "Please bring her a double blackberry tea and some of those cookies." He pulled out his wallet, and Marnie put a hand on his arm to stop him. "I'll pay for my own. Thanks." He frowned. "Lady, I just ruined your livelihood. Let me buy you a cup of tea, at least." Valentine set the tea down in front of them, as well as a plate of cookies. "It's on the house. Keep an eye on the shop for me. I'm going to check Mason's blood pressure." She went out the door. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as neither spoke. John didn't know what else to say to Marnie. He'd offered everything he could to make up for his mistake. "It would take another three months," she said softly. "So I can't accept." "Three months." He mulled that over. Piece by fragile piece. Wire by delicate wire. "So, did they ever find you a house? Those ladies in Tulips?" She smiled. "They did. Those doors were the down payment, you might say." "I'll take you to Tulips myself. Let me explain to your friends what happened. Then we'll see where the pieces fall." He winced at his choice of words. "On your Harley?" He nodded. "Unless you have a better idea, that's the coach I'm offering." "I don't think…" He stood. "You think about it. I've got a mess to clean up." John went outside and began shoveling the pieces of Marnie's design into a trash can. Mason cleared his throat. "Heading on after this?" John shrugged. "It's hard to convince her otherwise." The bakery door opened. Marnie walked outside as they finished shoveling the biggest pieces and went to work on sweeping up the smaller fragments. "I realize this is weird timing," she said, and John noted that her face seemed pale and anxious, "but my water just broke."
Chapter Three John froze at Marnie's announcement. "Okay. We're treading in deep water, for me at least. I'm more than happy to take you to the hospital, but motorcycle isn't how you should be traveling." Plus he wasn't certain exactly what all needed to be done for broken water issues. He'd been more comfortable with the broken doors. Valentine smiled. "I'll drive her. Mason, I'll spare you, though I know you'd be more than willing."
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"Probably be better if I watched your shop," Mason said gruffly. "I helped deliver my daughter, but Annabelle did all the work." Valentine helped Marnie to her truck. John supported her on the other side, trying to be more help than pest. She felt great, he noted awkwardly, pretty certain he shouldn't feel any stirrings of lust for a woman in labor. But she had the softest skin he'd ever touched. "John, you don't have to come with us." Marnie glanced up at him as she slowly seated herself in the truck. "I'm going to follow behind on my motorcycle. That way you have the bench seat to yourself, and if you need anything like ice cream or pickles later, I can scoot off to get it." Valentine giggled. "She's past the point of pickles." John shrugged. "I'll follow." At the hospital, he parked and hurried to help Marnie walk inside. She seemed so small and fragile that guiltily, he thought maybe he'd upset her so much he'd made her go into labor. Despite all the adventures he'd experienced on this trip, this one made his heart race the fastest, and he wasn't sure why. He wasn't the one having a baby. At the ripe age of thirty-five, that was one of his regrets. He had no children, just an ex-wife from many years ago with whom he was still good friends, nothing romantic. He watched Marnie check in with the nurses at the desk, who then hustled her into a birthing room. "And you are?" a sweet-faced older nurse asked him. "My name is John Colby. I just met the…mother-to-be." She smiled at him. "Oh, so you're John. Very brave of you to join in the fun." He wasn't sure about that. "I think Marnie's the one with the courage. I'm just a bystander waiting to be sent for pizza or…whatever." "She'd like for you to go on your merry way, actually," the nurse said. "Did she say that?" He was surprised. "Yes. But I don't think Miss McGovern meant permanently. She said to ask you to make yourself comfortable elsewhere because this could take a while." "Oh." His disappointment faded slightly. "Is there a room for expectant bystanders or something?" She grinned. "Down the hall. There's coffee and some cookies. You could be here a while though. First babies are notoriously slow." It didn't matter. Hanging around was the least he could do. But it wasn't even about obligation. It was more about Marnie's soft skin…and he really wanted to know that she was going to be all right.
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Twelve hours later, Marnie held her new daughter close. "She's beautiful," Valentine said. "You've got an anxious bachelor outside." "He's still here?" Marnie hadn't thought John would stick around. "Yes. Brave fellow." Valentine fluffed Marnie's hair with a smile. "You look beautiful, as does baby Liza. So shall we let John off the hook? I've spent a bit of time chatting with him, and he sincerely believes he made you go into labor early. Something Mason said sort of stuck in his brain." Fluttery nerves settled in her stomach, which she attributed to afterbirth pains. "If you don't mind getting him…" John walked in a few moments later carrying a bouquet of flowers and a huge teddy bear. Marnie blinked, not expecting gifts. "Hi." "For the new baby," he said, laying the flowers on a table, and Valentine excused herself to go get a vase. "She's beautiful." "Thank you." Marnie couldn't explain the wonderful feelings filling her. All the months of worry had melted away when Liza had been laid in her arms. "I think so, too." "When can you go home?" "I believe tomorrow since the delivery was uncomplicated." "That's too soon," John said, frowning. "You should probably stay here a month just to make certain the baby is all right." Marnie smiled at his protectiveness and his lack of knowledge. "I'd go crazy. Anyway, it's normal procedure." John reached out to touch the baby's hand when it flailed free from the flannel blanket. "She's so tiny." "Seven pounds, two ounces," Marnie said proudly. "So, now what?" John asked. She looked up at him. "What do you mean?" "You said you didn't want to live in the salon with the other girls, that you wanted to move to Tulips. I've thrown a wrench into those plans." She'd been about to deliver the doors—with Mason's help—to the new owners. Pansy and Helen would then have made the down payment on the house. "I'm not certain," she murmured, not wanting to sound like she had no place to go. She did have a room in the salon; she just wanted a different life for Liza. "We heard we have a new townsperson!" Two elderly women walked into the hospital room, heading straight for the baby. "Oh, Marnie, she's adorable," one of the ladies cooed. "Thank you." Marnie smiled. "Helen Granger, Pansy Trifle, I'd like to introduce you to John Colby from West Virginia." They smiled broadly, clearly impressed. "Hello, John," Pansy said, "are you staying in Union Junction? I don't believe I've heard your name before."
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"Last night I stayed here in the hospital." He grinned. "After that, I'm not certain." "You're always welcome in Tulips." Pansy turned to Marnie. "We've got plenty of room." Marnie clutched Liza to her more closely. "I have some bad news." "What is it, dear?" Pansy asked. Marnie hated to tell them. She glanced at John, realizing from the sympathetic look on his face that he knew exactly what she was about to say. "Funny thing how Marnie and I met," John said, "I drove my motorcycle through some beautiful doors that apparently were meant for you two." They gasped. "Thank heavens you're all right!" Pansy exclaimed. "Thank you." He acknowledged her comment with a nod. "When Marnie feels stronger, I'd like to be her house husband so she can work. It's not a fair exchange, because I should be the one working and she should be the one relaxing with the baby, but I don't have any other ideas. She says it should take about three months." Helen looked at him, her gaze shrewd. "You'd be willing to do that for someone you've just met?" Marnie's gaze met his, and he saw the same question lingering there. "How much better can life be than getting to hold a baby?" Pansy straightened. "I forgot to tell you, Marnie. We bought the house already." Helen stared at her friend. "Oh…that's right. So we could surprise you with a…decorated baby nursery. Courtesy of Ladies Day at the Tulips Saloon." "I don't know what to say," Marnie said, her eyes filling with grateful tears. "Except thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me." Helen grabbed John's sleeve, leading him into the hallway. "Now look, young man. That's a special woman in there. I hope you intend to back up your promise." "I do." Helen studied him, then nodded. "Excellent. Then get on that bike I saw outside with the West Virginia plates and follow us to Tulips. You're not needed here tonight, and you've got some painting to do in a baby's nursery!" "You fibbed?" "No more than necessary," Helen said. "I know the owner. It will be a simple thing to make the arrangements to buy the house right away. Holt is one of our dear friends and will be happy to help us." He looked at her, his own gaze turning shrewd. "Can I make the first payment?" He'd feel better if he could—it was the best way to replace what he'd ruined. Helen hesitated. "Exactly what are your intentions here, stranger?"
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Pansy smiled at Marnie as she held her new baby. "Liza's like a little peapod." "Except not green." Smiling, Marnie marveled at the bonds of new motherhood sewing her tightly to her daughter. "I've waited all my life for this." "We're looking forward to having two new settlers in Tulips. We'll expect you at the Ladies Only Day every week. Us having a day to ourselves grates on the good sheriff's nerves," Pansy said, "but only because he's gotten used to his daily dose of tea, cookies and female friendship, though he'll never admit it." "I'm sorry about the doors," Marnie murmured. "Fortunately, some things can be replaced. But what I want to know is what happens after those three months are over?" Marnie looked at Pansy. "What do you mean?" "And the handsome stranger rides away on his motorcycle. Seems fate might have swept an opportunity into your lap." "Why? Because he's a man?" Marnie shook her head. "This from the woman who started a Ladies Only Day in her town." "It's just a thought," Pansy said with a smile. "What if you get attached to him?" She smiled at the hopeful matchmaking and decided to gently quash Pansy's hopes. "It's not like a fiancé backing out, is it? John won't exactly be leaving me. He'd be doing a job and then moving on." "So you've decided to accept his offer?" Marnie didn't reply. "Oh, let me tell you about the house," Pansy said. "You know there aren't many houses in Tulips available, because, frankly, there hasn't been much development there. We're the undiscovered gem of Texas." Marnie nodded. "That's a huge draw, in my opinion." She didn't want to raise her daughter in the city. She'd loved living in Lonely Hearts Station with the stylists, and when they'd moved to Union Junction, she'd loved living here, too. "So tell me what you found." "Well, Holt, our town hairdresser, owns a few properties and rents a few others. He happened to have a house Helen and I believe will be perfect for you. It even," she said with a gleam in her eye, "has a cute little outbuilding we think you might use for a studio." That sounded perfect. Marnie had dreamed of having space for a childproof studio that she could lock up at night. "I think the proper term is 'mother-in-law quarters.'" Pansy wrinkled her nose. "We prefer to call it a studio, though." Marnie smiled. "Thank you so much for all you've done." Helen and John walked back into the room, Helen smiling broadly. "I have thoroughly chatted with this young man and discovered his intentions, Marnie." "His intentions?" She looked at John warily.
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"Yes," Helen said nodding. "Between the three of us, Marnie would have all the help she needs while she works on the doors." "But she needs time alone with her new baby," Pansy said. Helen looked at John. "At least six weeks, don't you think?" Marnie blinked. "Oh, no," she said, "I can start right—" "That makes sense," John said. "Six weeks would give Marnie time to settle into her house with her new baby without a stranger being around. I could get to California and Alaska by then." As a business proposal, it was sound, and yet it felt awkward. Marnie didn't want to wait to see if another man was going to come back to her, and she didn't want to be a commitment John was obligated to fulfill. "It was my fault," she said softly, and everyone's face turned toward her. "I shouldn't have had my girlfriends carry the doors outside in the first place. I should have waited for Mason to get there with his truck. Anyone could have hit them." She looked at John. "Next time I'm waiting for something to be loaded, I'll use street cones to make certain the area is properly blocked off. Beginner's mistake since we don't get much traffic in Union Junction." She took a deep breath. "It would be easier for you, and all of us, if you just paid for the doors so you can be on your way. So I accept your first offer."
Chapter Six After Marnie accepted his offer of money to replace the doors he'd broken, John had quietly pulled out a checkbook and written a check for three thousand dollars, though he'd secretly wheedled Helen into letting him make the first payment on the house, as well. He knew what he'd pay an artist to create one-of-a-kind doors. Touching baby Liza with longing fingers, he then left the hospital and headed for Tulips, following the instructions Helen had written on a piece of paper. The key was under the back door mat, as she'd said it would be, and John walked into the small pink brick house Pansy and Helen had purchased for Marnie and Liza. He could fit the entire house into a portion of his home in West Virginia. Somehow, this one felt more homey. He liked knowing that he'd seen the house before even Marnie had, and could help get it ready. Then he would, as she'd requested, "be on his way." Her request had hurt his feelings somewhat, but he'd also understood. He had a sister, and he well remembered all the commotion a brand new baby had brought into her life. If Marnie needed time, he'd give her time. In fact, this trip was all about time he'd been searching for himself, time away from his family and their disappointment that he wasn't settling down; time away from his job that he'd worked at non-stop for fifteen years, growing it to success; time away from a mansion that had, lately, begun to seem empty. But now he had time to stop and paint a small nursery. Helen had tried to back out of letting him paint it after he'd paid Marnie for the doors, but this was John's chance to do some good. "And I'm going to do it," he murmured, rolling up his sleeves. Though it was a small room, it had a south-facing window which looked over the backyard and a tiny mother-in-law's cottage out back. It was a perfect workplace for Marnie since she wanted to be a stay-athome mom and artist. On the other hand, she might have wanted family to stay with her.
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Dismissing that thought, he remembered Marnie had seemed pretty close to her elderly friends. And to Mason, he thought with a bit of jealousy. There had also been a number of stylist friends coming in and out of the hospital room, so his departure had barely been noticed by Marnie, though her friends had been very happy to meet him. He opened a paint can, and stirred the sweet candy-pink-tinted white paint. Pansy and Helen had thought of everything for painting, including a drop cloth to protect the blond hardwood floors. The floors looked like they needed a buffing and maybe a sanding, as did the rest of the floors in the house. The rooms looked like they would benefit from a fresh coat of paint, and he'd vote for new appliances in the kitchen. Carefully, he taped off the windows, removed the switchplates in the room, and picking up a paint brush, began edging a window. The truth was, he wouldn't have stayed this long if he hadn't felt attracted to Marnie. And Liza had stolen his heart in the few hours he'd seen her. He hadn't even held her—no one had. She'd stayed tucked in Marnie's arms. He knew he was dancing on the reckless edge of disaster. Marnie, it was clear, did not want a man in her life. Maybe she still pined for Liza's father. He wondered when she'd seen the rat last, and then recognized the unfairness of his rush to judgment. Just because the man hadn't been there for the birth of his child didn't necessarily mean anything. Marnie could get back together with him; things like that happened all the time. Marnie was the kind of woman who wouldn't go from one man to another easily. She would hold people she'd loved in her heart a long time. He thought about the clear hazel of Marnie's eyes, always looking at him, weighing him, measuring the meaning of his sudden appearance in her life. She'd been right: it was time for him to go. Four hours later, he finished painting Liza's little nursery. Despite how much his hands itched to improve the rest of the house, he did as he'd been asked. He got on his Harley, and he headed out of Tulips.
Chapter Seven Marnie and Liza settled in Tulips, delighted with the house that Helen and Pansy found. Liza was now six weeks old and only getting up once in the night. The small house had a calming effect on Marnie, and she was certain her daughter sensed her serenity. Marnie never let herself think about John Colby—or at least she tried not to. Pansy and Helen admitted that he'd painted the nursery to make up for the doors he'd broken. It hadn't been necessary for him to do that, but the room was so delicate and pretty, especially with the rosebud printed valances, that she was glad he'd painted it. She was slightly unnerved that he'd seen her house, and wondered if her two Tulip friends had been purposeful in allowing him to do it. Aware that John knew where she lived, Marnie wondered if he would ever return. He owed her nothing so there was no reason for him to come to Tulips; she'd told him not to. Still, she caught herself counting every once in a while. "That's exactly what I didn't want in the first place!" Annoyed at realizing today was the first day after Liza's six week birthday—and recognizing she felt disappointment that John hadn't been there—Marnie snapped herself back into line. She'd given him zero encouragement. In fact, she'd felt awkward, fat, tense and tired, and the door incident had capped off all the worry and some fear she'd felt before giving birth.
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"It was normal," Helen had pronounced when Marnie told her she'd felt like a giant bear in stretch pants around John. "Anyway, he seemed interested in you and I don't think it was because you looked like a mother bear." Pansy had giggled, and Marnie felt better now that she'd lost ten pounds and saw some of her normal curves shaping her body. "But why does it matter anyway?" she asked Liza, kissing her baby's head. "Only you made a good impression. Not to mention that we don't even know much about him." Of course, she'd known a lot about Liza's father, everything except his clear lack of interest in being a father when he learned Marnie was pregnant. So much for pre-wedded bliss. Marnie carried Liza out to the workroom she'd set up in the cottage. New, unstained wood for the doors lay against a wall. She had all the supplies she needed, and the original design was open in her portfolio. She was ready to start over. She heard voices in the back yard. "I think we have visitors," she told Liza. "It sounds like your aunts Pansy and Helen." She went outside, not at all surprised to see Liza's self-appointed angels, but surprised to see John Colby with them, carrying a giant two-story dollhouse wrapped with a big pink bow. Marnie's heart instantly began a nervous fluttering. "Hello," Marnie said, awkward all over again. She didn't recall John being so distinctly handsome. Suntanned from riding on his motorcycle, his hair longer than before and distinctly raffish, he didn't look much like the well-groomed man who'd hung around for Liza's birth. He was a lot more sexy, much more tempting, and it wasn't post-pregnancy hormones zinging around inside her convincing her of it. He grinned at her, and Marnie's knees went distinctly weak. "Reporting for duty," John said. "Happy birthday, Liza, one day late."
Chapter Eight John had thought long and hard about going back to Tulips. He'd known Marnie didn't have any interest in having a man in her life—raising a baby on her own, re-directing and growing her business in Tulips and settling into a new home were all she could handle. He'd been willing to move on for a while, continue on the path he'd planned for himself, and then come back to do exactly what he'd said he would: play house father for Liza while Marnie got on her feet. He set the dollhouse on the ground. Marnie stared at it, her eyes huge and startled. "Did you build this yourself?" "I did." It hadn't been hard since he built large homes and mansions. He'd enjoyed the challenge of designing a dream dollhouse for little Liza. If he had a daughter of his own, this would be something he would teach her to do. "It's a small-scale version of my house, actually." "It's lovely." Marnie crouched to look inside the windows. "The detail is amazing." "Thank you." He felt pretty proud of what he'd created, and glad that Marnie admired it. He'd hoped their shared joy in creating things would be a link that they could build on. "How did you get this here on your motorcycle?" She stood to look at him, and he realized she was thinner, making her seem taller. He was six two, so he figured her at about five seven. Her hair was longer, no longer in a true page boy, a more relaxed style for her. She'd been an attractive woman pregnant, but now he found himself thinking she was even sexier. Was it wrong to think that way with her holding a baby?
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He straightened, bracing himself against the surprising emotions. "I bought a truck in Alaska." "What happened to your motorcycle?" He'd been watching her lips as she spoke and nearly missed the question. So soft and supple and feminine… "The bike's in the back. I needed a truck for the road conditions, but I couldn't give up the Harley." "You're quite a traveler, aren't you?" Marnie asked, letting Pansy and Helen take Liza from her. The ladies walked inside the house with the baby, murmuring something about a diaper change. "It's been a goal of mine for a long time," John said. "I haven't taken a vacation in a few years. Five, actually. It was time." "Time?" "Time to get away. See new things." Her, for example. He'd never have met Marnie and Liza in this tiny town if he hadn't finally made a chink in his calendar for free-spirited wandering. "I'm thirty-five. Old by your standards, I suppose." She arched a brow. "I'm twenty-nine, old-timer." "And in the settling down phase. Anyway, I'm back to keep my end of the bargain." "We had no bargain, at least not after you paid for the doors." "But I'm a man of my word," John said, "and you need a helping hand if you're going to make the doors for that quaint saloon I saw in town. The Tulips Saloon makes great cookies and tea. Now they just need a proper door." "There's no door on this charming dollhouse," Marnie said, bending down once more to look inside, and he nodded. "I know. I figured if you turned me down for Liza duty, I'd at least commission you to do the front door for her dollhouse. And as I recall, you're hoping to put doors in your portfolio." Marnie noted John's shrewd appeal to her business and artistic side. "You want me to design the door for your gift to Liza." "To match the doors you're creating for the Tulips Saloon," he said, his dark eyes twinkling, "so she'll have something distinctly historical and meaningful from her new town." Smooth, Marnie thought—but she'd been smooth-talked before.
Chapter Nine "I've booked a room at Pansy's," John said, to further convince Marnie that she had nothing to worry about. "As your personal assistant, I can be here every morning as early as eight, or whatever time you like to work. And I cook breakfast. I should warn you, the kitchen is my favorite domain." Marnie looked at him, sorely tempted, not only because of the help he was offering but of the sexual longing tugging at her. How many women had a hunk offer to be their personal assistant? "John," she said, her conscience giving her desire one last good fight, "I don't know you…"
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"And so I'm providing personal references," he said cheerfully. "I brought a letter of introduction from my mother, who jumped on this opportunity to brag on me, a letter from my sister, who thinks the dilemma I've gotten into is a hoot and one from my ex-wife, who, strange as it may seem, is sort of a best friend/sister to me. She thinks I'm reaping my just desserts. But you can read that in the letter." Marnie raised her brow. "Just desserts?" "Yeah." He grinned. "One of the reasons we divorced was that I wanted children, and Susie just didn't. It was a lifestyle difference. She was kind of a wanderer and liked her freedom." "I would have said that was your description." John shook his head. "Not me. I'm a homebody. Susie said I was boring in an attractive way. But I still think there's nothing more appealing than settling down in your house at night with your wife, your kids, your dogs and maybe a glass of something good to drink. I see that in my distant future." "I don't believe you." He hadn't been home in months! That didn't seem very homebody to her. "Okay. Sex after the kids go to bed. That would complete my idea of the good life, when and if I ever get around to it." She didn't know what to say to that. Her throat had gone terribly dry. "Don't you agree?" Her gaze took in the T-shirt stretched over his chest and the tight cling of his jeans. "I'm sorry. Agree to what?" He chuckled. "That my description of a dream home life is—" "A dream." Marnie began walking toward the house, anxious to get away from the thoughts she was having about John. "Wait," he said, tugging gently at her hand. She stopped, gazing up at him. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." "I'm not uncomfortable." She was…afraid. Prince Charmings usually couldn't be trusted, except in fairy tales where writers wrote the endings. Real life was never so happily-ever-after. "So," he said, gently touching her cheek, "if you're not uncomfortable, will you take me up on my offer? I promised myself one good deed on my road trip." That was a story if she'd ever heard one. Marnie looked at him. "How are your diapering skills?" "Nil," he said, "but I'm a fast learner." A wriggling baby would soon test that theory. Marnie nodded. "As long as we agree to a one-week trial period. If your personal assistant skills are lacking, off you go, no questions asked." "I'll keep my truck keys handy." "Good." She walked inside the house and into the kitchen—a safe zone—all too aware of John following behind and a delicious longing waking inside her.
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He set the dollhouse on her kitchen table. "By the time you do the saloon and dollhouse doors, you'll have a nice addition to your portfolio." "By the time you watch Liza, you'll have a nice addition to your dad skills." He smiled. "I'm looking forward to getting to know her better." His dark eyes glowed with teasing directness. "And her mother."
Chapter Ten A knock on the front door saved Marnie from John's teasing. He was disappointed—he'd really wanted to set her off-balance. Her veil of unattainability was getting to him. Was she as cool as she acted toward him? He hoped not. He felt anything but cool toward her. She let in a big man dressed in a sheriff's hat, worn jeans, a badge and wearing a big smile for Marnie, whom he warmly greeted. "Hello, Sheriff Forrester, just passing by?" she said, obviously no stranger to the tall man's welcome wagon. Pansy and Helen came into the kitchen with baby Liza. Pansy filled John in on Sheriff Duke Forrester's story in a soft murmur. "Sheriff Duke's bride left him at the altar a few months ago. Of course, Duke will never get over Liberty. He's still reeling over our town's best girl's desertion. He and Marnie are becoming fast friends, but then that's Duke, always Tulips' best face forward. Duke's sister, Pepper, is a doctor up north, and we're ready for her to come home. Their younger brother, Zach, is a rascal, in the nicest sort of way. The Forrester family is our drama pageant, but that's what makes Tulips a town with heart. " Duke reminded John of the cowboy in Union Junction, Mason Jefferson, who'd befriended Marnie. If she liked tall, dark, and…well, scruffy, he amended, then John should fit right into Marnie's check list. What was it about him that didn't earn him the warmth that Mason and this sheriff guy received? "This is John Colby from West Virginia," Marnie said. "John, this is Tulips' sheriff, Duke Forrester." "Saw your truck outside," Duke said, shaking John's hand in a firm grip, "and your bike. Traveling man, huh?" "You could say that." John didn't like Duke's comment, as if Duke was hopeful that he'd travel on any moment and relinquish Marnie to him. "Come on, little pumpkin," Duke said, taking Liza from Pansy, "Uncle Duke has missed you." John needed a fire extinguisher for the flames of jealousy he could feel practically engulfing his body. "Look at this wonderful dollhouse John made Liza," Marnie said, and Duke nodded. "Carpenter?" he asked John. "Builder." John didn't want to clarify anything more. "We could use a good builder around here," Duke said. "We're developing a three-year plan to bring new settlers to our tiny little dot on the map we call Tulips." "John's going to stay with Pansy while I re-do the doors for the saloon," Marnie said. "Oh, you're the guy who—"
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Marnie put a hand on Duke's arm to silence the rest of his comment. "He's the man who's going to watch Liza for me while I work." Duke nodded, his gaze attentive. "Nice of you to help Marnie out, John." "It most certainly is," Helen said, and Pansy nodded her agreement. Awkward silence permeated the room until Marnie said, "Well, there's probably no time like the present to get started," and everyone took that as their cue to leave. Pansy and Helen kissed Marnie and Liza goodbye, and Duke gave Liza to Marnie and shook John's hand without any ill will, and suddenly, the door closed and John was alone with Marnie. "Here you go," Marnie said, placing Liza in John's arms. Liza began to wail instantly. That will run him off, Marnie thought, and then I'll be safe. Maybe safety was overrated, but fighting the attraction she felt for John seemed like her best option.
Chapter Eleven John held the crying baby, a little startled, a little apprehensive, and yet, a lot excited. "Hey," he said to the baby, "I promise I don't bite. At least I won't bite you." At the sound of his deep voice, Liza hesitated, then settled her fist into her mouth. "She might be colicky," Marnie said, "but I'm not certain of that. Every once in a while, she seems to get a tummyache." "Are you breastfeeding?" He noted the attractive blush that hit Marnie's cheeks. "Yes." "Has she eaten recently?" he asked. "Actually, right before you arrived." The blush became a little pinker. He studied Liza again. "You're too young for a motorcycle seat and most likely a stroller, as well," he mused. "So what is your choice of wheels?" Marnie held up a baby carrier. "Too young for wheels just yet, I'm afraid. This is her mode of transportation." "And so," John said, taking the baby carrier, "we'll tour Tulips by foot because there's nothing better than a twilight stroll to take the edge off our tempers. Ms. Pansy said you love walks and that I should take you out often for fresh air. We'll assume that's the magic cure for your tummy." With practiced hands that had held his sister's children, John slipped Liza into the carrier and put it on. "What did fathers do before these things, man purses and handheld TVs?" Marnie looked at him. "You actually don't look bad wearing that." There was nothing sissy about John. The truth was, he was one of those men who was even sexier taking on domestic duties. He wasn't metrosexual or trying to be up with the times; he was just big and strong and looked completely comfortable with a baby strapped to him.
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"We'll be back after we stroll off some tears," John told Marnie, leaving with a wink. The house fell silent after their departure. Marnie frowned, thinking she should have offered to go with him. But by walking together, they would have looked like a family. She didn't want that. Nor, she suspected, did he. She wasn't certain she completely bought the ex-wife being a best friend explanation. She hadn't read the letters of introduction he claimed he'd brought with him, but how many women would let a handsome, sexy, comfortable-in-his-skin man go easily? And yet she'd just allowed him to walk out the door with her child. Panic hit her. She flung open the front door to offer to walk with him and halted once she made it to the sidewalk. He was down the block, talking with Sheriff Duke and two older gentlemen who'd been introduced to her as town elders Bug Carmine and Mr. Parsons. The men were laughing and Liza wasn't crying anymore. Going back to her house, she closed the door, telling her heart to calm down. New mother nerves, she told herself—perfectly reasonable. Plus no man who'd created such a wonderful dollhouse could be bad. In the kitchen, she sat down to examine the dollhouse. She'd been too surprised by it earlier to do little more than thank John. The white house had a grandiose, curved balcony and a wide porch. A black roof sloped down, and gables graced the second story. Inside, two antebellum-style staircases swirled up to the second and third floors. All the rooms had crown moldings, and five of the rooms of the house contained lovely fireplaces. There was a library, painted with a collection of classics. Marnie caught her breath, seeing a claw-foot bathtub and tiny marble pieces for flooring in the master bath. The second floor was mostly hardwood, possibly for dancing or holding large gatherings. Most amazing was the floor under the gabled eaves, which was outfitted on one side for a large children's nursery with toys painted on the walls. There wasn't any furniture in the house, and no front door or windows. Marnie could design glass pieces, and one day Liza would enjoy choosing furniture for her dollhouse. Delicately scrolled letters on a nearhidden wall of the kitchen caught her eye. "Even a big house is small and empty without love," she murmured, her breath catching at the sentimentality expressed in the artwork. And it made her wonder just who John Colby was and why he seemed so determined to give her child a world filled with whimsical dreams.
Chapter Twelve An hour later, John returned, a calm and sleepy Liza in his arms. "She's been passed around like crazy. Everyone in Tulips has admired her. And I enjoyed cinnamon cookies at the Saloon. Life is good." He grinned at Marnie. "But I estimate feeding time can't be too far away for this little gal." He laid a small white paper bag on the kitchen table. "Compliments of Helen and Pansy. They said you really like the frosted tulip cookies." He hoped his offering would cheer Marnie up; she seemed so tentative around him. "Thank you. And thank you for walking Liza." "You're welcome." He hung the carrier over a chair. "If you give me my work hours, I'll be on my way. Pansy is stirring up some fettuccine for me, and I don't dare be late." "You are getting the royal treatment." "Yes." Although he'd prefer to be stirring up fettuccine for Marnie, he didn't suggest it. She was far too skittish with him, but perhaps in the coming days she'd be more comfortable with their arrangement. "John, you really don't have to do this. I can work while Liza sleeps."
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That sounded distinctly like a woman who didn't want him around. John looked at Marnie, admiring her independence. "Can I ask you something?" "Yes," she said, her voice uncertain. "Where's Liza's father?" Marnie shook her head. "I honestly don't know." "But he knows about her?" "Yes. He did." Sadness for Liza sank his heart. "He has no plans on being part of her life?" Sighing, Marnie moved to the nursery with Liza. "No. He broke off our engagement when he found out. I misunderstood the depth of his commitment to me and what he wanted in life." "What did he want, if not a family?" John could hardly believe a man could walk away from a woman like Marnie and a sweet baby. He was having enough trouble walking away, and he had no reason to hang around. Marnie didn't give off many signals that would lead him to hope that she was interested in what he had to offer. "I don't think he knew what he wanted. But when I became pregnant, he knew very well what he didn't want." "I'm sorry." "Don't be." Marnie raised her chin. "It's the best thing that could have happened to Liza and me. I'd rather have honesty than someone staying with me out of obligation." He blinked. "I don't feel obligated." "Don't you?" Slowly, he shook his head at the question in her puzzled eyes. "Absolutely not," he said. "Obligation is the last thing I feel for you." And to prove his point, he slid his fingers along her cheek, drawing her to him for the most convincing kiss he could lay on her.
Chapter Thirteen Astonished, Marnie allowed herself to be kissed—at first—and then kissed John back, her hands sliding up his back. It felt so good! She had no idea what she'd been missing. When he pulled away, gazing at her to check her reaction, she turned away so he couldn't see the admission of pleasure in her eyes. She'd been kissed and left before, and John was a traveling man— maybe it meant nothing at all. Then again, maybe it did. "Convinced?" he asked, his voice husky.
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"That you want to be here?" Her heart thundered. She so wanted to believe that he felt something for her, something more than a garden-variety attraction. "Maybe that I want to be with you." The thunder in her heart subsided. Maybe. That dreaded word. The in-between word. Finally, she fell back on the hesitation she felt. "Maybe, perhaps, possibly." She turned to look at Liza, who was beginning to get restless in the crib, a sure sign that a full-blown meal request was about to be made. Marnie could feel her breasts start to tingle, a sure sign that she needed privacy very soon. "You'll have to excuse me, John." He frowned. "Maybe, perhaps, possibly?" he repeated. "Is that your answer?" "No." Desperately, she motioned toward the door with her hand. "If you don't mind, I need to feed Liza." "Oh." She was sure he didn't mean to, but his gaze fell to her breasts instantaneously. Marnie's cheeks warmed. Liza let out a yell, and Marnie and John both reached for her at the same time, their hands bumping awkwardly. "I'm so sorry," John said. Marnie replied, "It's fine. But this is a job I've got to do myself." He nodded and with one last glance at the baby, he said, "What time do you want to work in the morning?" "Nine o'clock." "I'll be here." He left and she heard the front door close a moment later. Sighing, she sat down with a very wriggly Liza and started to nurse her. Slowly, the baby began to relax. She heard the front door open. Her eyes widened. This was certainly a moment she didn't want John witnessing! "Marnie," he called. She quickly called back, "Don't come in!" "I'm not," he said. "I'm staying right here in the hallway. But I just wanted to tell you that maybe sometimes means that I really wanted to kiss you and it was hard to work the courage up, so I hope you didn't mind. At least for a guy who hopes you're not mad at him, that's what maybe means." She heard the front door close again. "Great," she murmured to Liza, "he's a gentleman on top of everything else." A hot, sexy gentleman who kissed so well and made her feel things she'd never experienced. Her own "maybe" was in great danger of turning into a "yes."
Chapter Fourteen
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When John arrived the next morning, Marnie was ready for him. She'd had the night to think about how she was beginning to feel about this man she knew nothing about, and her female intuition was warning her that she needed to be cautious. "About those letters of introduction or whatever you said you had," she said as he set eggs and croissants down on two plates in the kitchen. "Well, one's from my sister, and one's from my ex-wife as I said and there's even one from my mother. She can't bear to be left out of anything, and she felt for you about your artwork that I ran over," John said, licking a finger. "All of them sympathized with your situation, so I think they really worked that woman-to-woman bond in their notes. Hungry?" She blinked. "I can definitely eat. That smells so good." Hunger could be used to define different states of being, so she told herself she needed food more than romance and sat down at the table. "I assume they say nice things about you." "Intolerably nice." He grinned at her. "They'd like you, too, though. They're wonderful women." She was annoyed to find jealousy creeping into her emotions. How many men were on best-friends-only terms with their ex-wives—really? "Don't be jealous," he said cheerfully, just to rub her the wrong way. The twinkle in his eyes gave him away. "I'm not," she fibbed. "Anyways, the dollhouse is lovely. I don't know if I thanked you properly for it, but it's certainly a keepsake Liza will love." "Thank you. It was a pleasure to do it for her." She looked at him carefully, admiring his strong fingers as he held his fork, his broad chest stretching the fabric of a Lacoste shirt and decided to give in to her curiosity. "You said it was a replica of your house." He nodded, his gaze on her. "It seems awfully large. For just you." "Five thousand square feet." He laid his fork down, his eyes dimming a bit. "I was hoping to have a lot of children, but you might have been able to figure that out yourself." Marnie wondered if she should stop now before she asked something he didn't want to talk about, and then decided the fact that he'd kissed her gave her a reason to ask more. The reference letters he had weren't going to tell her what she was beginning to want to know—that could only come from him. "I did wonder," she admitted. "Your wife didn't want children?" "We waited too long," he said slowly. "One day, we woke up to find out that our careers had taken precedence over romance. We decided that having children might be best between two people who were still interested in being married to each other—especially when only one us was really interested in having them at all. The funny thing is, we liked each other better when we weren't trying to force the romance and realized we were more comfortable as friends." She looked at him, remembering the wistful quotation he'd painted on the kitchen wall of the dollhouse. "Not that I'm making a statement about your situation," he said, "but it wasn't right for us." "Well, my situation is not ideal," Marnie said. "You've been a big help in making it better." She hesitated. "John, I know you made the first payment on the house for me." It was his turn to be silent. His dark eyes watched her closely.
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"There's a big difference between my fifteen-hundred-square-foot house and your five thousand square feet," Marnie said, "and I guess I have to wonder if—" "If I'm trying on the role of Prince Charming?" he asked, his gaze glinting. "I didn't hit the road to look for a replacement family to fill up my empty house, if that's what you're asking, Marnie."
Chapter Fifteen Marnie stood, not certain how to reply to John's statement. "I think I'll clean the kitchen and then get to work." Reaching out, he touched her arm. "I'll clean. You go work." "I can—" "I'm the house husband," he said firmly, "and you'd better use this time wisely because this is the end of my vacation." "John," she said, "how do you manage to be gone from your job so long?" "Blackberry," he said, pulling one from his pocket. "Cell phone. And I have a laptop in the truck. Life is good." "I see." Marnie blinked. "I don't even own a cell phone." "We should rectify that at once," John said, but Marnie quickly shook her head. "If you buy me one more thing, I'm taking a month off your time with Liza." He looked at her, his eyes crinkled at the sides. "Ouch. That hurt." "I know." She gave him a saucy look. "I have figured out exactly which woman in the house has your attention." "I hope you're not disappointed." His expression was wry. "Not at all," she said breezily. "I'm just glad to find that you actually have a weak spot." "Oh, I'm not the rescuing hero you seem to think I am." John lightly pinched her arm. "While my sister and ex-wife might like me very well, my business partners probably wouldn't write me anything but a check. I can be very tough on them, which is why we're successful. And my nieces and nephews say I snore. I know this is true because they tried to tape my mouth shut once when I fell asleep on my sister's sofa. So you can see I am far from princely." "Good," Marnie said, "you were starting to get on my nerves." He laughed. "You should come visit my house and family in West Virginia. You'd hear tales then." She went to the back door. "I can safely say I'll never be any closer to West Virginia than John Denver's wonderful song." As soon as she made that claim, she wondered if that was really the way she felt, but John just shrugged and turned to the sink. Marnie looked at his broad back, somehow disappointed that he didn't intend to reply. She'd been enjoying their banter. "John," she said, and he turned toward her, "you really seem like a nice guy. And I do appreciate everything you're doing."
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"Thanks. Kind of funny how some broken glass can bring two strangers together, isn't it?" He looked at her for a long moment, then put the dishes in the sink and turned the water on, his back to her again. Marnie hesitated for a half second too long, looking at the man who'd designated himself as her house husband. He was the closest thing she'd ever come to having a husband at all, she realized, and she was beginning to wonder if she was tempted to fill the position—permanently.
Chapter Sixteen John wasn't surprised by Marnie's lack of trust—he even admired her caution. He wondered about the guy who wanted no part of his little child's life—the man didn't know what he was missing. Obviously, Marnie had been interested in marriage at one time, but now it was obvious that she'd run in the opposite direction if she sensed John had anything on his mind other than helping her through a rough spot. "Do you blame her?" his sister asked him when he told her the situation by cell phone while Marnie was in the cottage. "Her fiancé was clearly emotionally under-developed. You, on the other hand, are an old soul in a great bod, something I tell you reluctantly because I like your humble side." He laughed at her. "Smart aleck." He knew too well Jane thought he was arrogant; so did his business partners. "So when does she get to see the real you?" Jane asked, and John chuckled. "The me you didn't describe in your reference letter?" She laughed. "I love you, John. And the kids miss their uncle. When are you coming home?" "Soon," he murmured, watching Marnie walk back from the cottage. She had the nicest sway in her hips when she moved. "Don't decide to stay," Jane cautioned. "West Virginia is where you belong." She hung up and John put away his cell phone. "Hi," he said to Marnie from his spot on the sofa. "Hi." She looked adorably rumpled from working all morning. "Is Liza in the nursery?" "Nope. She's right here." Marnie peered over his shoulder, her lips curving when she saw the baby asleep in his lap. "I thought she'd be getting restless for her lunch." "She will. She's very punctual, a good trait in a woman." He winked at Marnie. "Have you been sitting there since I went to work?" He pointed to his laptop and Blackberry. "I've been working, too." Marnie looked at her daughter with longing. "I thought she'd miss me." "Not with her Uncle John seeing to her every whim." Marnie pursed her lips, and he appreciated the unconscious gesture.
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"I think I can be done in three weeks," she said, surprising him. "I have the old pattern, which was timeconsuming because I wanted the details small and intricate. I realized the design was what took the most time. It's just a matter of speeding up the process and I can be much quicker this time. Plus I'm much faster with the foiling process." His heart thudded with disappointment. "You're really not comfortable around me, are you?" She met his gaze. "I just don't want any distractions." "Distractions?" She nodded. "In learning who I am. In growing my relationship with my baby. In developing my own way in life." Damn. He might have known she'd be one of those independent, wonderfully un-shallow women to whom life and all its varying colors and shades mattered. He realized he'd hoped to convince her to blend him into her life, slowly, if need be, but blend just the same. She'd probably sensed that—Jane said a woman could detect a man's radar locking on to her and some were smart enough to move out of the target range. Marnie was one of the smart ones. "Actually," he said smoothly, "my business partners called today and they really need me back on site." I can tell you're extremely uncomfortable around me, no matter how much I'd give anything to taste your lips again. "I see." He thought he heard relief in her voice. His hand moved across Liza's back, enjoying the feel of a baby in his world. He would miss holding her and touching her soft skin. He'd most definitely miss the smooth suppleness of Marnie's mouth under his. But she had to want the closeness as much as he did—and it appeared she didn't.
Chapter Seventeen Marnie was scared, though she wouldn't have admitted it to anyone. John was a prince of a man. Surely she was crazy for wanting him to leave, but she kept thinking about Liza. She needed to focus on her daughter and on her job, and not a wonderfully charismatic male who'd rolled into her life. One man had already left their lives, and it was safer to have no man than a man who would eventually leave—she couldn't let Liza suffer in the process. She didn't want that heartache for Liza. "So we agree?" John asked. "I'll stay another three weeks or until you finish." She told herself to breathe a sigh of relief, but somehow the relief she'd expected didn't come. Disappointment carved out a hollow spot in her instead. "Thank you." Liza scooched and then snuffled, precursors to a wail. "Dinner," John said, and Marnie took her baby from him, her fingers brushing his as he carefully handed Liza to her. Liza was warm from snuggling with John. It occurred to Marnie that John would be a great place for any woman to rest and find warmth. He was so big and strong— "Is something wrong?" he asked, and Marnie blinked, realizing she'd been daydreaming.
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"No. I was just trying to decide if I should change Liza before or after I feed her," she said quickly. "Excuse me." She left the room, not able to meet John's gaze. Sitting in the rocker in Liza's nursery, Marnie comforted her baby and began to feed her. She could hear John moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets and taking out pots. She closed her eyes against the cozy, homey sounds. He'd seemed so disappointed by her announcement that she could finish in three weeks, but ever since he'd kissed her, she'd felt herself in a dangerous place of longing. After she finished feeding Liza and changed her, she laid her in the crib, covering her with a light blanket before joining John in the kitchen. He was stirring something that smelled heavenly. "It's the playing house aspect that bothers me." Smiling he put down the wooden spoon and began chopping peppers. "You're not comfortable with a man working at home, are you? And being responsible for half the load." She looked at him before picking up a tomato and dicing it on the same board he was using. "Maybe not." "This is my job, Marnie," he said. "No different than what I do at home. I'm not playing house with you. It's real. Not pretend, like the dollhouse I built for Liza to decorate and imagine her own family in one day. No more chopping for you, lady," he said, moving her gently away from the board. "Until you start taking my work seriously, you have to watch." "I feel like I'm in a restaurant." "You think I'm doing this for you, but it's just part of my bachelor routine." She hadn't considered that. A little humility popped her worries. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to anyone doing anything for me." "Like I said, I'm not doing anything for you." His smile turned into a grin. "I'm working on my job, and I'm cooking because I'm hungry and I would anyway—you don't eat enough to make this chicken cacciatore just for you—and I watch Liza because I want to. She's small and delicate and only gives me sass when she's ready to eat. In fact, she's much easier to get along with than her mother." That was probably true. Marnie knew she'd been very stiff around John. Did she want fear and insecurity to rule her life? "It's all very new to me." He laid down the knife, washed his hands before turning to her and placing his hands on her shoulders. "I'm here because I want to be. Relax. I'm not going to eat you, Red Riding Hood." "But you did kiss me," she said. And he said, "And you kissed me back, I noticed." Darn him. "Does that fit into your everyday job description?" "Do you want it to?" She could go through life completely afraid of losing again. But life was made up of choices. Some were better choices than others. She threw her troublesome caution to the wind. "Let's evaluate that aspect of the job."
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John kissed her, darn him, and she wanted him to, only this time, she tugged him close, holding him tightly to her, forgetting all about job descriptions, letting herself enjoy the man and the moment. Before she knew it, they found themselves engaged in a much hotter embrace, one that led to passion against the kitchen counter and then the table and then, crazily, they fell over the sofa into the soft cushions, kissing hungrily. Marnie wasn't about to let John go. She tugged at his jeans. "I say we burn dinner." His chuckle was husky. "I turned off the stove when I saw the bad-girl gleam in your eyes." He moved his fingers inside her waistband. "But I have to know that there are no maybe's in this." "None." Marnie was nearly breathless from kissing John. Desire heated every cell of her body. "Of course if you're feeling a 'maybe' inside you—' Flipping her over, he pinned her beneath him. "I've never been a maybe kind of guy." He lightly bit her neck and stripped off her jeans. "You're beautiful. Absolutely one of a kind. I just hope this condom isn't a maybe. It's about a year old." She swallowed her worries about her after-pregnancy body before they could take shape in her mouth and focused on the fact that he had a nice erection—a positive development. Instead, she said, "Hurry," and so he did, and the next thing Marnie knew, she was lost in pleasure. The consequences could come later.
*** John thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Never had he imagined making love with a woman would be so satisfying. He had to keep Marnie. Somehow. The condom had held, to the best of his knowledge. But he wanted to put any and all fears Marnie might have to rest. "Marnie," he said after he'd held her for at least an hour, "before Liza decides to ring the dinner bell, I want to tell you that if there should be, you know, a baby between us, I wouldn't leave you high and dry." "Thank you," Marnie said, "but I'm wearing a ring." She was too lost in a happy glow to worry about anything outside the pleasure John had given her. He swiftly checked her hands. There were no rings on either hand. "Inside, John," she murmured. "I learned my lesson the first time." "All right," he said, filing that information away for later when he could sort it out, "but I still want you to come home with me." She sat up and pushed her hair away from her face to stare down at him. "What?" "Come home with me. After you finish your doors and hang them in the Tulips Saloon." Her eyes were so wide he could tell he'd shocked her. "I can't stay here forever," he said, "as nice and quaint as this town is." Marnie didn't know what she'd been thinking. Of course he couldn't stay. His job, his family, his whole life was in another state. He'd lulled her into thinking his existence was fluid, with his Blackberry and his motorcycle and his laptop—but she'd seen only what she wanted to see. Secretly, she'd hoped that this man would want her enough to stay in her world.
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It had been a subconscious test on her part, she realized with a sinking heart. "I can't, John," she said. "I just got here. I just bought my first house. Well, you made the initial payment, but—" He laid a finger over her lips. "Stop saying that. It's your house." Her heart was breaking. But she couldn't make any more changes in her life, not now. It had taken everything for her to start feeling settled in Tulips. "I can't move to West Virginia," she said. "I'm sorry." John's heart slid into an empty space inside him. He'd known Marnie was putting down roots here she needed. It was too soon for her; he completely understood that. Yet he'd fallen in love with her anyway, and like the doors he shattered, his broken heart couldn't be fixed.
Chapter Nineteen Marnie finished the doors in three weeks, just as she thought she would, and together, she and John hung them in the Tulips Saloon. They were every bit as beautiful as she'd hoped they would be. The soft pinks and reds and occasional green of the leaves shone softly against the small-town setting of the old building. Unfortunately, her relationship with John hadn't turned out as well. He'd been formal, politely reserved with her ever since they'd made love. For three weeks, he'd treated her home and her as if he were performing a service and she was the boss. Only when he was with Liza did he act like he was the happiest man on the planet. "It's amazing," John said, looking at the doors with admiration. "The building looks completely different, and the doors give it a soul, a secret world one wants to enter just to experience that connection." Marnie nodded. "That's what I love most about designing doors. I know it sounds crazy, but to me, they say 'Welcome. Come on in and be a part of good times.'" Pulling out his cell phone, he took a couple of pictures. "I want to show my sister. She'll never believe this." He took an up-close picture of the tulips, too, knowing the blend of colors might not show as well but wanting to remember it forever. "So, that's that," he said when he was satisfied with the picture. He turned to Pansy and Helen who were holding Liza and watching the doors being hung with delight on their faces. "Ladies, behold the artist and her dream." He could tell Pansy and Helen were seeing their vision transformed before them. He'd never seen two more rapturous faces. I'll miss that about Tulips. I'll miss the honesty and the joy in small things. The ladies hugged Marnie. Smiling, he checked the straps tying his motorcycle down in the back of his truck and then turned to kiss Liza goodbye. The two older women stared at him. He could hardly bear the stunned look in Marnie's hazel eyes, but it was time for him to go. "Thank you," he told her, "for some of the best memories in my life." He kissed her on the cheek, Liza on her soft fuzzy head—God, he was going to miss this baby—and Pansy and Helen on their doughy, wrinkled cheeks. "You ladies have given me a new lease on life." He took one more picture—the four of them standing together in front of the saloon doors before they could protest—and got in his truck. "Keep in touch," he said, knowing that none of them ever would. Waving goodbye, he drove off toward West Virginia, glad he'd finally restored what he'd broken in the first place and ignoring the crack in his own heart. "Did you know he was going to leave?" Pansy asked, looking as stunned as Marnie felt. "Yes," she said. "We had discussed it." Still, the pain was intense.
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"Oh," Helen said, "cookies and tea. At once." They went inside the Saloon together, sitting down on the mismatched velvet-covered antique chairs. "John seemed awfully fond of you," Pansy said. "At least he never stopped talking about you while he was staying at my house. I rather thought the two of you might have been developing a fondness for one another." "Actually, I fell in love with him," Marnie said, much more casually than she felt. The ladies gasped. "But you let him go!" Pansy exclaimed. Marnie stood, fixing Liza into her stroller carefully. "There really wasn't a way for us to move our lives together. It's not like combining two houses into one in a magical renovation." She smiled at her friends sadly. "I'm glad you like your doors. Thank you for everything you've done for me." She kissed them both and left, feeling like she'd lost a big piece of her heart. "Let's go home, Liza," she whispered to her baby as she stepped out into the late twilight enveloping Tulips. Pansy looked at Helen as Marnie left. "You didn't show her." Helen shook her head. "There was no point. They made up their minds about what they could be to each other. This article wouldn't change anything." She laid a piece of newspaper on the table Sheriff Duke had given her. Pansy couldn't read it all, of course, because of her developing macular degeneration. But Helen had read every word to her friend. Billionaire investor, world traveler, generous philanthropist and famous architect John Colby has just completed plans for a new theater centre in West Virginia, a jewel he plans to set in the heart of America's rugged mining state. "Funny how they both had that creating/building thing in their blood," Pansy said, and Helen nodded. But it had to be more. Love had to be about two perfectly suited pieces coming together to make one stunningly good whole. Marnie and John just hadn't been able to fit their lives together for that just-right, happily-everafter.
Chapter Twenty For the next few weeks, Marnie made patterns for the tiny windows and doors of Liza's dollhouse during her daughter's naps. She had enough glass leftover from crafting the two doors for the Saloon. She also liked the idea of using the same glass on Liza's house that John had helped her with. It would be a keepsake for Liza and a happy memory for Marnie. It was when she began fitting the small pieces into the dollhouse that she stopped and re-read the tiny scrolled letters John had painted in the kitchen. Even a big house is small and empty without love. She hesitated, her gaze caught, her heart racing. The thing was, even her small house felt empty and smaller these days. She had Liza. She had her glass. But she didn't have John. She forced herself to look beyond the glass and the comfort of her craft, seeing her life without him. She had to find out what was beyond the doors she'd used to keep him out, instead of welcoming him in, the way doors were meant to do.
*** John had faced the fact that he and Marnie hadn't been soulmates, at least, she didn't believe he was hers. Part of him had taken the past month to nurse the realization that she didn't feel the same way about him
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that he felt about her. What hurt the most was that he was certain—and had been certain from the moment he'd first met her—that she was his missing better half. But he also knew Marnie was very independent, and she guarded that independence. He missed her. In fact, he missed her so much he was dreaming her into walking up the curving lawn of his mansion, pushing little Liza in a stroller in front of her. But was that really her? She kept coming closer, and John stood still, his chest hammering, his eyes too afraid to believe. She smiled and waved, and he forced himself not to hurdle the shrubs lining the porch to get to her. Easy, he told himself, let her come to you this time. "Hello, stranger," he said. She put the brake on the stroller and made certain Liza wasn't in the direct sunlight. "Nice place." He raised his brow. "Thanks." He thought she was adorable in an ankle-length dress and sandals. "Do you want a tour? To come in out of the heat?" Slowly, she shook her head. "No. I already know it's fabulous." She took a deep breath. "I came to see only you." "How did you find my house?" She looked at him. "It's one of a kind. Except it's just like Liza's dollhouse. And you left some business cards in the kitchen." "I'm surprised to see you." She nodded. "I promise not to break your door. Those are the five-thousand-dollar doors?" He grinned. "Yes. They wouldn't break easily." They were made of mahogany and wrought iron. "Built to withstand kids, family, dogs, you name it." "About that family," she said, and he raised a brow. "I was wondering if you need a day wife. Not a housewife, exactly, because that wouldn't be me. More like an assistant." He snapped his fingers. "You mean like a house husband, only in the feminine sense. The very feminine sense." He let his gaze roam over her appreciatively. "I cook," Marnie said, "though not as well as you. I also have a guaranteed alarm." She pointed to Liza. "Maybe for a couple of weeks, we could take care of you so you can work." He looked at her shrewdly. "You know how I feel about the word maybe." She smiled. "We'd like to apply for the job." He felt the tension which had resided in his chest since he'd left Tulips begin to subside. "To be honest, I'm not looking for an assistant for while I work." "Oh." She sounded so disappointed he had to grin. "I could consider you as a wife and lifemate, however. Will you marry me, Marnie McGovern?" She jumped into his arms, surprising him, and delighting him with her joy. It was that joy in the small things that he'd discovered in Tulips, which he was now going to have forever.
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"I love you," he told Marnie, "and Liza, too." "That's good," Marnie said, kissing him on the lips, "because we love you, too. No maybe about that." Marnie slipped out of his arms and he took Liza from the stroller, and together they walked into the mansion that was no longer empty, but very, very full of love.
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Tomorrow's Baby by Tara Taylor Quinn Will one night of passion change Moira Hampshire's life forever? Brian Glory and Moira Hampshire have been friends since their days in the Peace Corps. Now back in the States pursuing separate lives, they come together to help the victims of disasters. But one night, Moira and Brian see each other in a different light — and their lives will never be the same again. Chapter One "You guys want another beer?" Even after a hard day’s rescue work in this small Ohio town, Moira Hampshire was beautiful as she smiled at the two men sitting with her at the scarred wooden table. Not that Sam was interested. He’d had his beauty once. Brian Glory nodded slowly. "I’m ready for another." His coarse black hair looked gritty with dirt and sweat; it was exactly how Sam’s felt. Sam could hardly tell the difference between Brian’s darker complexion and the grime that covered his skin. None of them had bothered to change from the jeans and work boots they’d pulled on that morning. "How many’ve we had?" Sam asked, signaling lethargically for the bar’s waitress. Hell, look how dirty that hand of his was. Maybe they should have taken time for a shower before heading to the first bar they’d found on the highway leading to the tornado-damaged town they’d just left. "We haven’t had too many," Brian assured them, draining the last drop from the bottle in his work-roughened hand. His bold, confident movements attracted the attention of a woman at the next table. Sam had seen a lot of women fawn over Brian during the past three years, but Brian seemed mostly immune. Except when it came to Moira. Not that either of them was letting on. Not to each other and not to him. Their communication, Moira’s and Brian’s, was subtle, silent, a matter of glances, of shared understanding. "Our rooms are right next door," Moira said, still smiling at both of them, though her eyes rested longer on Brian. As they always did. "It’s not like we have to drive anywhere.…" Damn, it felt good to be with them again. "And we’ve got some celebrating to do," Sam added. Their Peace Corps work had kept them together for months on end; it had forged an intense and unshakable bond. But they saw each other less frequently these days — mainly at disaster sites all across the country, dealing with the devastation of tornadoes and floods and hurricanes. "How many was it today, do you figure?" Brian asked. Sam tried to remember. "At least six." He was certain they’d personally helped rescue at least six people and gotten them to the church that had been set up to deal with medical emergencies. Also certain that all six of them had been treated and released. He’d gone back to find out before they’d left. Moira had needed to know. "We saved at least seven today," Moira said. "There was that man trapped beneath the fallen branch. The two girls who’d been playing jacks when the tornado hit. The family in their garage. There were four of them and that makes seven." Moira and Brian exchanged another one of those looks that excluded everyone else around them as they silently congratulated each other on a day’s work well done.
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They didn’t mean to exclude him. If he had to make a guess, he’d say they didn’t even know they were doing it. He and Cassie used to be that way. Oblivious to everyone else around them. "Hey, what about the boy who’d been delivering newspapers?" Brian asked suddenly. "Thank goodness Moira noticed his shoe beneath that car. If he’d lain there much longer he would have bled to death." Moira took a sip of her beer, including Sam in her glance this time. "And instead, he’s with his family and going to be just fine." "That makes eight." Sam tallied it up, feeling even better than he’d realized. Almost good enough to call Cassie and tell her about it. Almost, but not quite. He’d committed just about the worst sin a man could commit against his young wife. He couldn’t blame her for divorcing him. Hell, he’d practically begged her to. And someday, he was going to stop thinking about her. God, he missed her. And Shelter Valley… * * * Moira was happy when Sam signaled for another round of beers. They’d probably had enough, but like she’d said, they didn’t have far to go and they hadn’t had an ordinary day. Far from it… Besides, there was nothing she liked more than spending time with these two. She didn’t want the evening to end. "So, everybody give a personal update," she demanded. She’d seen Brian about a month ago when she’d had to take the train down to Richmond for a nursing seminar. But they’d been surrounded by her classmates, hadn’t really had time to talk. And she hadn’t seen Sam since the flooding in the Midwest back in the spring. That was the last rescue situation all three of them had been involved in. "One more semester and I’ll have my teaching degree," Brian said. "I can’t believe it’s really going to happen." "You could be back overseas by this time next year." She was excited for him. Was just too tired at the moment to feel it. "You’ll have your nursing certification before that, won’t you?" Sam asked. Moira nodded. And she was planning to go back to underdeveloped countries, as well. There was nothing better than the soul-deep satisfaction you felt when you’d helped make someone’s life better. "How are things with you, Sam?" she asked. "The same." Grinning, he looked from one to the other and shrugged. "Give me any car in the country and I can fix it," he said. "Or any floor plan and you can build it," Brian added, his lower lip pushed out, his chin puckered, as, in complete testosterone accordance, he took on his friend’s attitude. Moira’s nod of agreement was tinged with all the faux masculine camaraderie she could muster. "Didn’t you do a stint in plumbing last winter, too?" Moira asked him. Sam wasn’t just a great-looking guy, he had a genuine charm and old-fashioned decency, qualities women inevitably responded to — although he never seemed to notice the effect he had on them. "Yeah. That was in Kentucky," Sam said. "You can learn a lot about toilets in six months’ time."
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Contemplating toilets, the three of them nursed their beers silently, until turning, she saw Brian’s gaze on her and recognized the shadows haunting his eyes — shadows created by some of the things they’d seen that day. And she saw a question there she’d never seen before. A question he shouldn’t be asking. One he didn’t really mean. He wanted something from her that would only last a moment. Something that would change everything. Ruin everything. Something she’d hate herself for giving him. Sam excused himself to go to the bathroom and Brian looked again, raising his brows as he silently rephrased his query. She managed not to answer him before she saw Sam returning. Sam would put away at least another couple of beers. Give her time to gather her defenses about her. Her wits. Her strength. Because the truth was that no matter how much of a mistake it would be to take what Brian was offering — right then, after the day they’d had, the beer she’d drunk — Moira wasn’t sure she cared. And she had to care.... Chapter Two And her neck was so stiff it felt as though it might crack in two. She had to move. If she could. So slowly the movement was barely perceptible, Moira turned her head — and almost threw up when she saw the indentation on the pillow next to hers. What in hell had she done? Please, God, tell me I didn’t do it. With the sharp pain pounding in her brain it was a challenge to remember her own name, let alone anything that had happened the night before, but Moira forced herself to try. They’d been in the bar. Sam had come back from the bathroom. And she’d suddenly thought she wanted to sleep with Brian. After three years of traveling with him, working beside him, laughing with him, her body had suddenly wanted more. They’d had a rough day. That’s all it is, she’d told herself. Just a normal, human response to the danger and the intense emotion they’d experienced, hour after hour. "You ever sorry you signed on for this stuff?" she’d asked the guys, trying to remind herself who they were, what they were about. They were there because the relief organization had called them. There to help the victims of tragedy. Whatever needs the three of them might have simply didn’t matter. "Nope," Sam had answered her with utmost certainty. "Never." Brian’s voice had been filled with such conviction she’d been attracted to him all over again. Which was nonsense. He’d always been completely committed to the work they did. Starting in on another bottle of beer, she’d had to agree with them. She wasn’t sorry, either. Ever. Not even on nights like tonight when she was sore and tired and felt like crying.
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And then Brian had smiled at her. Lying in her bed now, closing her eyes with dread, afraid of what was coming, Moira slipped back to the night before.… They’d talked about some of the other people they’d worked with that day. Some they’d worked with before. Some they hadn’t. And every time Brian spoke, looked at her, leaned toward her, she’d lost a little more control. And when he’d laughed, that deep voice rumbling… They’d also talked about their lives when they weren’t working in disaster areas. And the more personal the conversation became, the more dangerous. She knew Brian had no ties. No home. No family left on the Wisconsin reservation where he’d almost starved to death growing up. And she’d never had home ties herself. Growing up a professional Peace Corps brat had seen to that. But Sam… Somehow if she could just concentrate on Sam, she’d be okay. "You ever think about going back to Shelter Valley?" she asked him about the hometown he hardly ever mentioned. Not only did Sam seem unwilling to tell them about his home, the place he’d lived his entire life until he’d met them three years ago, he also never talked about why he’d left Shelter Valley. Why, after only one year of college at the town’s prestigious university, he’d suddenly left everything behind. And never, in spite of his obvious intelligence, had he made any effort to continue that education. "It’s in Arizona, right?" Moira figured their friendship owed her at least a little peek into the man Sam had been before the three of them had become like family to each other. And maybe, if she was lucky, it would prevent her from falling into something dangerous and unfamiliar sitting right there at the table with her. "Right." Sam said, taking a long swig on his bottle. "Shelter Valley’s about an hour southeast of Phoenix. And I can tell you, there’s no better place on earth.…" Pleased by Sam’s unusual expansiveness, Brian and Moira exchanged a glance — a glance that comforted in its very familiarity. It was the kind of look you exchanged with someone in your family. Family was good, she thought. Their odd little family was good. Everything was going to be okay. "Sometimes," Sam said, tearing the foil label on his bottle, "especially after days like today, it almost seems as though the chains that held me there were more like candy necklaces." As Sam ventured furthered into his own territory, past the No Trespassing signs, there was another long look between Moira and Brian, this one a little too personal. Moira scanned the bar for a window. It was really hot. She just hadn’t noticed before. "What kind of chains you talking about, man?" Brian asked, his words not even a little bit slurred in spite of the beer they’d consumed. She’d noticed before that whenever they shared drinks, he always remained in complete control. She admired that about him. Sam shrugged. "Expectations, that’s what kind," he said with finality. But then he continued, his face softening. "Shelter Valley is really gorgeous, though, in a rugged sort of way." He continued to tear little strips off his label. "We’re surrounded by desert, but we have a champion golf course that’s green all year round. I grew up with Randi Parsons — heard of her? She’s the young golfer who was on her way to the LPGA championship when she was in the car wreck that ruined her career. She was already playing on the tour when we graduated from high school." "Did you know her well?" Moira asked. Was this Randi the reason Sam had left? The reason he had no lasting interest in any woman he’d met in the past three years? Was Randi responsible for the shadows she sometimes saw in his eyes?
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He shook his head. "She wasn’t around all that much. And I was already gone by the time her career ended." "So is the weather as good as you hear it is?" Brian asked and Moira sent him a grateful glance for rescuing Sam from whatever painful memory he’d slid into. Visibly shaking himself, Sam grinned. "Better. Sun shines every day, the purest, bluest skies, 60-degree temperatures in the dead of winter." "Sounds like paradise," Moira sighed. Brian’s brown hand was close to hers on the table and for a second there, she actually thought about touching him. "Can be," Sam said, gazing off into space. "It’s the people that really make the place though, you know? They’re great folks. Reliable. Honest. Hardworking." More than ever, Moira wanted to ask Sam why he’d left. To know. To understand. To help if she could. But a quick glance from Brian told her now wasn’t the time. "There’s a lot of Indian heritage there, did I ever tell you that?" Sam asked Brian. "I’ll tell you one thing," Sam said, his gaze focused back on the two of them, "there’re no tornadoes there." "No tornadoes," Brian said, raising his beer bottle. Sam raised his, too, label shavings falling into his lap. Moira raised her own bottle to join them, but her hand turned at the last moment, her fingers brushing against Brian’s. Strange charges shot through her, intimate energy that would’ve horrified her if she’d been sober enough to figure out why. But no amount of sobriety was going to explain the odd look in Brian’s eyes, the look that passed between them even before she’d consumed more beer than she’d had in a year. At five foot four with her dark hair and blue eyes, she’d had her share of admirers. She recognized the look. She just couldn’t figure out why now, after all these years, she was getting it from Brian. Or why, for that matter, she wasn’t looking away.… "Ohhh," Moira groaned, lying in bed, feeling sick and trying to ignore the bright morning sun that slashed through the thin curtains. The memory unrolled relentlessly in her head. Unable to halt it, she arrived at the part she’d hoped wasn’t real. But it was; she knew that. It had happened. Hand over her eyes, she lay there, reliving the way she and Brian had walked a barely-able-to-stand Sam to his door; reliving the shaky, anticipatory moment that she’d spent waiting outside while Brian led Sam to bed. Wondering if she was really going to sleep with him. In the end, Brian hadn’t even asked if he could come into her room. He’d just followed her inside and onto the cheap double mattress in the nondescript motel room — almost as if they’d done this before.… In the end, she hadn’t had a decision to make. She hadn’t had the energy or the will to stop Brian when he’d so tenderly undressed her, touched her softness with those work-roughened hands, when he’d begged her to allow him to lose himself. To lose, within her beauty, the too-recent memories torturing them. She’d been too tired, and perhaps too inebriated, to count. To think. To remember that this was her most fertile time of the month. To ask Brian if he carried condoms in his wallet. To ask him if he even had a wallet. And too tortured by the day’s tragedies, the lives cut so suddenly and unexpectedly short, to believe in any kind of future beyond the moment.
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He’d been an incredible lover. Bringing her so much more than forgetfulness. She’d not only escaped that day and those memories, she’d escaped life as she’d always known it. She’d traveled to a place with Brian where only good feelings reigned. Where sensation — and fulfillment — were all that mattered. And then, sometime during the night, he’d left her. He must have returned to his own room. Returned to normal, to the way they’d always been. Friends. Buddies. Not lovers. For a very short time, they’d made magic. Brushing her hand across her belly, Moira felt the tears slip slowly down her cheek as she fervently hoped they hadn’t made anything more than that. Chapter Three Brian finished off the last take-out Chinese food he’d brought home with him after school. Cleaning every morsel out of the cardboard container. No matter how many years he lived, how much he accomplished, he would never take for granted a real meal. Or a fine tasting one. And he’d never take for granted the sense of satisfied fullness in his gut. Clicking off the news, which had been keeping him company from the little TV set on the opposite end of his kitchen table, he pushed away the empty cartons and pulled his books back in front of him. The Psychology of Teaching might not be thriller material. Might not even be entertaining. But it was lifechanging. It was changing his life. This semester of classes, then student teaching next semester, and he’d be done. The degree would be his, the assurance that he’d never be helpless again. And then he was going back overseas, to teach children who had such little hope, so few chances. Children who reminded Brian of himself as a boy. If not for the scholarship he’d managed to get from the American government, available because he was Native American, he’d still be fighting his way out. Having lived with the squalor of poverty and the squandering of hope that pervaded the tiny group of Chippewa Indians he’d been born to, he would never be satisfied to simply have a house in the suburbs and teach in a middle-class school the way most of his classmates intended to. He was too aware of the suffering of innocent children who weren’t lucky enough to be born in those suburbs. Children who, like himself, were eager to learn, but didn’t have the privilege of an organized school — or anyone who thought there was any point in educating them. Children who had it worse than he ever did. He hoped someday to go back to the reservation, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet… They were mostly a beaten people, his people. After more than a century of conditioning, it was all they knew how to be. He was afraid they were going to hunt and fish and have their ceremonies and die of disease until the last one of them was gone. His parents had been born, raised, and buried there; they’d both died young and despairing. Brian couldn’t go back until he felt certain the same thing wouldn’t happen to him. He hadn’t read a single word of tonight’s assignment, yet when there was a knock at his door, he got up to answer it. "Moira!" The food seemed to lie heavily in his stomach when he saw her. It wasn’t unheard of for her to come to see him. Since he was in Richmond, Virginia, and she lived in Wilmington, Delaware, they were only an hour apart by train. Ordinarily, the surprise visits pleased him. With his parents gone and no siblings, Moira and Sam were the two people closest to him on earth.
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And to a man without a family, that closeness was important. But he’d screwed up where Moira was concerned. He’d used her, betrayed her. It wasn’t something he could just take back. And an apology would never be enough to make that betrayal disappear. God knows, in the month since the Ohio tornado, he’d tried his damndest to figure out a way to fix what was wrong between them. "Can I come in?" she asked, lacking her usual confidence as she stood outside his door. "Of course." Yep. He’d screwed up bad. She was avoiding his eyes. Possibly hated him now. But probably not as much as he hated himself for taking advantage of her so selfishly that night in Ohio. He was her buddy. Her friend. Her confidant and mentor. He wasn’t supposed to be one of the bastards she had to watch out for. He was supposed to watch out for her. "Heard from Sam?" she asked him, munching on the apple. Sam was working his way down the Mississippi. "Not in the last couple of weeks," Brian told her, watching her through narrowed eyes. "He signed on for the rest of the fall with a road crew in Illinois." Apple juice ran down her chin. Damned if he didn’t have the urge to lick it off. What the hell was the matter with him? He was already scum for crossing their boundaries, but he hoped that his being drunk that night could afford him some measure of absolution. Wanting her like this, while he was stone-cold sober, was insanity. Criminal. And completely out of character. He knew better than to look at Moira that way. She was family. Even if she did have a damn fine body. A finer body then he’d ever allowed himself to imagine. And the way she — "I thought about calling Shelter Valley Information for Montford listings." She shrugged. "You know — to find out who his people are. See if we can learn why things ended so badly.…" That got his full attention. "Please don’t," he said. "Do you think he’ll tell us in his own time, then?" Moira asked. Brian nodded. "It would be grossly unfair to him to stir up things behind his back, especially when we have no idea what we’d be stirring up." "He’s a big boy and he can take care of himself. That’s what you’re saying." "Yep." "But don’t you want to call, anyway?" she asked him. "Don’t you want to know? To help if we can?" "I think that regardless of what drove him away, he has to be ready to go back — and he has to make that decision himself."
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"You think he will go home?" Moira met his eyes, but only briefly. Not like she had that night in Ohio when they’d shared this same kind of concern about their friend. "I’m not sure," Brian told her honestly. Just as he wasn’t absolutely sure he’d return to the reservation someday. God, he wished he could undo what he’d done. Wished she’d look at him. Be his friend again. "So, how’s school?" Moira asked, taking another big bite of the apple. He’d never noticed how white her teeth were. Or how her slim fingers looked so strong and so fragile all at once. He wasn’t supposed to notice that she was a woman. "School’s good," he told her. "The load’s not quite as heavy this year. Three classes now, student teaching in the spring and after that, I’m out of here." "That 4.0 at graduation’s a pretty sure thing, then." He wished he hadn’t told her about his grade point average. She never let go of it. She still wasn’t meeting his eyes. He should say something. And he would. Whenever he figured out what that could possibly be. Finished with the apple, Moira tossed the core toward the trash can over by the back door. And got it in, too. Brian started to get really nervous. Had no idea what to do with her. What to say. How to bring things back to the way they’d always been. He couldn’t afford to lose her. He needed her too badly. Had he ever told her that? Told either her or Sam? Or did they just know? Maybe their needing each other was something they all felt but didn’t talk about. Like those mental images that remained after a particularly grueling rescue mission. Some things there was just no getting away from. "You want to see a movie?" he asked her, flicking his pencil against the pages of the psychology text. "I’m pregnant." Breathing stopped, Brian stared at her. She looked…normal. Even a little bored. "What?" He’d misunderstood, of course. Thank God. He still couldn’t breathe.
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"I’m pregnant." "I…um…" Where were his words, dammit? "You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll handle it all. I just thought I had to tell you — that it was the decent thing to do." She was making no sense to him. A stranger must have invaded her body, a stranger pretending to be Moira. "You’re pregnant?" he asked, just to make certain he was getting it. This couldn’t be Moira. She had no intention of having kids. At least not anytime soon. Once she got her nursing degree, she was planning to return overseas. A working professional in downtrodden countries that needed her. She’d be doing what her parents had done. Were still doing. "I ran a test at the lab at school," the woman posing as Moira told him. "It was positive." If his chest got any tighter, he was going to suffocate. "And you felt you had to come and tell me." "Of course." Of course. In a cold sweat, Brian wished he’d wake from this nightmare. Surely he hadn’t done this to her. Surely he hadn’t messed up all her plans with his one hour of reckless selfishness. No. He’d never do that to her. He cared for her too much ever to hurt her that way. He couldn’t be responsible. He’d only been with her once. For an hour. Maybe. He had thought he’d been too drunk to do anything earth-shattering, to leave her with anything more lasting then a hazy memory. Maybe. Moira, finally meeting his gaze, had confirmation written all over her. But there had to be some other explanation. Something else she wanted from him. Someone else responsible. Brian opened his mouth, intending to say whatever was necessary to help her. To make everything right. But the words that came out were, "It can’t possibly be mine." Chapter Four ”Moira, pick up, dammit.…" "It’s been three damn days, Moira, you have to be getting these messages.…" "Call me." Okay, so maybe she shouldn’t have walked out on Brian the other evening at his apartment. Especially since he’d followed her all the way to the train station, asking her not to go. But she wasn’t going to speak to him.
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She had enough problems without Brian’s insults. She never would have gone to him if she hadn’t been certain he was her baby’s father. She’d believed he knew her well enough to understand that. Apparently he didn’t. So, forget him. For once she wished she had a class. Anything to take her mind off the changes that were happening in her life whether she said they could or not. But it was Saturday and her nursing school didn’t have classes on Saturday. The most recent calls had come in from Brian that morning while she’d been at the gym, walking off her frustrations on the treadmill. And then, later, when she’d been at the grocery store. And the last one, an hour ago when she’d stood right there listening to him and not picking up. Which meant he probably wouldn’t call again until tomorrow. She could safely answer her phone for the rest of the day. * * * Sitting on the side of the road eating a stale sandwich he’d made before the sun had risen that morning, Sam enjoyed a few moments of peaceful contemplation before getting back to the business of road building. The rest of the guys were all gathered around the back of one dude’s pickup truck, telling dirty jokes. Every once in a while, Sam’s peace was interrupted by bouts of raucous laughter. The last time he’d laughed like that had been with Moira and Brian that night in Ohio. Feeling an odd urge to connect with them, he went back to his truck for his cell phone, punching in Brian’s preprogrammed number first; when he got an answering machine, he pushed the number that would connect him to Moira. "Hello?" She sounded tired. Was probably studying too hard. "Hey there, gorgeous, how you doing?" he asked, grinning suddenly. He was a damn lucky man to have friends who could make him feel better simply by existing, by being who they were. "Good. I know I should be studying, but I don’t really want to." "It’s Saturday." He leaned back against his truck. "Time to play." "And are you playing, Sam?" she asked him. Okay, she had him there. Still… "I play every evening when I get off work. You don’t. You study." "I haven’t come this far not to succeed." "I know. I’m proud of you." "Thanks." What, no sassy comeback? No teasing him for being mushy? "You sure you’re okay?" he asked, frowning. At times like this, it was damn frustrating being so far away. "Yeah. Fine. Why?" She didn’t sound fine at all. Did Brian know?
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"Have you heard from Brian lately?" he asked. He was going to try calling his friend again, as soon as he hung up. Brian lived closer to Moira. He could get to her tonight if she needed someone. "Just this morning," she told him. Oh. Good. "I took the train down to see him last week." Brian must know, then, if anything was seriously wrong. "How’s he doing?" "Great. Studying hard. Still has his 4.0." "Yeah," Sam said, nodding. "No one appreciates getting an education more than Brian does.…" He kept Moira on the phone as long as he could without making her think there was something wrong with him. And then he called and left a message for Brian. Just in case. * * * After a nap, Moira left her little one-room apartment, intending to head downtown to the soup kitchen she often volunteered at to see if they needed any help this balmy fall afternoon. She was thinking about Sam’s call, glad she’d talked to him. The day seemed a bit more manageable now. "You’re not going to walk fast enough to get away from me, so you might as well not even try." Damn. She hadn’t seen him coming. "Hello, Brian," she said, walking faster anyway. "That’s it? Three days of ignoring my calls and all I get is hello?" "You can’t possibly be the father of my baby," she told him, staring at the sidewalk as she passed the stop where she would have caught the bus. "So I can’t possibly figure out why we have anything further to talk about." "I’d like to apologize, for one." "For not being the father of my baby? Or for sleeping with me in the first place?" he hated the sarcasm. It wasn’t like her. Not with him. She’d known that night was going to ruin things. "No — for saying what I did the other day. I still can’t believe you’re pregnant, but I have no doubt about my part in the whole thing." She stumbled, but kept up her brisk pace. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? His acknowledgement. And that was all she wanted, she told herself again.
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She could handle this. She could handle anything. She always had. Hell, she was the one who, at 10 years old, had helped her mother sew up war-torn soldiers in a war that wasn’t a war in a little country whose name she couldn’t pronounce. A little country that was flourishing today. "Apology accepted," she finally told him, looking up, looking ahead. Still not able to look at him. She saw him differently now that she knew what he was like without clothes on. "Are we going anyplace in particular?" Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he kept pace with her easily. "Not anymore." "Mind if we find someplace to sit down and talk about this, then?" Moira shrugged, turning up a side street that would take them to a little neighborhood park. One with only a couple of swings and a sandbox, but lots of trees and some benches. "I don’t know what we have to talk about, but we can sit if you’re tired." What was the matter with her? She wasn’t a waspish sort of woman. Yet, she couldn’t give it up, couldn’t find her way with him. This is Brian, she reminded herself. But it didn’t feel like Brian. It felt too much like someone she’d made love with. Someone her body wanted to make love with again.… Chapter Five When Moira and Brian reached the deserted little park near her apartment, Brian took Moira’s hand, pulling her over to the bench farthest away from the sidewalk. Because she couldn’t accept the contact without reacting to him, Moira yanked her hand back a little more roughly than she’d intended. And sat far enough away that her hip was in no danger of bumping into his. "So," he said, glancing sideways at her. "What are we going to do?" His arm was along the back of the bench behind her. Through her peripheral vision, she could see him just over her right shoulder. More than that, she could feel him there. "Do?" she asked him, concentrating on the issue at hand. The only issue that mattered. "What do you mean, do?" "You’re having a baby, Moira. We have to make plans." Those three days of thinking had obviously helped him come to terms with some of the facts. But not all of them, and not the right ones. "We don’t have to do anything," she assured him confidently. "I’ll make the necessary plans." She didn’t want him involved in this. It would be too hard. Too complicated. "I’m just as responsible as you are," he said. "Probably more so." He could have sounded happier about that. But she understood.
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"We’re both consenting adults, Brian. I’ll admit to not being as clearheaded as I might have liked that night, but I don’t remember any forcing going on." "I don’t remember pulling the condom out of my wallet, either," he told her. "And I’m betting that’s not something you could have done even if you’d thought of it." "No." She frowned, not at all sure what the point of this was. "You’re right about that." "So, we’ve got plans to make." Still frowning, Moira shook her head. "No, we don’t," she insisted. "Your condoms, or lack of them, may have contributed to this situation, but from here on out, it’s all mine." "I can’t accept that." "You don’t have any other choice." Somehow, his hand had found its way to her shoulder. He was rubbing her gently, back and forth, the light touch of his fingers sending chills of awareness spiraling down her body. "Of course I have choices, Moira," he said. "And this is what I’ve chosen — to be a father to my child." Brian’s voice never got louder, but it had a way of sounding so firm. "The baby’s as much mine as yours." His words brought to mind a sudden vision of her child, his skin darker than hers because of his Indian heritage. His hair black and full. Like his father’s. The picture made her go mouth dry. "No." She shook her head. Tried to ignore the touch of his fingers. "You don’t have room in your life for a baby, Brian." "And you do?" The fingers grew bolder, sliding down her arm, touching her side. "That’s different. The baby’s part of me." She was finding it hard to think, although she knew she had to. She had to convince him. "But you don’t need to worry about us. Besides, it would kill you to be trapped here raising a child rather than over in some foreign country saving other children." "So I’m supposed to abandon my own kid to go help someone else’s?" His hand stopped moving, resting against her side. She knew she should get up, escape his touch, his presence. Leave. But it was more important to make him understand. "My baby will have everything it needs, Brian; those children do not. And helping them is far more than what you do. It’s who you are. We both know that." "Maybe, but I’m still not going to —" "Brian," she interrupted him, placing her hand on his knee to get his complete attention as she turned to look him in the eye. "We can’t do this together." He frowned, his fingers once more journeying up and down her body. "Why not? Isn’t that how it’s usually done?" "Maybe, but nothing about us, about the way we live our lives, is usual — is it?" she asked him. When he didn’t answer, she continued. "Two people being together for the sake of a child never works."
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"We seemed to do just fine last month in Ohio." His voice had dropped, growing husky. "Yes, well…" Moira licked her lips. "That was just because we were drunk." "Was it?" he asked, his dark eyes boring into hers, saying things again. The same things that had gotten her into so much trouble the last time she’d seen them. She tried to look away. Might have managed it if she hadn’t been afraid he’d know exactly why she’d done so. "Yes." She forced as much bravado into her voice as she could. "It was." "I’m not so sure…" His voice trailed off to a whisper as his head lowered, blocking out the afternoon sunshine. She couldn’t let him kiss her. She couldn’t let him.… Brian’s lips were soft — solid — dangerously exciting as they met hers, covering her mouth, taking and giving and coaxing all at once. His kiss was as powerful as she remembered it. And much more, besides. He was as giving with his kisses as he was with his life. Serving. Always serving. "I think we’re still doing pretty well," he said softly, breaking away from her lips only long enough to kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose, her chin, before taking her mouth again. "Mmm." Moira’s protest didn’t come out right. Didn’t really come out at all. Brian’s hand had grown bolder, brushing against the side of her breast, then covering it. "Oh, God," he said raggedly against her lips. "Can we go back to your place now?" "No." Breathing heavily, Moira leaned her forehead against his, aiming for strength — until her eyes met his. There was such vulnerability there, such raw need — a need that matched the ache deep inside her. "Yes." She took his hand and led him across the park, to the nearly hidden sidewalk that cut through the next neighborhood to her street. They didn’t speak, but she knew what they were going to do. Just as she knew they were only making matters worse. Chapter Six "How can anything that feels this good be bad?" Brian whispered to Moira, his eyes taking in her creamy white beauty in the late-afternoon light shining through her apartment window. "Because it makes everything too complicated." He didn’t want her words to make sense. Didn’t want her to know that the thought of settling down in the suburbs made him feel trapped. But he knew she did. After all the nights he and Sam and she had sat up late, winding down from whatever crisis they’d helped people through on any given day during their years in the Peace Corps, she knew him almost as well as he knew himself. Sometimes better, because she could be objective when he couldn’t. "Things don’t have to be complicated," he said to her now, but he didn’t believe it. He wanted to, though. He should be satiated from their lovemaking, ready to move on, as he always was afterward. But sex had never been like it was with Moira. He couldn’t figure out if that was because he knew her so well. Or if there
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was more to it than that. Cupping her breast with his hand, he lay beside her on the pull-out divan in the living room portion of her apartment. Maybe he could distract her again. It had worked for him twice now. "Have you ever once, in the three years we’ve known each other, thought of me in a romantic way?" she asked He knew his silence was telling. But so was the fact that she didn’t push his hand away. Moira was as unselfconscious in her nakedness as he was. He’d never met a woman like her. "I’ve never thought of you that way before, either," she continued slowly. "Which tells us something. Goals aside, we’re friends, far more than we are anything else." So why was his hand splayed across her breast? Why were her nipples so taut? And his body begging to make love again? "Think for a minute about calling Sam," Moira said. "We’re friends, the three of us and —" Brian abruptly let her go, swinging his feet to the floor, reaching for the jeans that were wadded up, one leg inside out, on the floor. If Sam knew what he’d done, he’d kill Brian. And Brian couldn’t blame him. "He’d think we were crazy." Thinking about Sam, Brian’s heart was burdened with the knowledge of what he must do, what he’d expect Sam to do if the situation were reversed. "We have to get married." As proposals went, it probably wasn’t the best. But it was the best he could do. It might not be pretty, but at least it was the right thing. "No, Brian, we aren’t getting married," Moira said. She crossed the room, reaching in the closet for a white terry-cloth robe. Watching her move made him hungry all over again. What the hell was the matter with him? Or with her? What had she done to him? She joined him on the edge of the bed, taking his hand in hers. "Haven’t you been listening to a thing I’ve said?" she asked softly. "Of course I have," Brian told her, standing, releasing her hand. Moving over to look out the window to the street below. Moira’s apartment was on the second floor. He’d hoped that meant he’d be able to see for some distance — hoped to dispel the claustrophobia he suddenly felt. "But this is about right and wrong, Moira. We’ve created a baby and now we have to give him the best life we possibly can." "I intend to." "A child needs two parents." "But they don’t have to be her biological parents," she said. "There are other ways of providing a male role model.…"
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He swung around to face her. "Do you have someone waiting around to play the daddy role?" he asked her. He’d never even considered that she might be serious about someone else. She hadn’t intimated anything of the sort in the past months, and they stayed in fairly regular contact. Hell, had he impregnated another man’s woman? Who was he, this other man? He’d have to be pretty damn perfect to be good enough for Moira. Brian couldn’t imagine such a man. "No, there’s no one else, but that doesn’t mean I won’t meet someone," she finally said, a little defensively. "But like I said, I don’t have to be married for her to have a father figure. There’re all kinds of programs now that provide kids with the necessary role models." "That’s not the same as having someone to call your own, someone you can count on for security, for unconditional love." "She’ll have that from me." Why had he never noticed how pigheaded Moira could be? Couldn’t she see this was hard enough without making him beg? "What if she turns out to be a he?" he said. "Then I’ll love him unconditionally." Brian felt the muscles in his jaw clench, in spite of his conscious attempt to relax them. "We’re getting married." "You can get married if you’re so set on it, Brian, but I’m not going to." "Why not?" "Because you don’t want to." Okay, so maybe she did know how hard this was for him. "Yes, I do." It wasn’t a lie. The part of him that had to do with honor and decency and meeting your obligations did want to marry her. "No, you don’t, Brian. You’ve been trapped your whole life. You need your freedom to do all the things you’ve set out to do almost as much as you need the air you breathe." So what? He’d change if he had to. "And believe it or not, I don’t want to get married, either," she said. "I’m not ready to have half of my decisions made for me, to have to compromise all the time. But there’s another, much more important reason. My parents might have been a bit untraditional, but they taught me one thing that will ensure my happiness in this life. I’m not getting married until I’m crazy in love." She meant it. And, God help him, Brian was relieved. But only for a moment. Until he realized that if he didn’t marry Moira, he was going to lose the two best friends he’d ever had.
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After what he and Moira had done, there was no going back. Chapter Seven The hurricane was a bad one. Moira didn't hesitate when she got a phone call asking her to fly down to the little North Carolina coastal town. Everyone who'd worked the Ohio tornado got the call. And all but two were able to make the trip. She and Sam and Brian worked side by side, falling into a rhythm as they always did when coping with disasters, with other people's tragedies. It was the first time she'd seen Brian since he'd left her apartment so abruptly the month before. The three of them were mainly cleanup and salvage crew on this trip. But as they fought the debris, they were also on a constant look-out for victims-those who were hurt or trapped or missing. Occasionally they had to stop what they were doing in order to get the injured the medical attention they needed. So far, there'd been no fatalities. "There are enough people here," Sam said, coming over to where Moira was salvaging as much personal stuff as she could from the floor of a flooded home. Brian and Sam were helping with some of the heavier articles. "Let's move on down the street. I just heard some guys say they didn't check that last house on the block because the family's supposed to be out of town. But there's a car in the backyard. I think we should take a look." "Sure," Moira agreed, wiping the sweat off her face with the sleeve of her gray oxford shirt. Her jeans — thank goodness she still fit into them — were already filthy and ripped at the knee. "Let me just take these things outside." They'd already cleared a place on the back lawn for storing everything that might still be usable and laid down a tarp; a second tarp would eventually cover it all, until the family could return to claim their possessions. There were enough townspeople still around to ensure that most of the salvaged belongings would be safe from pillage. By the time Moira had found space on the already full tarp for the pictures she'd been collecting, Brian and Sam had come to join her. "How you doing?" Brian asked softly as they climbed over a tree on their way up the street. "Fine." The house, when they reached it, was worse off than they'd thought. The side they'd seen standing was the best part. Inside, there was splintered wood, debris of various types, broken furniture, some of it beyond repair. On top of a pile of stuffing from the ripped sofa, Moira saw a ceramic kitchen magnet, still in one piece, that said "Friends are forever." There had to be some significance in the magnet's survival. There just had to be. Making sure the guys weren't looking, Moira picked up the magnet and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. If the owner of this house was still alive, Moira was going to make sure he or she got that magnet. It suddenly seemed desperately important to do so. Sam came around a corner, moving carefully past a buckled wall. "No one's back there," he reported, relief in his voice. "Where's Brian?" "Here." The word was choked. Panic knotting her stomach, Moira stepped over and around debris, heading through an empty door frame — with only one wall still partially attached — toward the sound of Brian's voice. Was he in a closet?
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It was a bathroom. Brian was cautiously lifting smaller pieces of wet debris from a ceiling beam that was lodged in place by the uprooted and crazily tilted toilet. "I can't get close enough yet," he said, his voice thick with emotion and strained with effort as he worked. "But I think they're both still alive." They? "Who —?" Sam's question broke off. And Moira saw what he'd seen. Trapped beneath the ceiling beam were two people. If she and Sam and Brian hadn't been trained to notice details — the barely visible shoe, the telltale bit of material — they'd never have found them. Coming farther into the room, sloshing through cold water on the floor, Moira peered behind the toilet and saw the two faces. A very pretty blond woman and, trapped beneath her, a little blond boy who looked about seven or eight. Mother and child. "I think they're breathing," Brian said, glancing over his shoulder at his two companions while he worked. Moira and Sam joined in immediately, Moira blocking out all thoughts as she automatically went through the rescue procedures. She wasn't going to think about that woman over there. Nor about the child. She couldn't afford to. One small action at a time — that was the only way to cope. She was going to think about this splintered two-by-four. That piece of plaster. And the soaking wet towel. The three of them worked quickly and efficiently, throwing debris into one pile, obviously salvageable personal items into another, as they carefully unburied the mother and child. God, please let them be okay. Moira saw Brian eyeing the toilet as they drew closer, wondering how much more they could take off the pile without upsetting the precarious balance. An ordinary porcelain toilet — an everyday fixture — had suddenly become lethal and was hovering above the child's head. "We're going to have to pull it backward, off the beam," Sam said, also assessing the challenge before them while still clearing away the smaller stuff. "It's uphill, and we'll have to yank the pipes out while we do it, but with a rope attached and both of us pulling, we can manage." Brian gingerly tossed a big chunk of mirror onto the debris pile growing behind them. "You don't think the beam will fall on them when we do that?" Sam shrugged. "I don't know for sure, but it seems to be the only chance we've got. If it does fall, looks like that cross beam might take the brunt of it." If it didn't catch the little boy in the chest. "I can sit on this end of the beam," Moira said. The two men nodded and when, a short time later, they were close enough to the toilet to tie the rope around it, Moira moved to her position at the end of the beam. Please, God, don't let them regain consciousness right now. Don't let them be afraid, or try to move at the wrong moment. It took only a few minutes for the men to start shifting the toilet. The plumbing was firmly attached, but Sam and Brian didn't allow that to stop them.
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"Go," Sam said. "Again!" They pulled together, two pairs of biceps bulging, sweat dripping down their faces and across their grimy work shirts. The toilet gave way so suddenly both men went reeling backward. And the beam Moira was sitting on sprang up, knocking her over before it crashed down on both of her legs. Chapter Eight "Moira!" She heard Brian perfectly well, was a little bemused by the worry in his voice. And too winded to get a word out when she tried to speak. She did, however, get a mouthful of the insulation that was cushioning her. "Stay with them, Brian! I'm going for help!" Sam's voice was already in the other part of the house. She could hear his work boots crunching through the debris. "Oh, God, if anything happened…" Brian's voice was a lot closer. And filled with anguish. "Nothing happened." Moira managed the words while spitting out the insulation. "I'm fine." She could feel the pain in her right calf — and, fortunately, the lack of pain in her left one, except where it was lying on part of a splintered cupboard door. There was no numbness. No shock. She might need stitches. But nothing was broken. "Just keep still," Brian demanded. "Don't move, even after I get you free. Don't move until you've been checked over, until we know you're all right." "I'm fine," she muttered again, trying not to make too much of his agitation on her behalf. He was her friend. Sam would have been just as upset — had been as he'd hurried away for help. "Get to them, Brian. Their situation is a lot more serious than mine." He continued to pull slowly on the beam trapping her. "There's nothing I can do for them until Sam brings back some medical help. I'm not moving them." "Then get me free so I can help them." The beam was lifted off her legs, and Moira inspected her right calf, tying a makeshift bandage — ripped from the bottom of her shirt, which had been tucked into her jeans and was still relatively clean — around the gash. Then she carefully got to her feet. "Sit still," Brian ordered, studying her intently. "You have to raise her, Brian," Moira said. The children always came first. "I can't check the little boy with her on top of him." Any other time, she knew, Brian would already have done so. He was really shaken up. And it was then, in the midst of this tragedy, while Brian lifted an unconscious mother away from her little son, when existence had been reduced to the mere facts of life and death, that Moira finally faced the truth she'd been avoiding. A truth she'd done her damndest not to see… She was in love with Brian Glory.
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He gently took the woman in his arms. After a quick inspection, Moira was fairly certain she didn't have any neck or spinal injury. "Her pulse is steady." Brian's eyes were already assessing the young boy, still lying in a puddle of toilet water, before he'd even set the woman down, clearing a space for her by the tiny pile of salvageable debris. Moira leaned over the boy, reaching for his wrist at the same time she lowered her face to his mouth. His breathing was faint. But his pulse beat strongly. "He's very much alive," she announced. "His pulse is good. And he's warm. I don't think there's been much blood loss." Brian knelt beside her, his eyes filled with the same relief Moira was feeling. He knew better than to touch the boy, but he hovered alertly, ready for instant action if he was needed. "The toilet trapped her, but I think it protected her, too," Brian said. "And her body probably shielded him from any real damage." Just as hers was shielding their baby. He didn't say the words, but she read them in his eyes. Tears rolled slowly down Moira's cheeks. "Thank you, God," she whispered, running her hand lightly across the boy's forehead. Brian's hand covered hers, his eyes brimming with the emotion he couldn't let out. "Uhmmm." The moan came from behind them and Moira sprang into action, kneeling by the woman's side as she regained consciousness. "My head hurts." Checking the woman's pupils, relieved to see them dilating properly, Moira took the woman's hand in hers. "I'm sure it does," she said softly. "But I think you're going to be okay.…" The woman frowned suddenly, her eyes wide-open, filled with alarm. "Christian!" she cried, sitting straight up. "Where's Christian?" "Mommy?" The little boy's voice was weak, but the sweetest thing Moira had ever heard. There was commotion everywhere just then, as Sam arrived with medical assistance and a team of cleanup people. Jenny and Christian Moore were carried out on stretchers, but both were talking normally, telling what they remembered about their ordeal to the emergency personnel who were working on them. Jenny turned her head as her stretcher moved away, her eyes filling with tears as they locked on Moira. "Thank you," she said with quiet dignity. "Thank you for saving my son…" Brian stood on one side of Moira, Sam on the other. Both of them slung an arm across her shoulders as she grinned through her tears. One more win for the good guys, Moira thought. They'd defeated death one more time. "You're sure you're okay?" Brian asked her, glancing down to where she'd torn the bottom off her shirt. Glancing at the stomach that was already starting to swell.
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Moira nodded. "Fine." "Thank God," he whispered. * * * Much later that evening, Sam sat with Brian and Moira at a scarred wooden table, in a bar like many of the others they'd frequented over the years. He was grimy and tired, but feeling pretty damn good as he watched his friends sipping soda and downed the beer he'd been craving for hours. "Okay, so what gives?" Sam asked, looking from one to the other. He'd raised his eyebrows when Moira had ordered soda. He'd frowned when Brian had. "I'm just too thirsty for beer," Moira said, using her straw to play with the ice in her glass. Sam looked over at Brian. He wanted answers. "Moira's pregnant," Brian said baldly. Sam's gaze flew to Moira's face, to her belly, and back up again. "You are?" He couldn't believe it. Moira didn't want kids. At least not anytime soon. What bastard had done this to her? And where was he now? She nodded self-consciously. Sam stared at her, wondering how to help. Where was justice when you needed it? He had a sudden flashback to Shelter Valley, to Randi Parsons's oldest brother, Will, and his wife, Becca. They were two of the finest people Sam had ever known, and he'd always believed they'd make wonderful parents. Warm. Giving. Financially solvent. They'd tried for 10 years to have a baby and had experienced one disappointment after another. And here was someone who didn't even want children, suddenly facing a life so drastically different from the one she'd planned. "Are congratulations in order?" Sam asked, still staring at Moira. "I mean, are you okay with this?" He knew she wasn't. And what did Brian think? He'd been surprisingly quiet. Oh, shit. Sam looked over at his friend as it suddenly dawned on him how hard this had to be for Brian. Hell, the man had been in love with Moira for years. Moira shrugged, a strange little smile stealing across her face. "I love the baby already," she said, her eyes meeting Brian's very briefly before settling on Sam's. "I'm due at the beginning of next summer." "So you're getting married?" "No." Sam frowned again. "You're not planning to do this on your own, are you?" "You find something wrong with that?" she asked, her chin jutting out. "Well, yes, frankly —" "Then you don't know me as well as I thought you did," Moira interrupted him. "I can handle this just fine." Sam looked over at Brian.
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Swallowing hard, Brian withstood his friend's stare. He'd understand if Sam hated him for what he'd done. He knew he deserved the other man's scorn. He'd take what he had coming. Somehow, he was going to make this right. Somehow, he'd convince Moira that even if she wasn't crazy in love, he was the right man for her. He'd convince both her and Sam of that. And then he'd convince himself. He'd been trying for the past month to figure out how he could tend to the needs of the driven, starving child inside him, and to those of Moira and his child, too. He hadn't found an answer. But she could have died in that bathroom today. His baby could have died. Nothing else mattered. "What do you think of all this?" Sam asked Brian. "Think we should go get this bastard and show him what happens to men who act like boys?" Brian blinked. Sam hadn't figured it out yet… Because Brian hadn't told him; for the past month, he'd been so consumed by the fact of Moira's pregnancy, he'd automatically assumed Sam knew about it, too. Moira hadn't told him, either. He glanced across at her, meeting her gaze. She was protecting him. And telling him he'd be a fool not to take her up on her offer. She was giving him the chance to salvage his relationship with Sam. "You won't have to go far," Brian said distinctly, still staring at Moira. "He's sitting right here at this table." He could feel Sam's sharp look. Saw him gaze at Brian's soda, over at Moira's, and then replay in his mind what they'd just told him. "I intend to marry her," Brian said, before Sam could even begin with all the accusations he knew were coming. Accusations he knew were warranted. "She just hasn't agreed yet." "It's a crazy idea," Moira said, her expression begging Sam for support on this. "Just because we got carried away once, made one mistake, doesn't change who we are and what we need out of life. It's not a basis for marriage." "No, it isn't," Sam said slowly, looking from one to the other. "A pregnancy isn't necessarily a good reason to get married. But there is a solid basis for a marriage here." "What?" Moira and Brian asked in unison. Sam sat back, both hands behind his head. "For two of the smartest people I've ever met, you two are really dense, you know that?" He was dense, Brian acknowledged. And that was just the beginning of it. He — "Listen, Glory…" But instead of the tongue-lashing Brian had expected, he heard Sam say something that shocked him. "It's been obvious since before we came back to the States that you two were meant for each other." Moira and Brian both stared at him. Brian figured he was supposed to respond, but his mouth was too dry. His mind blank. "What?" Sam asked, grinning. "You trying to tell me you don't know how much you love each other?" "No, we don't," Moira said quickly. Too quickly.
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"We do?" Brian asked. Did that explain it, then? This obsession he had to be near her? His panic at the thought of losing her? "Of course you are. I wondered if you were sleeping together while we were overseas, but then, when we got home and you moved to two separate towns…" "I never slept with Moira while we were in the Peace Corps," Brian felt compelled to assure his friend. No, that hadn't happened until that night in Ohio, two months ago. With Sam in the very next room. "We aren't in love," Moira said, suddenly. Her voice sounded completely certain. But she was still fidgeting with her straw, not meeting their eyes. "I am," Brian admitted, sure of it now that he actually had an explanation for his strange reactions over the past months. He'd been so busy being Moira's loyal friend, not wanting to split up the threesome, being a family, that he'd never even considered any other possibility. Like falling in love. The other reason he'd never considered loving Moira was that he knew he couldn't. He had other plans. Internal needs that were consuming him. But that would all have to change; he had different priorities now. A job teaching kids at a middle-class school, a house in the suburbs — these things would have to be enough. "You are?" Moira's soft words came a couple of minutes later. "Of course he is," Sam injected. "Any fool can see that." Brian looked across at her and nodded. "So," he said, suddenly glad he had Sam there for support, "you have to marry me." I'll be damned, he thought, when Moira shook her head. She appealed to Sam. "You know he has to go back — he has to help those kids or he's never going to be at peace. You know that as well as I do." "Yeah." Sam's agreement was also a question. As in, where was the problem? "If he marries me, I'll be holding him back from doing that." It was the oddest conversation, so intimate that perhaps two lovers should be having it privately, and yet Brian felt it was the most natural thing in the world for Sam to be there, involved in their decisions. The three of them had been to the brink of death and back. Many times. As recently as that afternoon. "I don't see why," Sam said. "It's okay," Brian assured them both. "Living in some American city will be fine." He'd make it fine. He'd be a fool not to. A house in the suburbs somewhere would be a hell of a lot better than the reservation where he'd spent the first 16 years of his life. "You'd both shrivel up and die," Sam said. He set his empty bottle on the table and motioned for another beer. "See?" Moira said. "Even Sam agrees with me." "Who said I agree with you?" Sam asked. "The two of you need to get this baby born and then head over to do your work." "With the baby?" Brian frowned. That couldn't be good.
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Moira didn't say anything, but she had a strange light in her eyes. "It's how you were raised," Sam said to her. "But I always thought I'd had such an odd upbringing that if I ever had a child I should give it a normal life, normal schooling.…" "Something the matter with the way you turned out?" Sam asked. "Noooo." "You having problems with your parents? Some psychic scars we don't know about?" "No," Moira said, sending him a condescending look. "You know how well we get along. You guys have been with me the last couple of times I've seen them." Things were happening so fast Brian couldn't think. But he felt…damn good. Sam took Moira's right hand and Brian's right, bringing them together until they were clasped in the middle of the table, with both of his resting on top. "I have no authority vested in me, but I now pronounce you husband and wife," he said solemnly, his voice only a little slurred from the beers he'd had. "And I want your sworn promise that as soon as the nearest courthouse opens tomorrow morning, we go there and do this right. I have to be back at work in 24 hours." "I don't think you can get married that quickly in a courthouse," Moira said, her gaze on Brian's. "I think it takes a couple of days for blood tests and stuff." "Then let's drive that rental car out to the airport and catch a plane for Atlantic City. I want this done before I let the two of you out of my sight." "Okay," Brian said, standing. "But I'm driving." "Okay?" Moira asked, standing, too. Sam watched, arms folded across his chest as Brian pulled Moira around the table. And then Brian wasn't aware of anything at all. The bar faded away. Sam faded away. There was nothing, no one, except Moira and him. And the baby they'd created. For the first time in his life, tomorrow had meaning beyond paying debts. "I love you," he whispered. Nose to nose, Moira smiled. "I love you, too." "You don't always have to be the strong one, you know, doing everything alone." "It might take me a while to figure that out." He had to kiss her then, couldn't wait any longer… Her lips were soft, intimate, taking him in, accepting him, this man who'd grown up hungry and destitute. Making him part of her. Desire shot through him, almost buckling him with its intensity. Pulling her tight against him, Brian wrapped his arms around her, around his whole world, knowing now why life existed. For the first time, he understood its meaning in a way that went beyond the rational, the practical.
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"Uh-hmm." Sam coughed beside them. He'd hauled himself to his feet. "We'd better get this show on the road before you two embarrass the hell out of me…" Laughing, Brian and Moira broke apart, and Moira, taking one of Brian's hands, offered her other to Sam. Locked together, the three of them went out, a family that would grow ever stronger as the months went by, a family that would be ready and waiting — eager to welcome tomorrow's baby into the fold.
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Snow Emergency by Laura Iding Insanity and had a one-night fling with a doctor visiting from out of town. But that night of guilty pleasure with Dr. Derek Walker may have resulted in something far more permanent, as Tess has a sneaking suspicion she may be pregnant. Or is it just the flu? And, as if her potential medical condition is not enough of a shock, Tess soon discovers that Derek is back in town...for good.
With all the excitement of the Trauma Unit and a snowstorm brewing, there are bound to be more surprises on the way!
Chapter One Charge Nurse Tess Ryerson battled a wave of nausea as the trauma team wheeled her patient into the Trauma Intensive Care Unit at Trinity Medical Center. The female patient had crashed her snowmobile into a tree, suffering multiple broken bones and a lacerated spleen. Tess immediately connected her to a monitor. “Blood pressure 77/34 with a pulse of 128. How much Dopamine do you have her on?” Tess asked, as the trauma team hurried about. “Ten micrograms per kilo per minute.” A familiar deep southern accent sent a ripple of awareness along Tess’s nerves. “I’m increasing her to fifteen.” Tess ignored her response to the surprising - and not necessarily welcome presence of Dr. Derek Walker, the trauma surgeon on call. Plenty of time to be horribly mortified later. She focused on the Emergency Department resident and nurse on the opposite side of the bed as she straightened out the spaghetti mess of IV tubing. Two units of blood were nearly empty. “What’s her hematocrit?” Tess asked the resident. “Around 20. There’s two units of O neg here and the blood bank is working on a type and cross-match for her now,” Derek answered for the resident. Tess could feel his penetrating gaze urging her to acknowledge him. She couldn’t. “Good. Call the lab, tell them to rush the type and cross-match and send me another two units of blood.” “I thought it was my job to give orders?” Derek’s curt tone forced her reluctant gaze to meet his. She took a deep calming breath, so not in the mood for surgeon theatrics, and arched a brow. “Do you want her to get more blood?” “Go ahead and give her the first two units, then check her hematocrit. If it’s less than 30 give another,” Derek confirmed. Duh. No kidding. Tess bit back a snide retort. The sooner things were under control, the sooner they would all leave. “Fine,” she said. “The fluid is in, her pressure is better, almost 90 systolic. We’re making progress.” She continued to care for the patient as the ED nurse and resident left, leaving her and Derek alone. Tess kept busy, not bothering to give him more of her attention, just hoping he would leave. What was he doing
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here? She could feel her emotions stirring, but she tried to keep her face as blank as possible. Focus on the chart... “You didn’t return my phone calls.” He spoke quietly, so no one else would overhear. “No.” Another wave of nausea caught her off guard and Tess leaned against the bed frame, praying she wouldn’t throw up. She was busy and she knew she didn’t have time to get into this with Derek. She gripped the patient’s clipboard in her hand like a shield. “Anything else you want? Additional labs? Fluids?” “Draw a basic chem panel when you get her next hematocrit.” She nodded and wrote the order, taking deep breaths as she hoped the nausea would pass. She’d felt sick for almost a week. Dear God, she couldn’t believe all of this. The one and only time she’d indulged in a very selfish fling, it had backfired on her in spades. It was looking as if her one night of luxurious passion may have come with a steep price. She suspected she might be pregnant. Responsibility was her middle name. They’d used protection, but one of the condoms had broken. She hadn’t worried so much at first, because she’d been on the pill. However, she’d forgotten about the meningitis patient she’d admitted a week earlier. Since she’d been exposed prior to the patient’s diagnosis, the hospital had placed her on antibiotics as a precautionary measure. Antibiotics and birth-control pills didn’t mix. The first tended to negate the effects of the second. She was praying what she was feeling was due to a bug, that maybe it was the flu. She couldn’t be sure until she took a pregnancy test. Derek was still there, watching her. “I know you’re busy, I’ll find you later.” As if reading her mind, he walked away, finally getting the hint and leaving her alone. In the nick of time Tess raced to the bathroom, where she lost the entire contents of her stomach in a sickening lurch. *** Derek couldn’t believe he’d found her. Tess, his Tess, was a nurse in the Trauma ICU! A deluge of emotion swamped him. He could remember their night together with absolute clarity. Every kiss. Every stroke of his fingers along her ivory skin. Every throaty sound she’d uttered when he’d slid deep inside her. His body tightened at the mere thought. They’d met at a holiday party he’d attended at his boss’s urging. The moment a laughing Tess had entered the room, she’d captivated him. His heart had somersaulted in his chest. He’d lost his breath, as if someone kicked him in the kidneys. He’d approached her and found, to his disbelief, that the instant attraction he’d felt was mutual. While it wasn’t his style to take a woman home on the same night he’d met her, he’d felt deep down that they could potentially have so much more. But the next morning he’d awoken to find she had disappeared while he’d been sleeping. For a solid week he’d tried to find her, all the while getting acclimated to his new job as a trauma physician in Milwaukee - until his brother had phoned with the news of their mother’s stroke. Without hesitation, he’d taken the first flight home, to South Carolina. Thankfully, his boss, the Chief of Trauma Surgery, had granted his request to delay his start date by another month. A glitch in transferring his South Carolina MD license to Wisconsin had added another couple of weeks. Until now. His first night on trauma call and he’d found Tess, the woman of his dreams.
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His first instinct was to run, to get the hell out of dodge. Because somewhere deep inside, he knew with sinking certainty he’d just seen the woman he was destined to marry. Hel-lo, reality check. Tess was not thrilled to see him. Too bad. He had no idea what he’d done to chase her away, but whatever it was, he was determined to set things right. Halfway down to the ER, his pager went off. He retraced his steps to the ICU, answered the nurse’s questions, then halted abruptly when Tess emerged from the bathroom, pale and shaken. *** Derek again. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Didn’t she have enough to deal with? Thoughts were racing through her head, spinning out of control. If she was pregnant, how on earth would she manage to work and raise a child all alone? Her hands trembled. “Tess, are you all right?” He took her arm and steered her into the staff break room. She wanted to argue, but fatigue hit hard, and there were at least six more hours left in her shift. “I’m fine.” She sank gratefully into a chair. How ironic that all of this was hitting her at the same time that Derek showed up, she thought. If she was pregnant, Derek would be the father... He immediately placed his palm on her forehead. The warm, male scent of him brought erotic memories she’d thought were buried deep, come rushing to the surface. “No fever. Thank heavens, for a minute I thought you were ill.” “I’m fine,” she repeated. He knelt on the floor before her, taking her clammy hands in his. “Tess, we need to talk.” They were alone in the break room. When she lifted her gaze to his, doubt assailed her. She had been avoiding him, but maybe he had a right to know the truth. She may not even been pregnant, she reminded herself. Should she confess her suspicions now? Or wait until after she’d done a pregnancy test to know for sure? Chapter Two Tess gulped. Derek was right, they needed to talk. He deserved to know the truth about her possible pregnancy. “Why did you run away that morning, without a word?” he asked. She resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. She didn’t want to talk about their night together. She’d gone to the holiday party to escape her emotionally needy family. She didn’t remember hearing that Derek was the new trauma physician, but she did recall the moment she saw him - the attraction was instant. She shamelessly flirted with him, then uncharacteristically spent the rest of the night wallowing in pure, sensual pleasure. Why had that seemed like such a good idea at the time? “I -“ She shook her head, trying not to be drawn offtrack. “The reason isn’t important.” “It is to me.” Derek stared at her for a moment, then gruffly asked, “Did I hurt you?” “No, of course not.” Tess blew out a breath. His nervous concern softened her heart. It was now or never the urge to chicken out, to avoiding telling him her suspicion was strong. There was no delicate way to break it to him. “I’m afraid I might be pregnant.” “Pregnant?” His jaw dropped.
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“Tess!” Emma, one of the ICU nurses, dashed into the break room with wide eyes. “Did you hear? They’re talking twelve to fourteen inches of snow. A blizzard!” Good grief, could this night get any worse? The last thing she needed was to be snowed in. Tess jumped to her feet, bravely facing Derek. “Now you know the truth. I have to go.” And before he had a chance to stop her, Tess turned and headed out the door. *** Derek could barely think with Tess’s words reverberating in his head. Pregnant. Tess might be pregnant. Now that he thought about it, the signs were so clear. Her pale, drawn features, the way her hand was constantly pressed to her stomach, as if she might throw up. Wait a minute, no reason to panic just yet. They were in the height of flu season and those same symptoms could be from nothing more than a nasty bug. But if she was pregnant His pager sounded and he reluctantly read the message. Another trauma victim, actually two, were on the way. Every fiber of his being wanted to find Tess, to make sure she was really all right, but the trauma victims couldn’t wait. Muttering a curse, he took the stairs down to the ED. “What’s the ETA?” he asked, entering the trauma room. “Any minute.” Steve Anderson, the resident on call greeted him. “One victim has been freed from the wreck; the other is still being extracted.” Within moments, the doors burst open. “We have a 68-year-old male with a crushing chest injury,” the paramedic shouted over the din. “He’s been in and out of V-tach. We had to shock him twice during the ride in.” “Call the cardio-thoracic team.” Derek could see the patient had several other fractures, but his chest injury was the most life-threatening. “He’ll need to go to the OR.” “I’ll call them.” Steve grabbed the closest phone. Derek took control, rattling off a series of requests for X-rays, lab work and blood. They shocked the patient again, while waiting for the team. He couldn’t let his personal life interfere with his work, but thoughts of Tess lingered in the back of his mind while he fought to keep the patient stable. Fifteen minutes later, the patient was on his way to the OR for emergent open-heart surgery. Their second patient arrived - a younger man suffering severe hypothermia on top of his multiple fractures. A good hour passed before he was able to send the guy up to the Trauma ICU. He planned to follow, but made a quick detour to the supply room, grabbing a pregnancy kit and stuffing it in a brown paper bag. He’d spent days wondering why Tess had run away, refusing to take his calls. Now there was a bigger reason to get to the bottom of her mysterious behavior. Tess might be pregnant. Time to know one way or the other for certain. *** In the break room, Tess laid her forehead on the cool glass of the window as the bright, glistening snow fell in deceptively innocent flakes. The second shift hospital supervisor had, indeed, declared a snow emergency. Third shift staff nurses had flooded the switchboard with calls saying they couldn’t get in. No reason to be surprised to discover she wasn’t going anywhere.
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No one was. The supervisor had already turned empty resident call rooms into sleep rooms for the nursing staff. Her job would be to coordinate a sleep schedule for the ICU nurses, in case they were stuck here for the next 24 hours. It didn’t help to realize Derek was stuck here, too. She couldn’t avoid him. He’d wanted to talk, but what possessed her to blab her secret? “Tess.” Derek’s deep southern accent had her spinning from the window, the resulting dizziness nearly making her fall. She put a steadying hand on the wall. “Ah...if you’re looking for your patient, he’s in bed twelve,” she said, eyeing the brown paper bag in his hand. “I’m looking for you, just like I did the morning after you left.” A look of surprise passed along her face. “I got your number through a friend but you didn’t answer my calls,” he continued. “I couldn’t find your address - Trinity’s security is tighter than the White House - but I wanted to see you again.” Her heart gave a little pang and she desperately wished things were less complicated. But they weren’t. “Look, Derek, we had a great time but let’s just leave it at that, all right?” His gaze narrowed and she realized she’d ticked him off. He couldn’t know how badly she wanted to throw herself into his arms. Why did he have to be so nice? She’d learned the hard way not to date doctors, especially the ones you worked with. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to have hot, steamy, sexual flings with them, either. “No, we’re not going to just leave it at that - no matter what the results. Take this test.” He handed her the bag. “I’ll wait.” He’d brought her a pregnancy kit from the ED. They didn’t stock them in the ICU, so she’d planned on going down herself, later. Her stomach flip-flopped as she wavered with indecision. What was wrong with her? Normally, she was the most decisive person on the planet. She excelled at taking care of her crisis-laden family and being in charge here at work. What was she waiting for? Without a word, she took the bag from him and disappeared into the bathroom. Swallowing hard, she stared at the package. Okay, she was stuck at work with relentless nausea. If this was the flu, she couldn’t take anything to ease her symptoms, until she knew for sure. She took the test. As she waited for the results, the seconds seemed to take forever to tick by, and she could barely breathe. She stared in silence at the results. Chapter Three The red line on the test strip blurred, then sharpened into focus. She was absolutely, positively, undeniably pregnant. A baby. She was going to have a baby!
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Instead of the expected dismay, a thrill of excitement shimmered through her. Wow. She was going to be a mother! The thought overwhelmed her, making the room spin slightly. That sentiment was quickly replaced with a sense of urgency - she needed to make plans! A new place to live, something with a nice fenced-in yard with plenty of neighborhood kids to play with, yet close to a good school... She had completely forgotten about Derek, until he rapped on the door. “Tess? Are you okay in there?” Tossing the kit in the garbage, she wiped her fantasy from her mind. She stood and opened the door. “Well?” Tense, he stood, his dark, compelling gaze locked on hers. She had the strangest urge to walk into his arms, to bury her face in the comfort of his shoulder. To share the miracle of this tiny life they’d created. The trauma ICU wasn’t the place for this, especially when she had a million things to do. Briskly, she nodded. “Yes.” “Oh God.” His unexpected smile dazzled her. “I’m going to be a father.” “Shh, keep it down.” Good grief, she hadn’t even considered Derek’s role in all of this. Or how she felt about him being back in her life. With a wince she glanced around to make sure no one had overheard him. “We’ll have to discuss this later. I have patients to take care of.” She moved as if to go past him, but he caught her arm in his warm grip. “Tess, I’ll be here for you. You’re not going through this alone.” The prick of tears had to be from hormones, because she wasn’t the sappy sort. She blinked them back and lifted her chin. “I appreciate the sentiment, but we barely know each other.” His grip on her arm tightened, then reluctantly slid away. As she turned to head toward the central nurse’s station, she heard him say, “We will, Tess. Trust me, we will.” *** Two hours later, Derek found himself plenty busy when one of his trauma patients took a turn for the worse. But he couldn’t help the goofy grin that wanted to break free, even as he ordered a fluid bolus in response to the man’s low blood-pressure. A baby. He and Tess were going to have a baby. Not that she was especially thrilled with his reappearance in her life, and truthfully, that fact rankled. What was her problem? We had a good time, let’s leave it at that. Like hell. She obviously had issues she wasn’t sharing with him, but he wanted her, anyway. Not just physically, although that attraction hadn’t dimmed in the least. She was smart. He admired her nursing skill, the way she remained cool and calm in an emergency, multitasking like a pro. Like now. “How much fluid have we given him?” Tess hung an IV antibiotic, answering him over her shoulder. “Three liters, not counting the two units of blood. Urine output is marginal, his central venous pressure is up to 15.” See? She’d read his mind. “All right, back off on the fluids. If his pressure begins to drop again, we’ll need to start him on epinephrine.” “Okay.” She crossed to the supply cart and frowned. “Out of suction catheters? The second shift materials tech must not have come in. I’d better do an inventory.”
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She had yet to look at him, seeming to take every opportunity to remain distant. Briskly, she picked up her clipboard and headed toward the supply room. Oh, no, he wasn’t putting up with another of her infamous disappearing acts. Derek quickly followed. “I’ll help.” She barely spared him a glance as she made her way down the hall. “Don’t you have more important things to do?” “No.” His trauma pager had been blessedly silent and his patients were stable for the moment. “Stop avoiding me.” “Are you going to hound me like this for the whole nine months? Because if so, I’ll go crazy.” She went straight to the back of the room and began tallying supplies. “No, you won’t. You’re a survivor.” He grabbed her clipboard, tossed it aside then lightly clasped her arms. “Tess, tell me what is really bothering you, besides being pregnant?” The lights abruptly went out, enclosing the supply room in total darkness. *** Tess held her breath, counting the seconds in her head. One, two, three...there, she heard the backup generator kick on. But the supply room, not part of the critical power supply, remained shrouded in blackness. Derek’s hands pulled her close and his mouth captured hers in a startling kiss. Instantly, the weeks they’d spent apart faded. Desire flared, hot and quick and lethal. Oh heavens, she wanted him. Here. Now. Hurry. No, not here, with boxes of gauze crinkling at her back, but in a bed. Naked. His hands slid over the worn cotton of her scrubs making a mockery of the thin covering. Helplessly, she clutched his shoulders as he pressed an openmouthed kiss to her neck. “God, Tess. I want you.” Okay. Yes. Here. Why not? She wanted him, too. She shifted and pressed closer, his hard, male body seemingly a perfect fit with hers. The rigid evidence of his arousal made her want to touch. She needed protection... Wait a minute, this was exactly how she’d gotten pregnant! What was she doing? She shoved him away, breathing hard, searching desperately for her penlight. With shaking fingers she turned the penlight on to see Derek. “Are you nuts? This can’t happen. I want you to leave me alone.” “Really? You could have fooled me. I’d swear you enjoyed that kiss as much as I did.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, I get it. You’re running scared, just like you did the morning after the holiday party.” “I’m not running from anything,” Tess scoffed. “Yes you are, but what?” He leaned close and it took all her strength not to prove him right by bolting for the door. “Me? The baby? The way I make you feel? Tess, please...why won’t you open up?”
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Chapter Four Tess hesitated, meeting Derek’s intense gaze in the minimal illumination from her penlight. The dark supply room provided an aura of intimacy, isolating them from the rest of the world. “You weren’t supposed to be a doctor,” she blurted, needing to tell him how she felt. “That’s why I didn’t return your calls. I don’t date doctors. Ever.” Confusion flashed in his eyes. “Someone hurt you.” “Yes.” A wave of relief washed over her. Now he knew. “I learned the hard way not to date men I work with.” “Tess, I understand your logic. But think back to the night we first met. You didn’t know me, and I didn’t know you, but we clicked, instantly drawn to each other.” She couldn’t lie to him. Not when their night together was forever seared into her memory. “I know.” “Are you honestly saying we can’t move forward in our relationship because I’m a doctor?” Stated so simply, her reasons for pushing him away did sound a bit lame. But her pregnancy complicated their relationship. Confused, she shook her head. “I don’t know.” Derek’s pager shrilled loudly, making her jump. “Damn,” he muttered softly. “I have to go.” She nodded, unable to speak. He surprised her by pressing his mouth on hers for a quick kiss. “We’ll talk soon,” he promised. Alone in the supply room, she finished her inventory of the suction catheters via penlight. She didn’t doubt Derek would find her later, but talking wouldn’t change a thing. He’d still be a doctor she worked with. And she was still pregnant with his baby. How could she ever trust Derek’s feelings for her? And worst of all, what if they didn’t last? *** Derek hated leaving Tess, but the OR staff had paged him to let him know the trauma patient with the crushing chest injury was coming out of surgery. For the next couple of hours, he remained busy with the patient who’d undergone a coronary bypass surgery and a mitral-valve replacement. Emma was the ICU nurse at the bedside. She was competent, but they didn’t have the same synergy that he shared with Tess. He sensed Tess coming up behind him. How had he grown so aware of her in such a short amount of time? “Emma? I’m ready to take over for you.” Tess consulted her clipboard. “You’re scheduled for a four-hour rest period.” Concerned, he glanced at Tess. “Shouldn’t you rest soon?” She sent him an exasperated look. “I’m fine. As the Charge Nurse, I’m last to go.” “I’m okay, Tess, if you want to switch places,” Emma offered as she hung an IV antibiotic. “No, thanks. I’d rather stick to the schedule.” Derek appreciated Tess’s organizational skills - clearly she preferred to do things according to plan. But, what about making some exceptions once in a while? Couldn’t she adapt her strict schedule for the sake of
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her health? For their baby? He stepped back, listening as Emma gave Tess a detailed report on the patient’s progress since returning from surgery. After fifteen minutes, Emma finally left them alone. “His cardiac index is still low, and his pulse is tachy.” Tess’s tone was brisk and professional. “Did you want me to titrate the nipride and epinephrine drips?” “Yes, until his cardiac index is at least 2.5 or better.” Derek fought the urge to make her sit down. Not that she would appreciate his interference. “How are you feeling? Any nausea?” “A little.” She ignored him as she worked over his patient. “But I’m fine.” He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall above the patient’s bed. Two o’clock in the morning. He’d pumped Emma on the length of their shifts. Tess couldn’t be fine, not when they were already a good three hours past her normal eight hours. She was sick, pregnant and had just agreed to cover another four hours because of the mountain of snow piling up outside. Did she think she was Wonder Woman? A voice over the intercom interrupted his thoughts. “Tess, you have a call on line two.” “Excuse me.” Tess swept past him to seek a phone outside the patient’s room. With unabashed curiosity, he blatantly listened to her side of the conversation. “You have two extra nurses for us?” Tess’s voice rose incredulously. “How did you manage that?” She paused, then nodded. “You bet I’ll use them, thanks so much!” She hung up. “Help is on the way?” he asked. “Yes. Apparently, the house supervisor managed to get in touch with a couple of ICU nurses who live in the apartment complex across the highway.” Her gaze slid from his and he immediately knew what she was thinking. The same apartment complex he lived in. The same place she’d snuck out of the morning after their night together. Tess cleared her throat, before continuing, “They walked here, despite the blizzard.” “Great. Now you can rest.” Her gaze narrowed then turned into a wince as she put a hand over her stomach. “Maybe, at least for a little while.” “Dr. Walker!” One of the ICU nurses ran up to him. “Your patient in room twelve just went into V-fib.” “Call a Code Blue and get the defibrillator now!” Derek ran down to room twelve. Damn. This was the guy who had been in the same car crash as the open-heart case. So much for being stable. “Charge the defibrillator to 200 joules and shock him.” Tess wheeled the defibrillator into the room and efficiently connected the patient to the defib pads. “Charged to 200 joules, all clear?” After making sure no staff members were touching the patient, she shocked him. “Still in V-fib, shock again at 200,” Derek commanded. “All clear?” Tess shocked him again. “Still in V-fib, shock again at 360 joules,” Derek said.
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“All clear?” Tess gave the third electrical shock. “Still V-fib, start CPR and give a miligram of epinephrine.” Derek gave the orders calmly, although inside, he wanted to scream and shout. What had they missed? Why had this guy gone into a lethal cardiac rhythm? And could they save him? Tess climbed up to kneel on the bed for chest compressions. On a personal level, Derek wanted to yank her down, but her chest-compressions were excellent, giving the patient a reasonable blood pressure. Once they had given all the necessary medications, he called out, “Stop CPR, let’s see what we have for a heart rhythm.” Tess halted her compressions. Derek held his breath and there was a moment of complete silence as every person in the room stared at the monitor. Chapter Five “Normal sinus rhythm.” Relief was evident in Tess’s tone. “All right, start him on amiodirone drip and send off a basic chem and cardiac injury panel,” Derek instructed. They’d avoided further complications for the moment, but this guy’s heart obviously needed a little help. “I’ll call a Cardiology consult.” Most of the members of the code team dispersed from the room, leaving the patient’s nurse to take over. Derek wrote a note in the patient’s chart, then picked up the phone to call Cardiology. After he placed the call, he took a few moments to think over what he would say to the patient’s family - they also had to be notified. Although the patient was stabilized, his condition had just turned critical. “Derek?” A warm hand on his shoulder brought him out of his morose thoughts. “Are you all right?” Tess. Her concern warmed his heart. He wanted so badly to take her hand in his, but at the same time, he didn’t want to undermine her professionalism while they were in the ICU. He forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. That was a close call, though.” “I know.” Tess’s expression mirrored his feelings. “You did a great job in there.” “Not just me, the whole team,” he corrected. “Even if you did give me a moment of heart failure when you jumped up on the bed to do CPR. I’d feel better if you were off your feet, resting.” He kept his voice low, so their conversation wouldn’t carry. Her cheeks reddened and her hand slipped from his shoulder. He instantly missed the physical connection. “Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to tell you. I’m on my way to rest in one of the call rooms. In case you need to find me.” “Good.” Was there a hidden meaning in there? Man, he hoped so. She needed to take care of herself and he wished like heck he could go with her. His trauma pager was relatively quiet, but he couldn’t risk leaving his patient just yet. “Get some sleep.” “I will. See you later.” Derek watched her walk away, wondering which call room she’d been assigned. Would she mind a little company, later? The thought gave him the spurt of energy he needed to finish his paperwork, then check on the remainder of his patients. The sooner he got things squared away in the ICU, the quicker he could find Tess.
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*** Tess was physically exhausted, but emotionally too keyed up to sleep. Not unusual, the adrenaline rush of a code blue was enough to keep anyone awake. She splayed her hand over her flat belly. For a few hours, the idea of having a baby had stayed in the dark recesses of her mind, but now the knowledge filled her head. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would he or she have straight dark hair like Derek or her riot red curls? She needed to think of a name... A knock on her door brought her bolting upright. Groggily, she stared at the illuminated clock. She must have dozed, after all. Was her four-hour rest period over already? “Tess? It’s me, Derek.” Leaning over, she flicked on the small bedside lamp. She’d taken off her scrubs, so she wrapped a blanket around her nearly naked body and went to the door. She opened it just a crack, and peered out at him. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong.” His lazy grin shot a tingle of awareness through her stomach. “May I come in?” Tess hesitated, knowing he wanted more than conversation. The memory of their kisses in the supply room reminded her of how close to the edge she teetered. He was a doctor, a trauma surgeon, no less. If she had a functioning brain cell left in her head, she’d run in the opposite direction. But she didn’t want to run, and not just because of the sexual chemistry between them. Derek was a sincere and compassionate doctor. There were no guarantees in life - the near-miss during the code blue proved that. And suddenly, looking at Derek, she realized just how much she was tempted to trust him. It was a good feeling, she thought. “Won’t you give me a chance, Tess?” He edged closer to the door. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” He offered a smile. Her resistance melted. How did he have the power to make her act so differently than she usually would? With Derek she was another person, one who didn’t care about the mistakes of the past, only the possibilities of the future. “All right.” She opened the door. The relief in his gaze was comical. He came into the call room, then quickly closed and locked the door behind him. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could formulate a coherent thought, he covered her mouth with his. The room spun as Derek pulled her into his arms. With two steps he steered to the edge of the bed and gently set her down on the mattress. She clutched the blanket to her naked chest as Derek gazed down at her. He stroked a finger down her cheek. “You’re so beautiful. I can hardly believe I’ve found you after all these weeks.” A ghost of a smile played across the hard planes of his face. “How did I get so lucky to be snowed in with you my first night on call?” Her throat thick with emotion, Tess couldn’t answer. Instead, she loosened her hold on the blanket and entwined her arms around his neck, then brought him closer for another kiss. Letting go of her old fears was much easier when he kissed her. “I want you,” Derek whispered. He made quick work of getting rid of his scrubs, then took his time divesting her of the lace she wore. He splayed his broad hand over her abdomen as his gaze feasted on her bare breasts. “Are you really up for this?” “I’m fine.” When his hand moved up to cup one of her breasts, she gasped. “Better than fine.”
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“Good.” He took his time exploring every inch of her, but his slow caresses were driving her mad - she wanted him to hurry. When he spread her legs to stroke her more intimately, she eagerly rose up to meet him. “Derek, please,” she clutched at him, urging him closer. “Shh, let me look at you for a moment.” He stroked the heart of her while pressing a kiss on her belly. “Don’t make me wait another minute.” She threaded her hands into his hair and tugged him upward. The muscles of his arms bunched as he lifted up to cover her body with his, and thrust deep. “Oh!” she cried out when he filled her so completely. Yes, finally - this was what she’d wanted! Maybe everything would work out between them, she thought...and then she couldn’t think at all. After several moments, all she heard was Derek’s deep breaths. Then he pressed his forehead against hers. “Tess, I think I’m falling in love with you.” She froze, her heart stumbling in her chest. The shrill ringing of the phone cut the silence of the room. Derek picked up the receiver and held it out for her to answer. Chapter Six “Tess, we’re declaring an all-clear. You’re free to leave.” “All right.” She barely heard her supervisor because Derek’s words tumbled through her mind as she hung up the phone. I think I’m falling in love with you. “Is something wrong?” Derek asked. “You look pale.” “Yes. No, er...the snow emergency is over.” She was all too aware of her nakedness beneath the sheets. What had she done? “I can go home.” Derek’s dark brows pulled together. “I’d like to drive you home, but I can’t leave until seven. Will you wait for me?” “I can drive myself.” She clutched the sheet, easing away. “I’m sure the plows have the major streets cleared by now.” “Tess.” He put a hand on her arm, as if to stop her. “You’re doing it again, running away from me. From us.” “I - need some time alone.” Her voice sounded strange, distant, even to her own ears. “To think.” “I meant what I said.” Derek tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’m falling in love with you.” Her eyes flashed and she jerked away from his touch. “We’ve only known each other a few days. How can you love me? You don’t even know me.” Fuming, she searched for her discarded scrubs. “I knew from the moment I saw you, my life had changed. Our first night together, I discovered your great sense of humor. Your laugh was infectious.” She didn’t want to listen, but his voice tugged at her while she gathered her stuff. “After tonight, I know you’re a warm, compassionate nurse who’s been hurt in the past and I can only promise not to do the same.”
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“That’s not enough.” Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper as she clutched her clothes to her chest. “I know you take responsibility seriously. And I know you’re carrying my baby.” Derek wouldn’t give up. “All I’m asking is for you to give us a chance.” “I need time, Derek. This is just so much to take in all at once. I’d never keep you away from your child, but as far as a relationship goes -“ she swallowed hard “- I’m just not sure.” The expression in his eyes was dark, tormented. She expected him to push harder, but he surprised her by nodding. “I’ll give you time, Tess.” He stood. “But remember how hard I searched for you, after that first night. And how thrilled I was to find you, before you told me about the baby. From the moment I saw you, I was attracted to you. And making love again just now only reinforced how wonderful we are together.” She didn’t have a response to that, so she slipped into the bathroom. As she leaned weakly against the door, she knew his words would follow her all the way home. *** Derek finished his shift and headed to his apartment across the street, wishing he dared go straight to Tess’s place. But he’d promised to give her time. And a few measly hours probably wasn’t enough, damn it. She was slipping through his fingers. Again. And he didn’t know how to convince her that his feelings were real. Hell, they were so real they scared him to death. When he’d found her in the ICU, he’d known their futures were irrevocably linked. But he hadn’t anticipated the news of the baby. At first he’d been ecstatic about being a father. Now he resented the very connection he’d once desired, because Tess hadn’t believed him when he’d confessed he loved her. She thought he was handing her a line, because of the baby. Nothing was further from the truth. But how could he convince her? *** Five excruciatingly long days passed before he saw Tess again. He’d called often, but she hadn’t returned his messages. They kept missing each other at work, too. When his buzzer sounded on Saturday morning, his heart leapt with hope. He used the intercom to answer. “Yes?” “Derek? It’s Tess. Do you have a minute?” He had way more than a minute, but tried to remain calm. “Of course, come on up.” He pressed the button to release the lock then went to open his apartment door to wait for her. She looked wonderful, casually dressed in worn jeans and a green wool sweater beneath her bulky coat. He could barely keep himself from hauling her into his arms and kissing her. “I’m so glad you stopped by. You look wonderful. Do you want something to drink?” Cripes, was he babbling? He needed to get a grip.
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“No, I’m fine.” She shed her coat, then stood awkwardly in his living room. “I thought I should tell you in person.” His gut clenched at her solemn tone. “Tell me what?” She glanced away, but not before he saw the pain in her eyes. “I’ve had some bleeding.” “Oh, Tess, I’m sorry.” Now he did cross over to pull her into his arms. “When? Why didn’t you call me? I would have been there. There’s no reason for you to go through this alone.” She didn’t resist his embrace, but hid her face in the crook of his neck. “Do you really mean that?” He was shaken by the news, already grieving for the baby that might no longer be, but he was more worried about Tess. How much blood had she lost? Was she really all right, emotionally? “Of course I do. Nothing is more important than you, Tess.” She pulled away, enough to search out his gaze. “I want to believe you.” He squashed a wave of frustration but kept his tone calm. “I wish you could believe me, too. I’m not the one who hurt you. I wish I could take care of the guy who did.” She sighed and blew out a breath. “I guess I should explain. My dad was a doctor, Chief of Pediatric Surgery at Children’s Memorial Hospital. He left us when I was a senior in high school. Afterwards, my Mom started taking sleeping pills. She was a mess, hardly able to cope. I was the oldest of five kids - I had to keep our family from falling apart.” Derek nodded, finally understanding what she’d gone through and why she had such a strong aversion to doctors. “I’m sorry.” “I’m usually the responsible one, until I met you.” She placed a hand over her flat stomach. “I haven’t lost the baby yet, but you need to know, it’s a real possibility.” “I won’t deny how sad I’d be if you lost the baby, but I meant what I said. Making sure you’re healthy is my main concern.” He brushed a kiss on her forehead. “It’ll be okay, Tess. I’m here for you, no matter what.” She was quiet, then reluctantly pulled away. “You scared me when you said you were falling in love with me. Mostly because I’ve been feeling the same way. And I’m so afraid of ending up like my mother. My family is still pretty much in chaos.” “You’re one of the strongest women I know.” Derek hadn’t met her mother, but he knew Tess. “I wish I could give you a guarantee, but I can’t. All I can ask is for you to give me a chance to prove we’re different. We are not your parents.” “I know.” She raised her gaze to his. “I’ve been telling myself the same thing. I don’t want to ruin what we have.” The tightness in his chest eased. Cautiously, he asked, “And what do we have?” With a hesitant smile, she gently placed her hand over his heart. “I’m not exactly sure, but I’m anxious to find out.” Not an overwhelming proclamation of love, but he was willing to take it. After all, they had the rest of their lives. He hauled her into his arms where she belonged. “Me, too.”
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In the Event of My Death by Michele Hauf For years, computer hacker and Web journalist Jesse Marvel, infamous for leaking industry trade secrets, has barely dodged legal action from major tech companies in the Silicon Valley. Now he's dead because one of those secrets was worth the price of murder. Madeira Shane, a freelance agent working with the National Computer Crime Squad (NCCS), arrives at the scene just minutes ahead of the local police. She gathers some evidence and is off…but not without picking up a tail.
Chapter One "Dead," I narrated quietly. "Apparent from the knife sticking out from the victim's back." The near-eye microdisplay, which was hooked over my right ear and suspended before my eye, recorded my voice as I meticulously examined the body lying outside an open car door on the HoloTech parking ramp. The knife blade glinted. I would not attempt to pull it out. I never tamper with evidence at a crime scene. Conscious of the frantic woman leaning over me—housekeeping…she had discovered the body—I carried on, ignoring her sniffles and hand-wringing as best I could. Jesse Marvel was—had been—young. Since the television and Internet news had featured his smug smirk of late, I knew he was twenty. Slouchy jeans hung on thin legs, which revealed the elastic waistband of blue striped boxers. The Silicon Valley U sweatshirt he wore was gray, but a rapidly spreading bloodstain on the back was changing that. Crouched and leaning forward, I didn't touch the body, though I wore hospital-issue surgical gloves. "Zoom in," I commanded the voice-activated display. The image of Jesse's pale face grew larger on the eye screen. A fine beam of light from the small aluminum Maglite I held travelled up his torso. My eyes focused on the display, seeking evidence beyond the obvious. A plastic lanyard strung around his neck held his ID badge and a postage-stamp size hologram fob sporting a skull design. "I called the police," the lingering woman trebled. Her sensible brown shoes squeaked as she paced behind me on the concrete. I could smell the cleaning solvents wafting from her like perfume. "They're on their way." "Excellent," I said to her, but not meaning it. That cut my time with the body down considerably. I'd been driving the 17 to Santa Cruz when the call had come from X, my contact at the FBI's National Computer Crime Squad. I was a freelancer. The NCCS frequently used outside operatives, even for high-profile cases. It never ceased to amaze me that the FBI seemed to know the moment a life expired. "Could you step back?" I said. "Give me some light, please?" She did not move—the poor woman was traumatized. My light strolled across the young man's face as I narrated for my records. "Eyes closed. Scruffy brown hair hasn't seen shampoo for days. A bruise beneath his left eye. He put up a fight?" Interesting. Maybe there would be DNA evidence. Aiming the flashlight at his fingernails, I noticed a blue pen mark on his finger. But it wasn't right. Kneeling and lowering my ear almost to the cold cement, I studied his first finger. "Half-inch-long ink mark. Partially faded." A closer inspection revealed the faded blue ended just above the first digit crease.
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"Zoom in," I said. Peering into the computer screen two inches from my eye, I studied the fingerprint blown up three hundred percent. And I noticed the sticky residue. "Tape. Or some such." Made sense. A portion of tape, or a gel compound pressed to the fingertip, when peeled away would remove part of the ink. "Finally!" the woman cried. "Do you hear that?" Yes, I did. Police sirens closed in. Staying one step ahead of the local authorities was my expertise, and another reason I was on the NCCS call list. I'd seen enough. The murderer had lifted Jesse Marvel's fingerprint, and the only reason could be because that person wanted to use the print to access Marvel's private files, likely secured with a biometric password. A cyber-genius, Jesse Marvel had been touted as the next Bill Gates, with a more devious edge. He maintained an Internet site that frequently posted trade secrets leaked from major computer companies, and his podcasts were infamous for their scathing but pinpoint judgments on the tech industry. The big boys at the three major computer corporations had pursued Mr. Marvel for years. Indigo had sued him just last month for violating nondisclosure agreements. Marvel had been fined millions, but served no jail time. What secret had he discovered that suddenly warranted murder? I was going to find out. "Sleep." I shut down the computer. I wouldn't need it for what I had planned. Straightening, I tucked the Maglite into my back pocket and walked wide of the woman who groped for the sleeve of my black leather jacket. "Aren't you going to stay?" Frantic with adrenaline, she trembled. "I can see the flashing police lights." "I need to get some equipment from my car on the lower level ramp." I had told her I was forensics when I arrived. Who's going to ask for ID when they stand over a dead body? "I'll be right back, ma'am." Not. Quickening my steps. I took the access stairs two at a time. I didn't stop when I reached the roof of the fourstory parking ramp. Below, the sirens had ceased, but red lights colored the midnight sky in intermittent flashes. Increasing my strides and pumping my arms, I accelerated to a run. The edge of the roof loomed but four strides away. I leaped. Silicon Valley's cool night air kissed my cheeks. The jump was an easy stretch. A sister corporation sat right next door. Landing, I immediately rolled and didn't miss a beat as I stood and walked to the center of the roof. I tugged off my blond bobbed wig and tossed it onto the pebbled surface of the roof. The surgical gloves followed. I shook out my hair; it was long, curly and shiny black. Yeah, the guys love it. I hadn't worn the wig for disguise but to keep my own DNA evidence under wraps. Not cool to leave a stray hair at a crime scene. Extracting a lighter from my pants pocket, I lit the wig and gloves on fire. Within minutes they were ashy embers, which I stamped out. No time to stick around to roast s'mores and sing "Kumbaya." I had deadly secrets to procure, and keeping ahead of the police was key. "Awake. Dial X." The microcomputer I wore rang X as I walked toward the edge of the roof. "That was fast." X's electronically altered voice wavered, but I knew he was a man. The one time I'd joked about PMS putting me off my game, I'd received an awkward "Er…" in reply. "The police have arrived. There was nothing on Jesse Marvel's body, including fingerprints. At least one was stolen."
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"The murderer must be confident he or she can access his private files without the real deal." "Yes, to murder the man before getting the prize does seem odd. Upload the coordinates to Mr. Marvel's home for me, will you? I'll be en route in approximately four minutes. Out." The satellite connection to X's base, somewhere in the Valley, disconnected. Slipping a hand inside my jacket—I had matching leather pants, too; both reinforced with Kevlar, yet fashionably slim and fitted—I pulled out a six-inch-long titanium rappel bar and shot the three-pronged hook into the concrete wall edging the roof. Stepping onto the ledge, I tugged the steel cable, securing the hold, and then eased over the edge. Both hands holding the rappel bar securely, I scanned the alley below as I walked the concrete wall with my sticky-soled creepers. Red flashes danced across the tarmac. Upon landing, I let the rappel bar hang, and turned to walk right into a solid wall of man. Defenses ratcheting into high gear, I prepared to deliver a mean right hook to his jaw—but recognition stopped me midpunch. Just my luck. The usual suspect. Shaking this guy was more difficult than knocking a leech off a wound. "Madeira Shane," he said smugly, flashing his perfect white teeth and dive-in-and-take-a-nap dimples. "Fancy meeting you here." The flight-or-fight instinct hit me hard. But I vacillated. Flight wasn't as fun as sticking around for the fight.
Chapter Two "So, how's my favorite British bombshell?" Eddie asked. "Ready to pull a punch, as always." Eddie Powell called himself a rogue bounty agent. He performed similar work to my own: information retrieval. We both took jobs from the government and from nameless sources with the finances to purchase an anonymous agent. "So let me guess," I said. "You didn't kill anyone tonight." "Never. Not in my job description." "Right." Nor was it in mine. But that didn't mean I shouldn't have my suspicions. "So, whom are you working for? Indigo?" "Oh, that's cruel, Madeira. You know Indigo got their money last month. They're off my suspect list." "So you say." I hadn't ruled the computer goliath from my list. Bad practice not to look at the whole picture. "How about MicroVerz? Or Newton, or even United Code? I assume they're all looking for the prize." "A prize I suspect you've claimed." A hint of a shrug lifted my shoulder. "Interesting how quickly word of Mr. Marvel's murder leaked out. And before the police have even arrived." "Isn't it?" He wasn't going to give me details. He never did. Eddie was overconfident of his charms. "I'll make this easy, Madeira." He slid a hand along his charcoal Armani suit jacket, deftly revealing the Glock hugging his ribs. "Hand over the evidence I could have stolen, and I won't make a fuss—or alert the police," he said calmly.
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I couldn't help grinning. The man, designer label–styled and cocky as he was, never fully realized the caliber of mettle he was dealing with when he went up against me. Not to mention, the pure stubbornness. "Now you see," I said, allowing the accent I still retained after six years in the States to thicken—I knew Eddie liked it— "that's the difference between you and me. You, Mr. Powell, steal evidence. I, on the other hand, acquire it. And I never share my acquisitions." "What about that kiss you acquired from me last month? You seemed eager to share then." Rolling my eyes would be a juvenile reaction, but I still did it. I did have to force myself not to punch him in the arm like a kindergartener's love-tap. The aforementioned kiss? So I'm human. And Eddie was a formidable kisser. As he reached for his gun, I asked, "What makes you think I acquired any evidence?" That made him think. Oh, Lord, can I get an Amen for a thinking man? "For your information," I added, "I didn't even touch the body. It was clean, save the knife. Whomever killed him had found what he was looking for." He didn't need to know about the fingerprint. That was my prize for getting to the start line first. Could I make it to the finish? You bet. "All the same…" He waved the gun menacingly at me. I hate guns, only for the false bravado holding one instantly gives a man. You never see a woman flashing heat. I carry, sure, but I'm not going to use it unless all other options have been exhausted. "I think a search is necessary. Kindly remove your jacket, Ms. Shane." "Oh, Eddie, darling." His aim faltered at my sexy tone. And he wasn't prepared for my next move. "This will hurt me more than it will hurt you." Bending forward, I touched the tarmac with my right fingers and kicked high, landing the heel of my rubbersoled shoe aside Eddie's jaw. I swung upright, as Eddie's body went down. He folded neatly against the concrete wall. I toed his jacket lapel over to conceal the weapon in his hand. "On second thought," I said, straightening and dusting nonexistent dust from my shoulder, "that felt good. Ta." Two blocks away, my Bimmer started at a vocal command. The computer I wore was Wi-Fi integrated with my car, all electronic devices in my home and Skype, for making phone calls via the Internet. I drive a BMW Z4 and she is my baby. She's gotten me through thick and thin; more often than not, thin—as in ice and alibis. I fell in love with the car after seeing the commercials with Clive Owen driving them in all sorts of covert and dangerous situations. So I'm a Clive fan. Sue me. I'll fight you for him in a pinch. Want to guess who'll win? I slid into the front seat, and glanced back to the scene of my encounter with Eddie. I trembled as I sighed— and then caught myself. "What was that, Madeira?" A shudder of regret? "Eddie's a big boy. He'll be up and about sooner rather than later. Right?" Right.
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X had sent me the coordinates for Jesse Marvel's home, and a map appeared on my eye screen. He lived not far from here, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. The closer it was, the quicker the police would find it after they'd looked over the body. At the bottom of the screen, X had noted that he "lives with mother, suspect she is out of town for no answer at home." Worst-case scenario? If the murderer had first gone to Marvel's home, the mother could also be dead. I crossed my fingers that hadn't happened. Whatever industry secrets Jesse Marvel had discovered were worth murder—to someone. I'm not condoning the kid's actions. A California court had recently ruled that reporters who published "stolen property"—aka trade secrets—were not entitled to protection by the law. But come on. Murder? This had to be an inside job. Someone had been surveilling him and had jumped the moment Mr. Marvel had skipped over the line. It wasn't my job to place blame, only to get the job done. That's why the NCCS hired me. I am discreet, fast and just pricey enough to be worth it. And I always get my man. Except that one time. And Eddie Powell is still grinning smugly about that one. It had been more than a kiss, and I'd learned that night my need to remain single, to keep from relationships because of my "job," was an excuse to avoid emotion. I like feeling. But it's unwise to be emotional when working, so I choose to ignore it. Not cool. Right now, a relationship was not priority. I pulled up a block away from Jesse Marvel's house. He lived in an older neighborhood, boasting gingerbread-and-lace Victorians and trimmed shrubbery. The only cars on the street were an old yellow Cadillac two houses down—minus four tires—and a white utility van parked at the opposite end of the block. A utility van? Electricians don't make house calls at midnight, and usually they advertise with a bold logo on the door or windows. "Zoom and record." The microdisplay snapped a shot of the van's license plate. "Cross-check DMV database." While waiting for the data search, I stared at the pink-and-purple two-storey for a long time, and was rewarded with a brief flash of light on the second floor. A spare two lines of data flashed onto the microdisplay. Dealer plates. Los Angeles. Not reported stolen. But the night was young. Pulling the Bimmer around back, I drove up the narrow alley and parked two houses down. Time to make a house call.
Chapter Three I like dangerous situations. They make my adrenaline dance like a hip-hop flygirl. My senses are ultra-alert and—okay, I admit it—I feel sexy prowling through the dark in a tight leather pantsuit with a secret mission. Just call me Bond, Madeira Bond. But don't think I'm cocky. The image is fun, but my work is dead serious. And this time it's difficult not to be a little emotional because I had just left behind the body of a twenty-yearold man—boy. The Marvel backyard featured a narrow sidewalk between rows of tiny white flowers, which led to the back door. No need to bother assessing the lock to decide which pick I should use. Whoever had broken in had smashed out a window. I snaked my hand through the damaged windowpane and felt along the jamb. No trip wires, so I entered.
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A thud overhead signaled the thief wasn't keen on stealth. Why bother, when the owner was dead? Pray Mommy hadn't become a victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Slipping inside and closing the door, I spoke a low, but audible command to switch from digital to nightvision. I focused on the eye screen. The room suddenly became a matrix of green edges and shadowed contours. A peripheral scan searched for wires across the floor, blinking alarm lights, anything the thief might have missed, or had reset to cover his tracks. A corkboard beside the fridge featured a postcard from Hawaii. Mom was safe. Another crash sounded overhead. Taking the stairs, I moved in a glide, not touching the walls, and first testing each step so as not to set off a creaky board. With the racket in the next room, did it really matter? A cyber-genius like Jesse Marvel had to have some terrific data security. Of course, it wouldn't take long for a professional to scan the lifted fingerprint into Photoshop, enhance it, and create a gel overlay that should fool any biometric device ninety-five percent of the time. I've done it. It's a nifty trick. I paused outside the open office door. The suspect was inside, quiet now, save for the taps of the mouse. His cohorts in the van were likely monitoring his every move. Being careful was out of the question. As soon as I made myself known, I'd be stepping into their grid. Speed was of the essence. Taking out a lipstick tube from an inner jacket pocket, I twisted it high. One shot was all I had. I swung to stand in the doorway, feet spread, and focused my aim. A clatter downstairs alerted the thief. He spun to look right at me. My thumb depressed the trigger at the bottom of the lipstick tube. He slapped a hand over his neck. The tranquilizer worked quickly—the man muttered a groan, wavered, then dropped. "Gotcha." Crossing the room, I leaned before the computer screen. The download bar showed ninety-percent complete. A microdrive the size of a fifty-cent piece was plugged into the keyboard and flashed green. I heard footsteps march up the stairs. Not fast, but determined. And oddly, loud, like the intruder wanted to alert me to his presence. Could be one of the fallen thief's buddies. "Come on," I goaded the computer. A glance over my shoulder, out the window, and I spied the van parked down the street. One hundred percent. I disconnected the microdrive and hit the power button. Darkness sweatered the room, save a half-dozen blinking green and red lights dotting the various electronic devices. The intruder stood in the doorway. I could see his shape outlined in sharp green. Funny—his white teeth almost glowed when viewed through the night-vision lens. And his dimpled smile was as smug as when I'd last seen it. Thirty minutes earlier. "We're going to have to stop meeting like this," Eddie called into the room. "I thought I'd laid you out." I glanced out the window; the van was backing up to stop across the street from the house. "A tap," he said. Suddenly the room lit up. Eddie had flipped the light switch. "Don't do that!" I snapped. "They're watching." "Right. Forgot." The room darkened, as well as my mood.
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"Of all the bloody idiot—" Stepping over the snoozing thief, I charged toward the door, slipping the microdrive into the inner pocket on my jacket and stopped right before Eddie. I could smell the peppery cologne oozing from him. I inhaled deeply. Nice. I like my men spicy. "You seem tense, Shane. Relax." I could actually hear Eddie's smirk. "Shall we dance?" "Sure. Let's see if you can keep up with my moves." This time he was ready for my defensive attack. Sweeping a palm before his groin, Eddie blocked my knee. Impact cracked his knuckles in a sickening crunch. "Who are you working for?" I asked. "The murderer? A rival corporation?" "Does it really matter?" He had a point. And since when did I care? "I guess it doesn't matter." Though, it might, if he had been hired to cover up a crime instead of retrieve information. "You'll cash your paycheck no matter who signs it." "I've never known you to refuse cold hard cash." "Only in your dreams, Eddie, can you ever imagine to know me." No time for small talk. A fist to his jaw felt so good—until he matched that blow with a punch to my gut. I took on the incredible force by tightening my stomach muscles and exhaling hard. Nothing but a tap, when you know it's coming. I slipped a hand along Eddie's forearm, and jerked him around to apply pressure, stretching his shoulder muscles to the maximum. "I don't train five days a week for nothing," I announced. "And here I thought it was to keep in shape for me." "Oh, it is for you, Eddie." I torqued my grip. "All for you." I managed another glance out the window, and spied two men in fatigues striding toward the house. "They're on us. I'm out of here." A shove successfully pushed him from my way. I flew down the stairs and raced to the back door. But Eddie made it there in my wake. Above my head his fist punched the door closed, blocking escape. Before I knew what was happening, my body turned and pressed into his. His mouth captured mine in a warm, minty kiss. This was no sweet, tentative, I'm-just-getting-to-know-you kiss. It was hard, urgent and knew exactly what it wanted. Against all reason, I took a moment and just submerged. Deep into the erotic tingle of sensation that rushed to my extremities, flushed through my groin and made me pant just a little as Eddie pulled away. Right. Just a moment. "What the hell was that for, Powell?" He still had me pinned against the door. "I figure since you're leaving with the grand prize, it is my right to claim a consolation prize."
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"You wish." "It was good for me." He opened the door and stepped out into the dark backyard. "Was it good for you?" He didn't wait for my answer, and his laughter frustrated more than angered me. Taking time for a kiss? That wasn't my game. Unless I had called that particular shot. What was it about the man that made me want to kick in his teeth, yet not before I'd stolen another kiss? Make that, acquired a kiss. The front door crashed open. Slipping out the back door, I tripped through the darkness toward my car. Eddie's sporty black Mustang rolled down the alleyway, the headlights dark. "Ignition," I commanded the computer, which accessed my car's system. The Bimmer began to purr. I slid a hand inside my jacket to secure— "You bastard!" Yep, I pounded my fist on the Bimmer's hood. And, yes, it made a dent. He'd taken the microdrive. And two thugs barged out from the back door, wielding semiautomatics.
Chapter Four Yes, a girl can literally fly if she puts her heart into it and has the rat-ta-tat-tat of gunfire following in her wake. I dove into the Bimmer and spun out of the alleyway. Eddie had just turned left. So I went left. Pressing the command button on the steering wheel, I activated the red LED heads-up display. I was already going fifty in a residential area, but I didn't slow when the white van spun around the corner. I wasn't about to lose Eddie, and I felt sure the van had no intention of losing me. "LRM 459," I read Eddie's license plate to the computer, but then adjusted the screen away from my eye. I needed to focus on the road. "Bring up grid for Lafayette and Bayshore, and track." The GPS would locate Eddie's Mustang and track it for me. Now, all I had to do was dodge bullets. Our cavalcade pulled onto the Mission College strip, which, thank heavens, was usually dead this time of night. I eyed the rearview mirror. A hand wielding a gun poked out from the passenger side of the van. I swerved sharply into the far left lane but still took a hit on the front right corner of the hood. Why that—! "No one touches the car," I muttered, angry now. Leaning forward, I opened the glove box and blindly shuffled around. My fingers glanced over two steel objects. "Look out, boys, here comes trouble." X had hooked me up with a gadget goddess. I visited her monthly to restock my stores with technical goodies. Caltrops, named after the medieval devices knights used to toss onto the battlefield to bring horses and their riders down, were simple four-spiked devices. When tossed to the ground, one spike would always land up—not good for tires. The cool Valley air spilled in through the window as I rolled it down. Waiting for the perfect moment, I swore when Eddie turned a sharp right. I needed to make the turn…now!
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I tossed out the caltrops and downshifted. While I commanded the computer to integrate the grid onto the heads-up display, I watched in the rearview as the van skidded and swerved to avoid the tiny devices. "That'll put you in your place until I can return later. Now, where are you, Eddie?" He was the one man who consistently managed to make my life a challenge. He had to have Madeira-radar, because sixty percent of the time he showed up on the case I was working. Was he as consistent with his bedroom prowess? One could only hope the percentile ranking was a bit higher. Lord, where did my mind just go? I licked my lips, tasting remnants of mint. "Focus, Madeira, this is exactly why you don't do relationships, remember?" Right. Without the van to contend with, I focused my gaze on the heads-up display before me. It seemed to float just above the hood of the Bimmer. Gotta love technology. I spotted Eddie on the grid immediately. He was behind me. And he'd stopped. Thirty seconds later, I pulled to a stop half a block from a gas station. Eddie's Mustang was the only car sitting under its cloud of fluorescent lights. Looked like he stood beneath the mother ship. Could I get so lucky that they'd beam him up? He didn't even turn when I strode up behind him. "Come on, Eddie, don't you know the really good criminals always fill their tanks before the big chase?" "Criminal?" Removing the gas nozzle from his tank, he put on such an affronted pout I made myself glance away. "I am wounded. You've never been so accusatory during our entire career of shared gigs." "You've never pissed me off so thoroughly. And we've never shared a bloody thing." "Except an undeniable craving for the chase." I shrugged. What could I say? "I'm surprised to see you," he offered. "You got away from semiautomatics." "Must be the bulletproof bra," I said. "Really? Can I take a look?" Now I rolled my eyes—I should have expected that one. "So, if I ask, will you tell me who is tops on your suspect list?" He shrugged. "Marvel pissed off many. And those podcasts…I hear his subscriber list is pushing the million mark." "Yes, he did have a knack for rubbing the tech corps the wrong way." "Oh, he rubbed." "But it's personal this time."
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The look Eddie swung my way told me that he believed the same thing—it was personal. But his blue gaze was also shielded. He wasn't going to share. I could deal with that. "You've got something of mine, and I'll have it back, please." I closed the distance between us slowly, absently engaging in the sexy hip-swinging walk that I usually reserve for more intimate encounters. He didn't move when I ran a finger down the lapel of his Armani suit, and then dove inside to slide my hand across some pleasantly hard pecs. "Strip search?" He held both hands up in submission. "Shane, that is the best offer I've had in days." The screech of tires climbed up the back of my neck like a horror-flick scream. Maintaining eye contact with Eddie's cocky blue gaze, I sensed the van had gotten over its little tire problem. "Here comes the ice-cream man," he said casually. "Bullet-on-a-stick, anyone?" "Pity," I said. "I was about to move lower." A bullet pinged off the hood of Eddie's car. Something landed on the concrete near my feet. Oh, bother. A grenade. I reacted, pushing Eddie. We both managed a few steps, bending and turning to duck for cover, but Eddie didn't move fast enough, and I moved too quickly. The two of us collided. We went down, and landed on the low creeper cart parked at the end of the pump station. Momentum kicked in. We, wrapped together in an awkward heap, slid across the concrete gas port. The expected explosion lit up in our wake. A thick cloud of amber and gold flames swallowed up the Mustang. I was aware the van drove past the gas station. They likely thought us dead. But we weren't. We were sledding in the middle of summer, with flames at our feet. The creeper cart hit a solid concrete curb. My body flew over Eddie's and landed in a fragrant thicket of flowers. His body landed next to me with a grunt and a curse. "Roses?" Eddie muttered. "Peonies," I corrected. "Else we'd be torn to shreds by the thorns." As it was, I felt thoroughly shredded, but all in one piece. Wobbly, but sound, I pushed onto my hands and knees and surveyed the damage. "This night has not been a bed of roses." "Damn! Those idiots. And you… You saved my life, Madeira." At least he had the courtesy to give credit where credit was due. Plucking a few peony petals from my chin, I crawled to kneel over Eddie. "One saved life. You're very welcome, Mr. Powell. And now…" I completed my quasi-strip search, sliding my hand lower, as I'd previously promised, and found my prize in the left front pocket of his pants "…I'll take my payment." Standing, and momentarily fighting a queasy wave, I then stepped over the curb and started walking away from the gas station. A deep inhale cleared my head. "Don't I even get a kiss?" Eddie called, still spread eagle in the flowers. "What sort of tease was that?" Despite my aches and a possible pulled muscle in my shoulder, I had to smile at Eddie's frustration. Men were so adorable when they were wounded.
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I tucked the microdrive into my jacket pocket. Interesting, that all of Jesse Marvel's secrets were contained within so small a device. And that he had left them at home… Hmm… Something troubled me. I couldn't put a fix to the concern, but it had to do with the information. If what Marvel had discovered was so important, why would he leave it on his computer, when he must be aware that the most skilled of hackers could touch any bits and bytes they pleased. Why not keep so deadly a secret…closer? I rounded the corner and spied my Bimmer—just as it exploded.
Chapter Five Just call me Lola. And watch me run. Immediately after witnessing my precious Bimmer bite the big one, I saw that bloody white van spin around the corner, tires screeching and exhaust puffing like a demon from hell. Now, I'm not much for bullet holes in my skull. It is so difficult to make the style look fashionable. . So I began to run. And think. What secrets were worth murder? Trade secrets didn't seem justifiable. Of course, historically, people had committed murder for much less. But the big gun—Indigo—had already sued. And won. I dodged a squirrel that had frozen before me like the proverbial deer in headlights. Poor little critter wasn't accustomed to track meets in the middle of the night on his turf, no doubt. So, it had to be something more incriminating than trade secrets. Something personal, as Eddie had silently agreed. Podcasting is audible blogging. Users subscribe to various podcasts and, when jacked in, a prerecorded audio post could be automatically downloaded to their MP3 players. The contents of Jesse's most recent podcast had shamed industry heads for creating monopolies by including minor software programs with their hardware, thus luring consumers from the smaller companies and forcing them to bankruptcy. Not particularly personal, nor had he named names. . Who did Jesse Marvel know? And the key question: What did he know about them? Personal secrets? Those were the deadliest kind. . "X," I said in huffing gasps. Running, remember? "Research Indigo's corporate payroll." "All of them?" I smirked. "Start at the top. Where was the top exec last seen partying? Who was he with? Is he married? What about investments and vacations?" "Gotcha. Out." It was a stretch, but I'd leave no computer chip unturned. . Even as I rounded a hedge-lined curve, the van kept up with me. I was surprised they didn't just drive up and…kill me. . Gulp. .
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I pumped my arms. Being smaller and more agile than the hulking heap on my tail gave me a slight advantage. . I kept to the roads, thinking that to dodge into a yard would only slow me down—I wouldn't know the terrain and could encounter a dog. Dogs;—not good, especially dogs with toothy snarls. But the open road made me an easy target. And right now, the van paralleled me. . As did the ominous barrel of a gun. . Gun? Time to execute plan B. I stopped. . The van drove right through an intersection, nicking the tail end of a navy blue SUV. "See you later, boys!" I turned and ran back the opposite direction. Taking a left turn put me out of the van's view. If ever I had wanted Clive Owen to drive by in his sexy black BMW, right now would prove perfect timing. Come on, a girl's got to have her dreams. . The residential area ended, and a strip of tech corporations lay ahead. I knew I hadn't more than a few moments to lose the bastards, because the van, it seemed, was some indestructible piece of metal that one only sees in action movies and is generally driven by the Terminator himself. . My lungs were working on overdrive. I hadn't hit the wall but felt ready to collapse. I forced my rubbery legs to keep moving. Gasping, I redialed X's number. . "I need a drop location," I said. I'm sure it came out as garbled gook on X's end for my huffing and general lack of stillness. . "What's your location? I can get a retrieval team there in five minutes." My location? I'd lost track after sledding through the peonies and dodging bullets number twelve and thirteen. "Silicon Valley!" I blurt out stupidly. Nothing like giving a sixty-mile range. "Give me a minute, X." "Fine. Still tracing Indigo for you…" The sound of the van's screeching tires had become familiar, and it gained on me. Rounding a corner, I entered a vast parking lot, littered with perfectly trimmed hedgerows and a maze of painted yellow parking lines. If I could figure what this place was, a business complex or something, I'd have my location. Slowing to a fast stride, I shook out my arms at my sides and blew out heaving breaths in an attempt to cool and center myself. I walked along a chain-link fence. Dew-tipped grass smelled ridiculously sweet. . There were many small businesses, computer corporations and start-ups riddling the Valley. The only way to know for sure where I was, was to find the front door—and hope the business had been established for more than a month and had put up a sign. The GPS was in my Bimmer. I already missed her. I narrated, for X's benefit, but probably because I needed to feel like I wasn't alone. "Manicured lawn. Chainlink fence. Big…round granite thingie in the side yard. Probably has a company logo engraved on it."
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Static crackled in my ear. "X?" I tried a few clarification commands, but the static only increased. Suddenly, it was overbearing, and I had to tear the earpiece and computer from my head. "What the bloody—?" Someone had trounced my Wi-Fi connection. Wardrivers, driving around, looking to steal a Wi-Fi connection, most likely; they were rampant in the Valley. But there was little time to fight back by activating the WEP encryption, because the white van careened around the corner and into the parking lot. "Why did the Terminator have to put a fix on me?" I said with an exhausted groan. But that was the only complaining I'd do. Clive hadn't shown—the thoughtless creep!—so I was on my own. . Spinning, I took off across the moist grass, but too late I realized my mistake. The chain-link fence veed to a corner. Suddenly I had become the rabbit and was being herded into a cage. "Record," I commanded into the headset I replaced over my ear. Evidence, in the event of my death. . The van's wheels pealed as it came over the curb and onto the grass, careening wildly. Blocking the glare of the headlights with an arm, I looked up the stretch of chain link. Must be twelve feet high, and topped with razor wire. I could scale the fence, no problem, but the wire would create trouble. Why the impossible security? A bullet pinged the chain link. I flinched. Hell, you would, too. . They say a cornered dog will fight to the death. Well, just call me Dog. And watch me fight..
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Chapter Six The first thing I did was tuck my hand inside my jacket and slyly slide my fingers along the inner pocket. Had to be sure the microdrive was still safe. And yet, an epiphany spread a strange sort of calm through my adrenalized system as I touched the drive. Jesse Marvel would not have left secrets worth murdering for at his home. But I think I knew where I would keep them. Close to my heart. The glare of the headlights was so bright, I attempted to keep from shielding my eyes and looking the innocent rabbit, but I had to block them or go blind. Shifting my weight squarely above my hips, I crouched a little and assumed a ready stance. I was prepared to deliver a kick or punch to the first bastard who approached. And let's just hope the Kevlar would keep up its end of the bargain. "Ah, Ms. Shane." That voice, so calm and laced with cocky attitude, astonished me. On the other hand, I hadn't expected him to nap in the flowers, had I? Eddie Powell stepped out before the headlights. Two nondescript hulking thugs, wielding guns, flanked him to either side. "Not up for the climb?" Eddie taunted. I immediately processed that Eddie was not working for the team I'd thought he was—a piranha corporation looking to procure its rival's secrets. Or maybe he'd never switched sides, but I just hadn't pinned the thieves correctly. So they'd been working together all along? "Climb's not a problem." Be cool. Get him to talk. "Once I knew it was you, I decided to stick around for the fireworks." "We've had our fireworks, Madeira. Or did you forget already?" "Oh, I remember." I just wished he had as difficult a time with my presence as I did with his sexy, beguiling— "Now this can go real easy or real hard," he explained in that obnoxious voice a teacher reserves for the bad kid. "It's your choice." "I presume it's not another kiss you're looking for?" Hell, I had to try. I knew the moment was tense and lifeor-death. But I had a quirky sense of humor, and it never reared its head unless it could get me killed. "Could you cut the lights? I don't think my makeup can take the pressure." Eddie approached, and when he got close enough to kick, his body blocked a majority of the blinding light. But I didn't kick. In fact, I'd loosened from my fight stance. But this dog wasn't shivering with her tail between her legs either. "I really do enjoy these liaisons," he muttered. "You know I have dreams about you?" "Who's pummeling who to get to the prize?" "Oh, there's wrestling involved, but we're both usually naked." "Please, Eddie, don't give yourself so much credit. It was just sex," I said of that frustratingly unforgettable encounter. "It meant nothing." "I believe it meant a hell of a lot more than this scared little girl is willing to admit," he countered.
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I spat at the ground, missing his shoe by an inch, and only because I'd planned to miss. This conversation had just crossed a line I wasn't willing to balance. As if he knew a thing about Madeira Shane. "Fine. All business, then. Give it." Eddie made a gimme gesture with his fingers. "Admit it, Shane, you lost this one. There'll be others." "Really? Something tells me the only way I'll be moving after this little dance is when I'm pushing up daisies." He shrugged, but didn't reply. Asshole. For all we'd been through together. Did I just think that? Together? There was only that one time when we'd both agreed to let the mark holding a diamond worth tens of thousands go because she was a young teenager in love and pregnant. Weary after she'd led us on a chase fraught with machine-gun fire and obstacles, we'd just sort of fallen into each other's arms then. And once fallen, our clothing melted away, along with our inhibitions. Tense moments like that always seemed to tempt wild lust to the fore. Like right now. Every hair on my body lifted and acted as tiny antennas seeking contact. A touch. The hiss of a man's breath across my mouth. The promise of hot sex. It rocketed through my system like liquid fire. Well. Okay, so it's a twisted fantasy. But it's my fantasy, so let it ride. And this girl wasn't little or scared. I know how to handle men like Eddie Powell. "The microdrive," he insisted, and stepped right up to me. Eddie reached out and smoothed the back of his hand over my cheek. There it was, the whisper of his breath upon my lips. I inhaled. Calm. Don't react. I wasn't about to go out this way. Fighting like a dog, remember? "You want it?" He nodded. I splayed open my jacket to reveal the inner pocket and looked up through my lashes at him. "Take it." As his hand reached for the prize, I dropped the jacket and it flapped back over my breast. Eddie didn't miss a beat. He slid a hand under the leather, taking great pleasure in gliding his fingers over my breast. I sucked in a breath as he touched my nipple. I was wearing my demi-cup bra trimmed with sexy black lace. Yes, it was bulletproof, but I felt sure it provided little protection against the fire Eddie had ignited. For one delicious moment I closed my eyes and tilted back my head, soaring into the touch. And Eddie worked it for every last nickel. His fingers spread and glanced, one after the other, over my nipple. The urge to arch my back worked before I could stop it, but the bright headlights held back my lust to the simmering point. I wasn't an exhibitionist. Nor was I an idiot. This little diversion was part of the plan. "Take it," I murmured. "Your win, this time." Eddie slipped the drive from my pocket and stepped back. I looked up at him and fluttered my lashes. It was all I could do not to run my tongue over my lips. But the erotic moment quickly faded with the click of a trigger. Entirely expected.
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"I suppose you'll have to kill me now," I said. Was I still teasing? Stop it, Madeira! "We've had a great run," Eddie said. "But, yes—" Sirens suddenly filled the air. Flashing red lights entered the parking lot on screeching tires. And this dog broke away from her leash. "You've got a good lawyer." I leaned in and gripped Eddie by the collar. "Thanks for the thrill, lover. See you in five to ten." I dashed for the darkness and sprinted along the chain-link fence. I hadn't bothered to retrieve the microdrive. It wasn't the prize. But I think I knew where to find it. Did morgues stay open all night?
Chapter Seven I stepped out of the morgue about an hour and a half after first looking over Jesse Marvel's body in the parking ramp. I'd just looked at it again. That was the downside to this job. But I'd found what I was looking for, and I mentally kicked myself for not picking up on it earlier. "X, I've got it." I tapped the small bit of plastic suspended from a leather cord I'd placed around my neck. "A Holographic Versatile Card the dead man had around his neck." "Before you bring it in," X replied, "I want to be sure it's got the information we need. No sense in chasing rainbows." I quirked a brow at that oddly fantastical bit of imagery. So X had a softer side? With a glance across the street, I surveyed the various storefronts. A quaint little tea shop advertised "Free Wi-Fi." Not helpful. "I'll need an HVC reader." "One step ahead of you," X said. The electronically altered voice vibrated inside my head. "You're out in front of the morgue?" "Yep." And I started walking north, since to just stand around looking like a high-priced dominatrix in black leather would appear more suspicious than I cared to be. "Luck. The IntaScope building is just up the block to the north. They've got a reader." I scanned above my head as I walked, seeking the global satellites that roamed the skies, keeping an eye on the world. "I'm impressed. You can see through buildings now?" "I wish. I consulted at IntaScope a few months ago. The owner is into high-tech gadgets. They've integrated holographic memory into their systems. Impressive, and ahead of the pack. You know that little card you've got holds forty gigs?" "Nifty. Can you get me inside the building?" I pinpointed the steel-faced building, and assessed the situation. Narrow vertical windows stretched the length of the first floor, no more than six inches in width; I wasn't that slim. Two-by-three-foot windows dotted the second floor. The executive offices must start on the fourth and fifth levels, where large picture windows overlooked the nearby redwood forest. "Try the back door," X suggested, and I had to chuckle at the obvious.
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Security lights lit up the exterior walls, but indeed, the alleyway behind the building was narrow, and a huge green Dumpster shielded me on one side as I tried the steel door. It wouldn't budge, but this dog wasn't even close to giving up. I keep my pick wallet in a slim pocket on the back of my left arm. Police-issue—but easily obtained for the low, low price of $14.95 at a variety of Internet stores (not including shipping and handling). In less than two minutes the pin-tumbler lock surrendered to my skilled touch. I vacillated between opening the door and finding another entrance. Alarms, you know. "Go for it," X said. "I've tapped into the city's power grid. The entire block has suddenly had a brief power outage. I can manage sixty seconds." Gotta love the man. And sometimes, those special effects in movies really can be reproduced in real life. Entering, I closed the door behind me, and, switching to night vision, slunk down the hallway. I spied the HVC reader in an office filled with a variety of PCs, terabytes and printers. "Got it. Give me power." The entire building hummed to Restart. I waited a few minutes, very impatiently, I admit, while the systems restored. Finally, a welcome screen flashed the IntaScope logo. Inserting the holographic card into the reader, I then scanned the contents. The evidence appeared…. My heart pounded then dropped to my gut. I felt like I'd taken a blow, without warning. It couldn't be. "This is just a bunch of MP3 files. It can't be…." I stopped panicking as my eyes latched onto the file labeled "In the Event of My Death." I opened the MP3 file, but ignored the low audio that must have been Marvel's voice. Instead I focused on accessing the file's source code. Interesting. A string of XML code was set to a timer prepared to upload the file to an RSS feed if the owner did not enter a passcode every six hours. The last passcode should have been entered at midnight. So if the owner was dead… The feed was programmed to upload two hours following the absence of verification—a redundant backup in the event of unforeseen lateness. And it appeared the MP3 file was a podcast set to spam a mailing list— with a few taps on the keyboard I accessed circulation numbers—over one million e-mails strong. "X, what time did Jesse die?" "No conclusive evidence in at the morgue yet. But we got the call just before midnight. Did the body have rigor mortis?" "No, the fingertips were agile, but the face had appeared, well, stiff." "Hadn't been dead for too long then. Probably a couple hours." "I think he may have just missed entering the midnight access code." "What is that, Shane?"
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"Marvel must have recorded the secret and coded it for podcasting. It's set to spam a million members in—" I did some fast figuring "—less than ten minutes." "What's the secret?" I focused on the low audio and picked up the name of a major corporate giant at Indigo—the very same corporation that had sued him months earlier. Well. Even more interesting? There was an audio clip of the chairman threatening to kill Jesse if he didn't leave the country and forget the night he witnessed the chairman snuggling with the competitor's wife. "He's got the goods on Indigo's chairman of the board." "Kill the feed," X ordered. Easier said than done. The RSS feed was activated by the lack of an access code. All I had to do was enter the code to stop the feed. But what was the code? "You've got seven minutes, thirty-two seconds. And counting…" Tapping keys furiously, I cracked the encryption string and viewed the source. The confirmation string should be in there somewhere. But a cyber-genius would not make this easy. Or would he? Jesse Marvel had been christened by the press as a cyber-vigilante who liked his fun and the adventure of the chase. He leaked information like Robin Hood gave to the poor. But if it was personal, he didn't go there. But the tech corps were cold, impersonal robots—open game. So would he really spill the goods on Indigo's chairman? The very corporation that had sued for stealing trade secrets was doing exactly the same thing. If that news hit the Internet, it could devastate Indigo. My eyes danced over lines of code. X's voice announced five minutes, and behind me—I twisted around on the office chair and peered out the narrow window. Headlights? "Please, Lord, don't let it be that bloody white van." There! The hexadecimal text string. The access code was a series of letters and numbers. I began to type them. Somewhere, a door crashed open. Yes, crashed. No one called out. Not the police. Had Eddie returned so soon? Code entered, I received no confirmation. "Did it work?" I warbled. I resisted smashing a fist against the screen. That never worked. Instead, at the sound of footsteps, I dashed across the room. The door swung inside. I caught it against my palms. One shadowy figure entered, and I heard the metallic click of a bullet being chambered. He swung toward my hiding spot. I slammed the door outward, catching the gun barrel. A shot fired. I felt a burn streak across my shoulder. The man lunged. A high kick cracked his jaw, but he didn't go down. Had to be from the white van; he was as indestructible as the vehicle. But he wasn't ready for my fingers aimed for his eyeballs. Digging my lowtech weapons into eye sockets, at the same time, I lifted my knee and kicked off the groaning intruder. "Three minutes," X frantically announced.
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I had thought I'd stopped the feed. Was I mistaken?
Chapter Eight "Five, four, three…" X counted down as I escaped out the back door of IntaScope. Holographic card secure, and fingers crossed, I braced for the explosion that would be downloaded around the world—a silent explosion of information. "Zero," X reported. "I'm scanning the network right now. I've already fixed onto Jesse Marvel's Web server, but I'm not seeing the podcast. I think you did it. We'll know soon enough." My strides slowing to a more relaxed pace, I shook my head and clapped my hands once. A man on the bus bench I passed looked up to me and nodded in acknowledgment then went back to singing to the pigeon perched on his shoulder. Thinking of shoulders… I rubbed a finger over mine, feeling the serrated seam. The bullet had skimmed the Kevlar-reinforced leather, but hadn't penetrated. Didn't mean I wouldn't have a bruise. Hazard of the profession. "You call the authorities?" X responded by saying that the intruder at IntaScope—and his buddies in the white van—had already been apprehended. "I've got one loose end to tie up," I said. "Talk to you soon to make the exchange. Out." There are just some things in life you can always rely on. The standards—death and taxes—and then the fact that, even though buttered toast has been proven to land butter-side-up fifty percent of the time, I can never figure out why I belong to the butter-side-down percentile. And then there was Eddie Powell. The man had connections in the legal system. I hadn't expected him to suffer the indignities of incarceration. He'd arrived just in time. As I strode toward the steps before the Santa Clara county morgue, I checked my watch. Two a.m. On the mark. Like I said, the man's Madeira-radar was spot-on. The streets were quiet, save for the homeless man. I recognized his tune as "Feed the Birds" from my favorite childhood movie, Mary Poppins. Almost made a girl wish she had tuppence to toss his way. Feeling swaggerish and light, I walked up to Eddie, arms swinging freely and strides just tinged with my sexy walk. But subtle. Didn't want to give it all up too quickly. Keep 'em wanting more. Even when the bullets were flying and the jig was up. It's called mettle, and it's what I'm made of. What of my tendency to start lusting when the stakes are high? Give a girl some credit. He is a handsome man. "My, but your lawyers are good," I said. Stopping before Eddie, I crossed my arms over my chest. Yeah, so this time I was playing it tighter. "You've a bruise." He touched his cheek where crusted maroon road rash played havoc with his handsome profile. "Some chick wanted to play at snow-sledding across the pavement," he said. "Your women like it rough?"
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He shrugged. "I humored her. But it was all good. A bed of roses, you might say." "Peonies." "No need to get personal, Shane. My penis is fine, thank you very much." I did love a man with a quirky sense of humor. Just like me. Was that it? We were very much alike. Maybe so similar that we would never cohere and would always be pushing each other away like two north ends of a magnet. Well, at least I needn't trouble over starting a relationship with the man. "So what brings you to the morgue this time of night?" I asked. "You. This worthless bit of plastic." He flapped the microdrive between us. "Even as I was being cuffed and read my rights, I couldn't help but think you gave it up a little too easily." "Didn't go with my outfit." "Right. That's nice, that necklace." He tilted his head, his gaze falling to my breasts. "I hadn't noticed it earlier. Been shopping?" "The stores closed hours ago," I said. I touched the holographic plastic fob that dangled from around my neck. It sported a skull that flashed a grin when you tilted the piece. I decided I liked Jesse Marvel's humor, as well. I checked my watch again. "You expecting someone?" "Actually, yes. They're late." "Isn't that the way it always goes? A girl like you shouldn't settle for anything less than promptness." "And flowers?" I noticed a crushed pink petal had been impressed into Eddie's white shirt just below that incredibly hard pec, and reached to touch it. "Was it worth murder?" Eddie shrugged. "You know that is never my call. I was just sent in to clean up the mess. The kid stuck his fingers too far into the cookie jar. You'd think a million-dollar fine would have cooled his jets. The Indigo chairman—" "Stop." "That's right, you don't like to know the intimate details. Just get in, get out and walk away with the cash, right?" "Exactly." Though I'd scanned most of the podcast, and wouldn't forget a single scathing, condemning accusation. Adultery, money laundering and filching trade secrets. I placed bets all of them were true. But it wasn't my job to lay blame. "Do tell me the information was never leaked." "Marvel never had the chance." "I see." He did have the chance, but I had stopped a dead man's dying wish. "So I guess that's that?"
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"Not until you hand it over." While the secrets did rightly belong to Indigo's chairman, I wasn't on that team's payroll. "I've given you far too much, Eddie. What more could you possibly desire?" He lifted a brow. I could read the lascivious thoughts breezing through his mind. And I agreed with a few of them. "Oh, here they are." I waved to the patrol car that pulled up and the officer got out quickly. X was on the ball. "This is the one, officer." Eddie didn't overreact. Just that charming smirk and a wink. I had to give him credit. He never lost his cool, even when arrest number two loomed close. He'd lost this one, and he was willing to step back and allow me the win. Like I've said, he has good lawyers. As the officer cuffed Eddie's hands behind his back, I informed him, "You'll find that microdrive he's holding has information stolen from the dead man's computer. I'm sure it's conclusive to his death." "We'll need you to fill out a report, ma'am," the officer said. I flipped my hair over my shoulder and declared, "I'm on my way to the police station right now." "You can ride with me." Eddie shook his head and smirked, knowing my answer. "That's quite all right, officer. I prefer to walk," I said. "The night is gorgeous, and I haven't gotten my exercise for the day." Right. I'd only qualified for the Olympic track team tonight. "Suit yourself." The officer tugged Eddie's arm. I stood there, toggling the holographic card between my fingers, watching them get into the patrol car. Jesse Marvel had not died in vain. The information contained on the holographic card would be turned into the NCCS. The culprit, and his crime, would be determined. My bets were on Indigo. My job was done. I tried not to issue a command to Zoom on the face peering out at me from the backseat of the police vehicle. I'd see him again. I needed to. Hell, who was I kidding? I was in a relationship. Twisted, frustrating and sporadic—but it was a relationship. And guess what? That was fine with me. "Fool," I said to myself. But then I smiled. Hugging my arms about my body, I turned and strode down the sidewalk. A transfer to my bank account should be occurring right about now. Enough to replace the Bimmer, and then spend the weekend in Paris indulging in wine and cheese and good old-fashioned relaxation. X's voice suddenly spoke in my ear. "Shane? You there?"
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"Same place I've been since I last spoke to you five minutes ago." "Great. Business is booming tonight. I've got a sweet tip that's being linked to the PicoTech scandal. Devious wardrivers are involved. You in?" I was tired, but adrenaline still danced hip-hop in my veins. As for relaxation—what was that? Much as I could taste a cool dry pinot noir on my palate, Paris would have to wait. Picking up my strides, I said, "I'm in." I sure hope Eddie's Madeira-radar was on.
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Unwound by Rhonda Nelson Tewanda Kelly is looking forward to having Unwind, the Maine retreat where she works, all to herself for the off-season. So when a sexy stranger shows up at her door, Tewanda's in serious danger of becoming unwound! Former Ranger Mitchell Anderson has been granted a favor by his former commanding officer—a week at Unwind, the perfect place to focus on completing his first novel in peace. But it sure is going to be hard to concentrate with a woman like Tewanda Kelly around!
Chapter One Tewanda Kelly adjusted a picture on the wall of her brand-new cottage and sighed with satisfaction as another burst of pride swelled beneath her breast. Her gaze strayed to the window, where a blanket of snow spread out before her all the way down to the icy shores of Lake Bliss and despite the frigid landscape typical of Maine this time of year, a rainbow of warmth and happiness settled over her heart. Her very own place. Tewanda could hardly believe it. To say that she'd been surprised when Audrey Kincaid-Flanagan had given her a share in Unwind, a de-stressing camp for burned out execs, harried mothers, weary firemen, police officers and soldiers, would be a huge understatement. Sure, she'd worked hard, even would admit that she deserved it, but even now it was difficult to wrap her mind around the fact that this little house and the plot of ground it sat upon was actually hers. She'd even unwittingly decorated the on-site abode for herself when her boss had put her in charge of the cottage's remodel Quite honestly, no one in her family had ever owned their very own home. Tewanda snorted and rolled her eyes. Hadn't even come close for that matter. In fact, they were usually one step ahead of the landlord, on their way to the next temporary residence. But being poor had made her determined to do better for herself, and working at Unwind had been the perfect fit for her. Being an organizational whiz and having an eye for detail had made Tewanda practically indispensable at a camp where customization was key. Each guest filled out an extensive questionnaire regarding likes, dislikes and preferences and it was Tewanda's job to make sure that everything was accounted for. Unwind offered a money-back guarantee and so far they'd never had to issue a refund. Audrey had cited that particular detail when she'd handed Tewanda the keys to the cottage. "I couldn't have done it without you," she'd said and, while Tewanda had known it was true, she'd been touched and teary-eyed all the same. No doubt the arrival of baby Flanagan in a few short months and the Flanagans' retreat to Atlanta during Unwind's off-season had been significant factors in putting Tewanda on-site. Audrey needed her now more than ever, but considering that Tewanda loved her boss and her new handsome-as-hell husband who'd made her so very happy, she was more than happy to oblige. The camp had been her home away from home since the moment she'd started to work here, so moving on-site had been a simple act of settling in. Also, truth be told, she was looking forward to having the place to herself and enjoying the amenities. The camp boasted a top-of-the-line gym complete with a sauna, a hot tub and an indoor pool, as well as an extensive library with books and DVDs. Given her penchant for jelly donuts, she should probably focus more on the gym and pool and less on the books and movies. But a girl had to have a few indulgences and since she wasn't enjoying any of the carnal variety, she'd been forced to console herself with the sugary sort. The thought of her dismal love life propelled her into the kitchen and grinning, she snagged a strawberry cream cheese Danish—her very favorite—and took a deliberate bite just as she saw an unidentified man on her front steps.
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Stunned, she glimpsed a confident jaw, impossibly wide shoulders and hair the shade of deep espresso before she heard him rapping on her door.
Chapter Two "I should be at the beach," former Ranger Mitchell Anderson grumbled under his breath as he navigated the snow-covered path toward the only cottage on the premises with illuminated windows. He hunkered further into his jacket in a futile attempt to stave off the icy wind. Audrey Kincaid-Flanagan had told him that other than her on-site assistant, the entire camp would be deserted, so he hadn't expected much activity. Though he would have much rather been in a private beach house on Dauphin Island—his promised reward from Colonel Garrett for services rendered—Mitchell had to admit that all he really cared about was being alone. Sure he preferred sun and sand to icy wind and mounds of snow, but he could hardly blame Garrett for the hurricane which had devastated part of the little island off the Alabama coast. Though opinionated, bossy and belligerent, the Colonel was nonetheless a stand-up guy. When he couldn't offer the promised beach house, he'd arranged for Mitchell to come here—Winnasauga, Maine, to a "de-stressing camp" specifically dubbed Unwind. A wry smile curled his lips. Appropriate, considering the circumstances. Mitchell wanted to get away so that he could write and, ironically, the only place he couldn't seem to get any work done was at home. At home he was constantly being interrupted by family squabbles (which he somehow always ended up mediating), broken gutters, broken cars and endless telephone calls, all of which gave him absolutely no privacy. He was a mere three chapters away from finishing his military thriller novel—one his agent had been awaiting for entirely too long—and yet he couldn't get enough alone time to string two thoughts together, much less a sentence. At any rate, Mitchell was sure that a weeklong stint away from feuding family members and constant distractions was exactly what he needed to put things into perspective and dive headlong into his book. After several misses, both he and his agent were confident that this story was the one. The one which would land him a contract and a new career as an author. While he'd toyed with the idea off and on for years, being a writer hadn't been a full-fledged dream until circumstances beyond his control had ended his military career. He'd blown his knee during a training exercise, and three miserable surgeries later, he could walk well enough, but he'd sure as hell never be jumping out of a plane again. Garrett had tried to put him into a training position, or he could have opted to drive a desk all day long, but Mitchell hadn't joined the military to serve in that sort of capacity—he'd wanted to be in the action, a part of the battle. He'd done of a lot of reading while recuperating and the notion of writing a book had kept niggling at him until he'd finally set his fingers to the keyboard and had given it a shot. His first attempt hadn't sold, but had been good enough to land him a top-notch agent. And the rest, as they say, was history. Or it would be, Mitchell thought grimly, if he could finish the damned book. He mounted the steps to the cottage and knocked on the door. Audrey—who'd insisted upon meeting him personally before allowing him to stay at Unwind with her assistant—had told him to find Tewanda when he arrived and that she'd take care of him. Curiously, she'd worn an odd little smile when she'd said it, as though she were privy to some information he was not. Since this was the only cottage that showed any signs of life, Mitchell knew he had to have the right place. He'd lifted his hand to knock again when the door suddenly swung open and a woman stood before him. She was small and curvy with short black hair, eyes the color of melted chocolate and a mouth that had wet dream written all over it. Classy diamond studs winked in her delicate earlobes and she wore a pale pink tracksuit paired with matching pale pink house shoes embossed in silver with the phrase "Drama Queen." She held a forgotten jelly donut in one hand and the doorknob with the other.
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"Who are you?" she demanded a bit breathlessly. He blinked and searched the quagmire of his mind for the correct response. Damn, he thought. The donut wasn't the only thing that had been forgotten in this bizarre scene. He'd forgotten his name, as well.
Chapter Three Beautiful but slow, Tewanda decided regretfully as she stared at the man framed in her doorway. Lord, what a waste, she thought, feeling a momentary twinge of pity, and then a belated dart of fear landed in her chest. This was private property. Gated. How the hell— "I'm Mitchell Anderson," the guy finally said, evidently sensing her alarm. "Audrey told me to find you. That you'd take care of me." Tewanda felt her eyes widen. "Shit," he swore, looking away, embarrassed. He passed a hand over his face and offered an endearing smile that made an odd flutter wing through her belly. "That didn't come out right." Okay. So he wasn't slow. But they definitely weren't on the same page. Audrey hadn't mentioned Mitchell Anderson to her at all. Of course, she'd called earlier while Tewanda had been out and had left a message requesting a call back. Tewanda hadn't gotten around to it yet because it hadn't sounded important. She winced. Clearly she'd been wrong. "Look, do you mind if I come in?" He smiled hopefully. "It's a bit cold out here. I swear I'm harmless." Given the way her pulse was leaping because of that slow sensual smile, Tewanda begged to differ. Nevertheless, it was cold and she was standing here with the door wide open, allowing all of her "bought" air, as her granddaddy used to call it, flood out onto the porch. He'd invoked Audrey's name. Gut instinct told her that he didn't mean her any harm. Still… "How did you get through the gate?" she asked. It required a three-digit passcode they changed monthly. The current passcode was her weight, a grim reminder which was supposed to keep her away from the bakery aisle. She glanced at the donut in her hand and winced. It wasn't working. "Audrey gave it to me," he said. "One-three-eight. She, er… She said it held significant meaning to you." His gaze slid over her five-foot-three-inch frame and a glimmer of appreciation lit his clear hazel eyes. Tewanda gasped inwardly. And she called Audrey a friend? she thought as she held the door open wider, ultimately allowing him entrance into her new home. As if on cue, her telephone rang and Tewanda knew before she lifted the receiver exactly who it would be. "Is he there yet?" Audrey asked, her voice laden with excitement. Tewanda's gazed over at Mitchell Anderson who stood admiring the photographs and artwork surrounding her fireplace. A bizarre tingle suddenly buzzed through the palms of her hands and the bottoms of her feet. Firelight from the gas logs burning merrily in the grate illuminated the angular line of his jaw, his masculine
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nose and a pair of lips that were neither too full nor too thin, but plump enough to be overtly sensual. Her own mouth watered just looking at him. "Oh, yeah," Tewanda finally answered with a shaky breath. "He's here." Now just what in the hell was she supposed to do with him?
Chapter Four "Right. Uh-huh. I understand." Mitchell chewed the inside of his cheek and pretended not to listen to Tewanda's side of the conversation, but considering that she stood roughly ten feet from him at the moment, he knew it was a futile effort. He felt her gaze occasionally dart over to him and couldn't help but feel his lips twitch. Evidently this was not a woman who liked surprises. In fact, given the way she had all of her photographs and trinkets lined up in straight little rows along her mantle, the perfectly coordinated furniture and accessories and the absolute absence of dust or clutter of any kind in her house, he imagined that she preferred order in everything. No doubt his unannounced appearance on her doorstep had rocked her everything-in-its-place world. For whatever reason, the idea that he'd been the one to tilt her world on its axis made him grin. He suspected it didn't happen often. "Yes," Tewanda said, shooting him another one of those looks. "Notice would have been nice. I understand. Still—" She paused, evidently interrupted. "Yes, I know that telling the Colonel 'no' isn't an option, but you could have called before tonight, Audrey," she said, exasperated. She turned away and muttered into the phone, "I know what you're doing and you're not funny." The last came through her beautifully gritted teeth. "Yes," she finally sighed resignedly. "You know I'll take care of him." She swore. "It," she amended. "I'll take care of it." So he'd been demoted to an "it", had he? Mitchell thought, sending her a pointed smile. Tewanda disconnected and set the cordless phone back onto the base. "Okay," she said, evidently striving for professional footing. "You're here for a week, right?" "Five days, actually," he told her. Sad as it was, he couldn't count on his family surviving longer than that without his help. Though it was terrible, he'd experienced a liberating thrill of glee to discover that his cell phone service didn't work in this remote part of Maine. Now if she could only put him up in a cottage without a phone, he'd be able to work in peace. "What's important?" she asked. "View or convenience?" His brow wrinkled. "What do you mean?" "The cottages by the lake have beautiful views, but are further away from the camp amenities. If you want to use the pool, the gym or the library, for instance, then the cottages closer to those things would be better suited. It depends upon your needs." "This is a working vacation," Mitchell told her. "It really doesn't matter." She looked intrigued, but thankfully didn't probe. Usually when he was forced to share the fact that he was working on a book, whomever he was talking to was invariably working on a novel also or wanted him to write their life story.
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"We'll compromise and put you in the nearest cottage to both then," she said. She pulled on a heavy coat, took out a pair of hiking boots from a nearby closet. She sat down on the end of the couch, kicked off her house shoes and tugged the boots on quickly. "Nice house shoes," he commented, smiling. A grin tugged at the corner of her ripe mouth. "They're warm and I like the message." "You're a drama queen then?" "According to the most recent poll," she remarked drolly. He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to ignore the way her plump breasts stretched against her pink cotton zip-up. "You seem to have taken my arrival in stride." She finished lacing her boots and shot him a wry look. "I'm holding back." He chuckled and shook his head, intrigued beyond reason to find out what Tewanda Kelly would be like when she wasn't holding back. "Don't go to any trouble on my account," he told her. She smiled again and stood. "Too late. Let's get you settled." "So you are going to take care of me," he teased, deliberately baiting her. A flash of feminine interest lit her dark chocolate gaze, however she replied by saying, "I'm taking care of business, There's a difference." No doubt, Mitchell thought as heat ignited his body. If she ever decided to take care of him in a more personal manner, he was certain he'd appreciate the difference.
Chapter Five "Get on." "What?" Oh, for heaven's sake, Tewanda thought with a mental eye roll as she idled the snowmobile. "Get on. I'm not tramping through three feet of snow when I can drive this and avoid the hassle. Ride or walk, the choice is yours, but the tour will go a whole lot faster this way." Looking adorably dubious, Mitchell grimaced, but ultimately decided that he'd rather climb aboard and ride with her as opposed to his other option. Secretly, of course, Tewanda was thrilled. She felt the snowmobile shift with his weight as he settled in behind her. Hard thighs snuggled around hers and she felt his hands settle a bit too confidently around her hips. An unexpected and totally unwelcome thrill of desire tore through her so fast that it made her breath catch in her throat, and a warm tingle settled in her sex at the feel of him behind her. Sweet Lord, she was losing her mind. She had been in his company less than ten minutes and already parts of her body felt like they were melting with a sexual energy she hadn't experienced in… Never.
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Which was precisely why Audrey—the unrepentant sneak—hadn't told her that he was coming. She was playing matchmaker, much the way that Tewanda had done when Jamie Flanagan had arrived on the scene at Unwind several months ago. Tewanda had taken one look at Jamie and Audrey and had known that he'd been the man for her friend. She suspected that Audrey had made a similar assessment for her, but she'd missed a key detail—Tewanda didn't want a man. Ever. Men had the singular ability to make the women in her family turn into reasonless, spineless morons and it had been too hard for her to rise above her humble beginnings to allow a man into her life to screw it up, Even one who looked like him, Tewanda thought regretfully. Talk about tall, dark and handsome. Mitchell Anderson had the market cornered on those adjectives and a few more, as well. She'd been too caught up in the shape of that sinfully carnal mouth to properly appreciate his eyes, but one look into those sleepy hazel beauties and it felt like the air was sucked right out of her lungs. Not good. On the sexual attraction scale she'd already hit critical mass and she barely knew him. That was the hallmark of the Kelly women's downfall. Her grandmother had described a similar occurrence with her grandfather and her mother had been so in love with her father that the children they made together were merely afterthoughts. Tewanda would not let that happen to her. She was stronger and wouldn't allow herself to become a slave to her desires, and to her heart. Not to say that she'd never been with a man—of course, she had—but she chose her lovers carefully and always remained in control. No commitment, no regrets, no mess. Just the occasional good sex fix and she was fine. Did she ever get lonely? Yes. She grimaced. But better lonely than stupid. And the sooner she deposited Mr. Hot to his own cottage the better she'd be able to remember that. "Hold on," Tewanda yelled over her shoulder. "What?" She gunned it, forcing Mitchell to hold on tighter or fall off. Perversely, she couldn't decide which would have made her happier.
Chapter Six Mitchell climbed off the back of the snowmobile and breathed a tiny sigh of relief. He was used to adverse conditions as a Ranger, but not hellacious snowmobile rides where he had to hold on for dear life, much less on to a little slip of a woman—the whole experience had been quite galling, to say the least. First she'd zipped up to his car to get his gear, then had swung by the office for the proper key. Though she'd said that they'd put him in a cottage which was both close to the amenities and the lake, Mitchell couldn't help but notice that she hadn't done that. Instead, she'd put him on the opposite side of the camp, as far away from her as possible, it seemed.
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Not that it mattered, he told himself, ignoring the prick to his pride. He was here to work, not to socialize. His gaze slid to her shapely rump as she mounted the cottage stairs. She was possibly the most beautiful and interesting creature he'd ever had the pleasure to meet. And the only good thing about that snowmobile ride was that it had given him a reason to hold her. Tightly. She was petite and soft and rounded in all the right places, and she smelled like a cinnamon roll—sweet and sugary and warm. Even through multiple layers of clothing, he'd felt the intense burn of desire blazing through his veins. Nothing new there, Mitchell tried to tell himself. He was a man. He liked women. Desire was commonplace. But what hadn't been commonplace was the speed of attraction, or the way his heart had raced when she'd shot him a cocky look over her shoulder. He should have been annoyed—she'd purposely toyed with him, after all—and yet he'd gone all shivery like a damned…girl. Sheesh. He was losing his mind. Time to use the lone brain cell he still had left and focus on the real reason he was here—work. He unloaded his gear and joined her on the porch. "I'm afraid you're on your own for meals this time of year," Tewanda told him. She pushed open the door and hit the light switch on the wall, illuminating the cozy living room. "The camp kitchen has closed for the season, however there's a nice grocery store in town where you can get supplies." Mitchell nodded. He'd get unpacked and then make the trek in. The sooner he got all of the necessities taken care of the sooner he could concentrate on his book. Once he settled in he didn't want any distractions. No sooner had the thought breezed through his brain when he broodingly watched what he knew would be his biggest distraction walk over to the fireplace and ignite the gas logs. "It'll warm up in here in no time," she said, turning to face him. "I think we've covered everything. Do you have any questions?" "Is there a phone in here?" "Yes. There's a cordless in the kitchen." "Take it with you." She blinked. "What?" "Take it with you. I don't want any calls." Once again she looked like she wanted to probe, but didn't. He instantly admired that about her. "All calls come through the main office and, at the moment, those calls are forwarded to my cottage," Tewanda told him. "If you tell me you don't want any calls, then you won't get any unless it's an emergency." "Ah," he smiled. "But what if our definition of emergency differs?" His sister had once added a 911 code to a page message because she was out of cigarettes, and would he mind picking up a pack? Everything was subjective. Another intrigued look. "My definition of emergency is a death in the family or imminent danger to a relative or close friend." Mitchell nodded. "Then that'll work." Tewanda made her way to the door. "Let me know if you need anything."
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The only thing he needed was to be left alone to work, but that didn't sound particularly nice so he merely smiled. "I will, thanks." A second later she was gone. He heard her crank up the snowmobile, then listened to the motor fade into the distance as she made her way back to her own cottage. When the noise finally died away, Mitchell blew out a breath and looked around his temporary residence. Alone—finally—and yet it was curiously unsatisfying.
Chapter Seven "What do you mean you haven't seen him?" Tewanda moved away from the window and settled into her lounge chair. "I mean I haven't seen him. He went to the grocery store right after we got him settled into his cottage, but he hasn't been out again since." Audrey hummed under her breath. "Don't you think that's odd?" "No," she said. "He came here for privacy, remember? You're the one who told me that he's working on a book." A fact she found particularly fascinating as she'd always been a huge reader. Furthermore, it just added to his overall mystique. "Hell, he wanted me to remove the phone from his cottage so that he couldn't be disturbed." "You should invite him to dinner," Audrey said matter-of-factly. "What?" "Dinner. Last meal of the day, usually occurs sometime between the hours of five and seven." "I know what dinner is, you moron," Tewanda snapped. "I just got finished telling you that he didn't want to be disturbed. I don't think a dinner invitation would be wanted or welcome." Him holed up indoors for the past two days told her all she needed to know about where she stood on his radar. Clearly she didn't register, a disheartening fact that pricked because she could have sworn that he'd felt the connection, too. "He's a man. He has to eat. If you feed him, he will come," she said with a chuckle, borrowing from the famous Field of Dreams line. Tewanda giggled despite herself. "You're insane." "Insanely happy. And I want you to be, as well." Her heart warmed. "Who says I'm not happy?" "You're lonely." Not all of the time, Tewanda thought, but had to admit to the occasional pang. "You need a man." "Oh, no," Tewanda said darkly. "The last thing I need is a man, and you know why. Stop beating that horse." Geez God, what was it about happily married people that they couldn't wait to pair off their single friends? "And stop using that ridiculous Kelly Woman Curse as an excuse to validate being a coward." Tewanda gasped. "A coward?"
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"You heard me." Tewanda had been called many things in her life, but never a coward. She bristled instantly. "I am not a coward. And the Kelly Woman Curse is not ridiculous. It's fact." "Piffle," Audrey shot back. "You're forgetting who you're talking to. I can feel it when I'm around you, remember? You can hide behind the bravado with everyone else, but that won't work with me." Sometimes having a boss who was an empathy—one who could literally siphon your emotions—was a pain in the ass. Tewanda rolled her eyes. "I don't want to risk it, Audrey. What if it's not worth it?" "Oh, babe, what if it is?" She paused. "Invite him to dinner. I've got a good feeling about this guy. I don't know what it is yet, but you've got something he needs and vice versa." Tewanda rubbed the bridge of her nose and laughed softly. "That's awfully ambiguous." "Work with me. It's all I've got at the moment. It's dinner, not an I-do. Just ask him." "We'll see." "Ask." "Fine," she relented with a huff. "I'll ask." She just hoped like hell she didn't regret it.
Chapter Eight Progress at last, Mitchell thought, quaffing the rest of his beer. While he hadn't set the keyboard on fire, he'd at least gotten back into the groove of the story and made some headway with twenty bankable pages. Though it was terrible of him, he had to admit that being away from home—being here in this quiet, serene place—had made a world of difference. Did he miss his family? Of course. Did he miss the constant drama? Hell no. Boundaries, Mitchell had finally decided. Boundaries were in order when he went home, otherwise he might just consider moving up here permanently. The idea drew a smile. In all seriousness, he had to admit that there was something about this place that was oddly soothing. He liked the wildness of it all. Sure it was a high-end camp, but the scenery was spectacular. He frowned slightly. Or at least what he'd been able to see from his living room window. He should probably venture out and do a little manly sightseeing, connect with nature and all that, but he hadn't because he knew if he connected with Tewanda again, he'd become hopelessly distracted. Just knowing that she was in a cottage on the same property was distraction enough. And that damned snowmobile. His heart gave a little jolt every time he heard it. Pathetic, Mitchell thought, shaking his head. Utterly pathetic. What was even more pathetic was him constantly hurrying to the window every time he heard the damned thing in the hopes that he could catch a glimpse of her. What could he say? He couldn't help himself. She intrigued the living hell out of him, to say nothing of the fact that she was just plain hot. Thanks to her, he'd actually had a wet dream last night, a phenomenon which hadn't happened to him since he was in his early teens. Though it was killing him, Mitchell knew his best course of action was to simply avoid her. He had to stay focused—he had to finish the book—and he knew that wouldn't happen if he allowed himself to follow the almost irresistible urge to spend time getting to know her. And her delectable body.
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Thankfully, as promised, she hadn't forwarded any calls. He knew his family well enough to know that they'd definitely tried to get in touch with him, probably multiple times if he had to guess—and she'd left him alone to his own devices. In fact, quite annoyingly, she seemed to have done this with complete ease, as though she hadn't been remotely interested in him at all. Funny that, when he could have sworn that he'd seen a spark of interest and awareness in those memorable dark eyes. The sound of the snowmobile powering nearby drew his feet to the window once more and he jumped back in embarrassment when she skidded to a stop in front of his cottage. Had something happened? Mitchell wondered, instantly alarmed. He bolted to the door and swung it open before she'd even reached the topmost step. She smiled, almost shyly. "Hi." Okay, he thought, shifting mental gears. Clearly everything was fine, or she would have had a grave expression as opposed to the almost nervous one she presently wore. "Er…hi." "Am I interrupting you?" "I was taking a break." The truth, because he'd been thinking about her. Again. "Is anything wrong?" She bent and dusted some snow from her pant leg. "No," she said. "I just wanted to check on you, make sure that everything was going smoothly." "Everything's fine," he said, his mouth curiously dry. God, she was beautiful. She had the most amazing bone structure. High cheekbones, an elfin chin and a perfectly proportioned nose. Combined with the short dark hair and those wide, expressive eyes she became downright…amazing. He hardened instantly. "Would you like to come in?" Stupid move, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Her gaze darted past him into the cottage, then tangled with his again. "No, that's all right." She jerked a finger over her shoulder. "If you're good, then I'll—" She smiled nervously again. "I'll just go." Dammit. He didn't want her to leave. Again, not wise and not productive, but… She stopped abruptly, swore under her breath and then turned around. "Actually, I did want to ask you something." He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. "Sure." She shut her eyes tightly, and seemed to summon her nerve. Hell, he barely knew her and even he knew that was out of character. "Would you like to come over for dinner?" she asked in a rush. "I noticed that you haven't gotten out since you got here, but you've got to eat, right? A man cannot live on privacy alone," she teased, an endearingly nervous grin tugging at the corner of her mouth Mitchell felt a smile slide over his lips and said the one thing guaranteed to wreck the rest of his work week. "I'd love to."
Chapter Nine "Is this a bonafide emergency?" Tewanda asked. "Has there been a death in the family? Is anyone hurt? A major catastrophe of any kind?" A pause. Then, "Well, no. But I do need to speak with him." Tewanda carefully stirred her pasta sauce. "Look, Mrs. Anderson, Mitchell has requested no phone calls or distractions during his stay here at Unwind and I have to honor that request. I'm sure you understand."
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"No, I don't," she snapped. "I don't understand why my son will not take my calls." Tewanda didn't have any problem understanding. No doubt Mitchell was exhausted from dealing with her. She certainly was and she'd only been fielding calls for a couple of days. Geez, was his family incapable of making a single decision without his input? She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure he has a good reason. He mentioned this was a working vacation." She sighed. Loudly. "Just tell him I called." "Of course," Tewanda said. "When I see him, I'll be sure to pass along your many messages." She'd no sooner deposited the receiver when she heard a knock at her door. A thrill whipped through her. He was here. She hurried to the door, plastered a smile on her face and ushered him in. "Hi," she said, which seemed completely inadequate when her heart felt like it was about to beat out of her chest and her stomach had nosedived. More Kelly Woman Curse signs. She was doomed. Dressed in worn denim jeans and a heavy, cream-colored cableknit sweater, Mitchell looked effortlessly sexy. "Hi," he said, smiling warmly at her. She felt his gaze slide over her body and a flush of pleasure warmed every cell as that hot stare gleamed with latent approval. "Is pasta okay?" "Sounds fabulous." He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. "I've been eating microwave dinners for the past couple of days, so I'm not picky." Tewanda motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. "The bread's almost ready. You're welcome to help yourself to some salad first." He smiled. "I'll wait for you." A gentleman. Excellent. "Would you like a glass of wine?" "Sure." Tewanda poured a glass, then handed it to him. She eyed him. "You owe me big time." He quirked a brow and shrugged. "I don't usually compliment the cook until after the meal, but I'm hungry enough to make an exception in your case. Thank you, Tewanda," he said with a gracious nod. "Dinner's fabulous." She felt a laugh break up in her throat. "I wasn't talking about dinner. I was talking about your mother." He blinked, confused. "Come again?" Tewanda pulled the garlic bread from the oven and plated it. A droll smile rolled around her lips. "She's called half a dozen times over the past couple of days—along with your sister, your brother, your uncle and a couple of cousins. No emergencies per our policy, but I promised that I would pass along her request— and I use that term lightly—that you make a return call." Mitchell passed a hand over his face and swore, embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "But thank you." He looked away, evidently searching for the right phrase. "They're a bit…" "Needy?" she supplied.
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He grinned again and something about that smile caused a flutter in her belly. "And I thought I was the writer." "You were trying to be diplomatic. I don't have to." He hesitated. "I guess I should call her." "Did you tell your family you were coming up here to work? To finish your book?" He nodded. Though she knew it was none of her business—like that would ever stop her!—Tewanda couldn't help but share her opinion. She pulled a light shrug. "It's up to you, of course, but it looks to me like you need to set some boundaries. If it's not an emergency, they should be able to make do for a few days while you spend some time on yourself." Another endearing smile caught the corner of his gorgeous mouth. "They'll keep calling." Tewanda chuckled. "No worries. I got you covered." Humor and heat sparkled in his hazel gaze. "Taking care of me again?" She sighed and shook her head. "So it would seem." And God help her she could think of a dozen other ways she'd like to take care of him as well. Most pressingly, in the carnal sense.
Chapter Ten "So how did you know about the book?" Mitchell asked. He twirled the pasta around his fork and took another bite while he waited for her to answer. "Audrey mentioned it. Congratulations. That's quite an accomplishment." "I enjoy it," he said. "You're post-military, right?" "Right. I was a Ranger." A startled expression washed over her delicate features. "Oh. Interesting. So that's how you know the Colonel?" "Yeah. He's a great man." Tewanda chuckled. "He's a great and devious man. Gotta love the Colonel. He's a guy who never has a problem going for what he wants." She paused and darted him a wry look. "Audrey's married to one of the Colonel's former Rangers. The Colonel sent him up here to pseudo-seduce her away from Mr. Wrong, only Jamie ended up being Mr. Right. Needless to say, it wasn't part of the Colonel's original plan." Mitchell chuckled. He wasn't the least bit surprised. There was always a method to Colonel Carl Garrett's madness. And as for a man going for what he wants, perhaps he should take a page out of the Colonel's book because what he wanted more than anything at the moment was to kiss Tewanda Kelly. Sitting here in her kitchen, chatting with her and just watching the way that her mouth moved—it was smooth and sensual
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and ripe—he realized he was possibly the most relaxed he'd been in…well, ever. Though he'd thoroughly enjoyed his meal, he found he was still starving. For the taste of her. She smiled a bit self-consciously. "Is something wrong?" She dabbed her napkin at the corners of her lips. "Nothing," Mitchell said, smiling. "Oh." She paused, considering him thoughtfully. "So why did you leave the military? Family emergency?" she joked. "No," he said, chuckling. "I blew my knee out during a training exercise." She sobered. "Sorry. That must have been terrible for you." "It was rough," he admitted. "But I've found a new path. Now I've just got to successfully cut it." "I'm sure you'll do fine." "From your lips to God's ears," Mitchell sighed, but heartened by her immediate confidence on his behalf—a novel experience for him. "My agent thinks I've got a good shot at selling this one." She stood and began to clear the table. "What sort of book is it?" He took another drink of wine. "Military thriller." "So you know your stuff." "Let's hope so." "Are you almost finished with it?" "Couple of more chapters, then I'll need to proofread and catch any inconsistencies and little mistakes." "I'm pretty well read if you'd like me to take a look," she offered. Mitchell nodded. He'd noticed the books in her living room, and she was well-read. Her bookshelves— alphabetized, of course—were crammed full of classics, biographies, romances, mysteries and pop fiction. Other than his agent, no one had read his work. It would be nice to get a fresh opinion. He hesitated. Or it would be so long as she didn't hate it, he amended. She smiled, picking up on his uncertainty. "I just offered. You don't have to commit." "Thanks. For everything," he added softly. "This has been nice." She lowered her lashes and looked away. "You're welcome." Gotta love the Colonel. He's a guy who never has any problem going for what he wants. Good example. Good advice, Mitchell decided as he made the decision to go for what he wanted…and what he wanted was a kiss.
Chapter Eleven
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Tewanda turned back to face Mitchell, but was startled to find him standing right in front of her. One second he was sitting at the dining room table and the next he was…close. His heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her mouth, then bounced up and tangled with hers again. "Can I tell you something?" "Sure," she said a little breathlessly, feeling her heart rate jump into sonic speed. "You are gorgeous." He said each word with sexy deliberation that made her scalp tingle and her heart warm with pleasure. "Th-thank you," she stammered. "You're, uh, pretty damned handsome yourself." Huge understatement, she thought as the air around her seemed to thin. He was drop-dead make-you-wet gorgeous and had the singular ability to make her knees quake. Up close, his eyes were extraordinary—mossy green with pale golden-brown flecks. In a word, mesmerizing. "Do you want to finish cleaning the kitchen before I kiss you?" She blinked. "What?" "I've noticed that you like order. Neat and tidy, little knickknacks all in rows, labels on everything." He lifted his powerful shoulders in an offhand shrug. "The natural order of things would involve me kissing you when it was time for me to go." He lowered his voice and sidled closer. "But I don't think I can wait that long. You have the most beautiful mouth I've ever seen and I…I want to taste you. What do you say? Can I kiss you? Can we skip ahead or do we have to follow the rules?" Tewanda didn't ordinarily find herself at a loss for words, but Mitchell Anderson had just thoroughly swept her off her feet. In a few sentences he'd pegged her character and asked permission for a kiss. No one had ever asked her permission for a kiss, and in movies it seemed courtly and gentlemanly and all that jazz, but she'd always assumed it was an overrated and annoying gesture. She'd assumed wrong. "We can skip ahead," Tewanda told him as a giddy thrill whipped through her. Mitchell's eyes gleamed with latent desire and humor and he nodded, pleased. "Excellent," he murmured as he framed her face with his hands and casually, but carefully, backed her against the counter in the process. The feel of his palms on her face made a delighted oh of pleasure slip from her mouth, and upon hearing it, he promptly moved in for the kiss. He tasted like good merlot and marinara and…heaven. His lips moved over hers with a confidence that was drugging and thrilling and every particle in her body sang with unbelievable joy. He anticipated her every move, knew instinctively that the little patch of skin behind her ear was a guaranteed turn on. His hands grazed over her cheeks, over her neck and into her hairline. He was reading her body like a book and tasting every moan and sigh he pulled from her as if he were starving. He didn't just kiss—he consumed, and she, the foolish Kelly woman that she was, loved every single second of it. She was doomed.
Chapter Twelve Big mistake, Mitchell thought. He should have played by the rules, because now that he'd made a preemptive move and kissed her, he didn't want to stop.
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Ever. In fact, he could honestly say that now that he'd started the seduction, he didn't know if he was going to have the wherewithal to stop it of his own volition. Kissing her was a full-body experience. Every part of him was humming and vibrating, from the tops of his ears to the bottoms of his feet and his penis was experiencing a fiery torment. She was warm and lush and the feel of her delicious drag of her lips moving over his own was enough to almost set him off. Her tongue tangled around his and her small but competent hands looped around his neck, dragging him even closer to her. He could feel his dick straining against his pants, nudging her impatiently in the belly and, though they were both dressed in sweaters, the hardened nubs of her plump breasts branded him through the material. Mitchell had to forcibly resist the urge to lift her up, set her on the counter and slid in between her legs. Too much, too soon and this was too damned good to stop. She'd consented to a kiss, not an all-out siege, so he knew better than to push his luck. Furthermore, there was something different about kissing Tewanda Kelly. Something shifted and swelled in his chest, a tingling sensation that made the back of his throat ache with a foreign emotion he couldn't name and he instinctively knew he didn't want to. She'd touched him on a different level beyond the physical. Odd, that, Mitchell thought dimly as he savored another little mewl of pleasure from her mouth. He was used to being turned on, but not used to feeling like he'd stop breathing if he stopped kissing her—a unique experience. Sort of like her name, he thought, smiling against her mouth. He'd never met a Tewanda before. She drew back, her eyes slightly glazed, like chocolate icing. "What's funny?" "Nothing," Mitchell said, nibbling the corner of her mouth. "I was just thinking about your name." "What about it?" she asked suspiciously. "It's unique. Like you. It totally fits you." Obviously this was the right thing to say because a pleased smile eased over her lips, then they found his once more. "Thank you," she murmured. "Your name suits you, as well. You're not a Mitch. You're definitely a Mitchell." A silky laugh bubbled up her throat. "You're man enough for both syllables." He chuckled and resisted the idiotic urge to preen. "Thank you." "You're welcome." She drew back and cleared her throat. "Would you like some dessert?" Back to dinner and the rules, were they? He played dumb. "Didn't I just have it?" She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "No, I think I'd call that an appetizer. Dessert is peach cobbler with ice cream. Are you tempted?" Mercy. An appetizer? Was he tempted? Sweet God, yes, and not in the way she meant, either.
Chapter Thirteen "Well?" Audrey demanded. "How's it going?" Tewanda couldn't hide her excitement and was floating on a bubble of happiness, but she knew it would burst in a couple of days when Mitchell left. "Good," she said simply and felt a blanket of pleasure settle over her heart.
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"From the sound of your voice, it sounds like things are going better than good. Come on," Audrey cajoled excitedly. "What's happening? Have you seen him?" Tewanda toyed with the fringe on a nearby throw pillow. "He came over for dinner last night." "And?" "And we had pasta and peach cobbler." "And?" "And he kissed me," she sighed dreamily. "And it was fabulous. He asked permission first. Can you believe that?" "Sure," she said. "Jamie did, too." Tewanda paused. "He did?" "Of course. I think it's a Southern thing, but I could be wrong. Isn't Mitchell from the South?" "Mississippi," Tewanda confirmed. They'd chatted for hours after dinner. She'd learned that he'd turned down a football scholarship to Ole Miss in favor of joining the military, a fact that in hindsight looked illconceived, but he didn't regret anything. She'd learned that he loved John Wayne and peanut butter cookies and fresh tomatoes—not necessarily in that order—and his relatives were just as screwed up as hers, if not more so. She'd learned that listening to him laugh made her chest ache and that holding his hand gave a thrill to her midsection that pushed both her panic button and her hot button. Presently the fire of the attraction was burning up what she imagined constituted her good sense, and because she was a Kelly woman with cursed genes, she was doomed to failure when it came to resisting him. She couldn't. But after he'd left last night, she'd promised herself that she wouldn't. Mitchell was working during the day, had a page count that he had to meet, and so unlike his self-absorbed inconsiderate family, she didn't ask to spend every single minute that he was here with her, though she wanted to. Badly. Instead, she'd invited him to dinner again. If he finished early, then he'd walk up when he was done. If he was running late, she was making a pot of soup, so it would keep. And she would wait and screen his calls. Because he was worth it. And she was a fool destined for heartbreak. "I've figured out what he needs from me," Tewanda told her friend. "What's that?" "Order." Audrey paused, seemed to be mulling it over. "I can feel that," she said. "Have you figured out what I need from him?" Tewanda asked.
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"Oh, sweetie," she said, "I already knew what he could give you." Tewanda stilled. "What is it?" "That's a revelation you need to make for yourself." A resigned smile shaped her lips. "Somehow I thought you were going to say that. Wonder if that means I'm psychic?" "Nope. Just intuitive." "Thanks, Audrey." "Keep me posted." "I will," Tewanda promised. She disconnected and sagged against the back of her sofa. "As soon as my heart gets smashed to pieces, I'll be sure to let you know."
Chapter Fourteen Though it took a little bit longer to pick up the rhythm of his story this morning than he'd anticipated—a direct result of hearing the snowmobile blasting over the high banks outside—Mitchell had nonetheless settled in and got to work. It had been hard, of course, but something about being here and being left alone— respected, as it were—fired his creativity. That was the difference, Mitchell had decided. Did he think about Tewanda? Of course. How could he not? Particularly after last night's "appetizer." She'd been hovering like a lovely shadow in the back of his mind all day, but curiously it hadn't prevented him from working. She got him, Mitchell had realized this morning. She knew that this was important, that his writing was important, and left him to work in peace. Odd how his family, who by all rights should know him better than anyone else, hadn't ever understood that writing required an interruption-free day? No phone calls, no false emergencies. Any little noise yanked him out of his story and picking up the pace was difficult at best and sometimes disconcertingly impossible. Boundaries were pointless if no one respected them, Mitchell thought, and knowing that Tewanda did made a balloon of happiness expand in his chest. He smiled. Just thinking about Tewanda made other parts expand, as well. God, she was magnificent. Just knowing that he would see her again after he'd finished up his work for the day kept him in the chair even when his numb ass wouldn't have felt a jolt from a cattle prod. One of the hazards of a writing career, but he was determined to write a bestseller so he dealt with it. At any rate, Mitchell knew that he was officially in unfamiliar territory. There was an emotional attachment and fascination with Tewanda Kelly that he'd never experienced before. He barely knew her…and yet he felt like he'd known her forever. Last night they'd spent hours on her couch just talking and kissing and talking some more. He'd been just as interested in hearing what was coming out of her mouth as he had been with kissing it and for him, that was a definite first. Not good, when one considered that their time together was swiftly drawing to a close. He was leaving the day after tomorrow and he had at least one more solid day of writing in order to finish. He'd also thought about asking her to read for him and decided that he definitely would. He wanted her opinion, and curiously, he knew that it mattered more than it should. He snorted. Hell, who was he kidding? Everything about her mattered more than it should. Mitchell grabbed his wallet and keys, put on his coat and made his way outside. The sun was setting against a pale blue sky, unlike the gray he'd noticed previously and icy smoke curled upwards from steely Lake Bliss
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like milky fingers. Cold, yes, Mitchell thought, as his breath frosted the air in front of him, but beautiful all the same. A contented sigh slipped past his lips and he turned and made his way toward Tewanda's cottage. She'd made soup for supper…but he was looking for another one of her "appetizers." And who knew? They may even move on to the main course. A guy could hope, right?
Chapter Fifteen "What do you mean Kelly women are cursed?" "With bad taste in men," Tewanda clarified, working on her third glass of wine, which was probably why she'd slipped up and said something about the curse in the first place. He was just so damned easy to talk to. Honestly, she'd never been what one could call quiet, but she turned into friggin' Chatty Cathy with Mitchell. He smiled, one of those lazy, indulgent grins that made her brain—and other more needy parts of her—turn to mush. "You realize that's insulting, right? Since, you know, you've been tasting me." The vision of her tasting him all over materialized with alarming speed in her mind's eye. Oy. She was losing control. He'd only been here for an hour and she was ready to break out the condoms and head to the bedroom. "I'm sorry," she said, "but it's the truth. Not a single woman in my family has ever chosen a good man. We're genetically flawed," she lamented dramatically. "Sounds like a cop-out to me," Mitchell said, laughingly. She frowned. "You sound just like Audrey." "Then I was right about her. She is smart." "And you're a smartass," Tewanda said, chuckling softly. He pulled an unrepentant shrug. "Better than a dumbass, right?" "There is that." She paused. "Did you get a lot of work done today?" Mitchell nodded, seemingly pleased. "I did. Thanks for looking out for me. I appreciate it." He threw her a cautious glance. "Did my mother call today?" "Just twice," Tewanda told him, ignoring a prick of irritation. If the last few days were any indication of what his life was like since he'd moved back from the military, no wonder he'd had to travel almost a thousand miles to get some peace. "No emergency, so I didn't put her through. She said something about needing to know what sort of oil went into the weed eater?" She grinned at him. "Grass still grows in Mississippi this time of year?" Mitchell rolled his eyes. "No. She's just wanting to let me know that she can't survive without me." "Is that really true?" "Of course, not. It's just my mother." "Then I wouldn't worry about it." In fact, she had a guaranteed idea of how to take his mind completely off of it. Their time together was getting short and the ache in her chest when he left on Friday would no doubt be big, but Tewanda couldn't resist.
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She wanted. Him. "Mitchell?" He hummed in answer. "I'm hungry." His gaze slid to hers and a spark of heat burst into flame, making his eyes glow amber. "We just ate." She lowered her voice and slid forward in her chair, then licked a deliberate, unmistakable path up his neck. "It wasn't satisfying. I was craving something a little more…substantial." "A main course?" he asked hoarsely. She nipped his earlobe and sighed softly. "Exactly." Mitchell wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her forward for a scorching kiss that made her belly melt and her thighs quake. "Come on, then, baby," he said, tugging her toward the bedroom. "I'll gladly feed you."
Chapter Sixteen She was going to be the death of him, Mitchell thought as he awkwardly backed Tewanda down the hall to her bedroom. They bounced off walls and furniture like pinballs, tugging at clothes and devouring each other's mouths as if they were starved. And they were—for each other. Tewanda had lit a fire in his loins from the first instant he'd laid eyes on her and, though he'd enjoyed every second spent in her company, he had to admit that landing between her thighs was no doubt going to be the highlight of his Unwind experience. He was desperate to be with her, and for reasons he couldn't explain, knew that one night with her would change everything for him. How he would handle those changes remained to be seen, but at the moment he didn't care. She was soft and warm and hungry and every touch of those small capable hands heated his nerve-endings, and upped the inferno between his legs. She tumbled backward onto the bed and peeled his shirt off and cast it aside. Half a second later he felt her mouth gliding up his throat and her hands sliding over his chest. A shudder wracked through him and he groaned. "You're overdressed," he told her. Tewanda's breathing came in short little gasps. "You can remedy that. Take off my clothes." A shaky laugh broke up in Mitchell's throat. There was something to be said for an orderly, organized woman. "I like the way you think." "And I like the way you taste," Tewanda said as he dutifully peeled her shirt over her head and cast it aside. His breath caught and he paused to finger the delicate fabric of her bra. "Nice." "Admire it later," she said, pushing her jeans and panties down her hips. Soft belly, gorgeous thighs, a thatch of curly dark brown hair in between. Have mercy. He slid a finger beneath the front clasp of her bra and popped the hook from its closure. Her ripe breasts tumbled free. Dusky nipples, pearled, begging for his
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kiss. With a shaky groan of pure delight, he bent and pulled the puckered crown into his mouth. The taste of her exploded on his tongue, making him almost lightheaded. Tewanda groaned and arched away from the bed, pushing her further into his mouth. He suckled and laved, nipped and nibbled until she writhed beneath him. She pushed her hands into his hair, framed his face, then pulled him up for another hot, melting kiss. Warm, soft skin. Hungry mouth, hungry body. God help him. He knew he should slow things down, but couldn't seem to find the strength to do it. Thankfully, from the impatient way her hand had drifted down his abdomen, opened his fly and shoved his pants down over his ass, he didn't have to. His jeans had no sooner landed at the foot of the bed then he felt her hand wrap around his rod. Clearly—thankfully—she wanted it hot and hard and fast the same as he did. Could she be any more perfect? Mitchell thought dimly. "Tell me you have protection," she said, working the slippery skin against her smooth palm. "In my pant's pocket." Without further prompting, Tewanda moved away, snagged a condom from his pocket and swiftly rolled it into place. Then she rolled him onto his back and straddled him. He felt her heat seep through the condom and settle over his aching penis and his eyes all but rolled back in his head. She was gorgeous and sexy and he wanted her. Mitchell angled his hips forward, sliding through her slick folds, coating himself with her wetness. Her head lolled back and she gasped. "That feels nice." "It gets better." And just to prove it to her, he lifted her hips, found her center and nudged deep. Her mouth opened in a soundless sigh, her eyes drifted shut in what could only be described as divine pleasure and though he couldn't—wouldn't ever be able to explain it—Mitchell knew at that moment he would never be the same. Sound receded, the world dimmed and brightened all in the same instant. There were no words for what he was feeling and if he'd been anywhere else, he would have been scared to death
Chapter Seventeen So this is what it felt like, Tewanda thought, despite a haze of sexual energy so intense it pulled the very air from her lungs. This is what it felt like to hand your heart to another person. She hadn't meant to, of course, but the energy—the sheer joy—bolting through her told her everything she needed to know. If she had the presence of mind to be afraid, then God knew she would. As it was, she only had the presence of mind to feel. Mitchell Anderson lay like a feast beneath her, his long hard body hers for the taking, her very own sexual playground. Not to mention the hardest part of him was lodged deeply between her legs, connecting her to him in a way that touched more than her sex, but her heart, as well. She could feel him…everywhere. Beneath her hands, under her skin, in the very air that she breathed. He surrounded her senses, made her absolutely dizzy with desire with a need borne of a hunger she'd never known until now. She'd wanted him— that had never been in question—but needing him, feeling as if she would die if he didn't make her come, now that was an altogether new experience. Her body instinctively began to move on top of his, slowly at first, with long, deliberate strokes up and down the rigid column of his arousal. Then faster, when the beginning flash climax ignited inside her body.
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Tewanda braced her hands on his sleek, powerful chest and rode him faster and harder. He bent forward and sucked an aching breast into his mouth, tugging at an invisible thread mysteriously connected to her sex. A soundless gasp tore from her throat and she ground her hips against his, massaging the nub of sensation hidden at the top of her sex. She couldn't get close enough… Couldn't get deep enough… As though he'd read her mind, Mitchell reached between their joined bodies and expertly massaged her tingling clit. A single brush of his fingers was all it took to make her fracture and she came. Hard. Her feminine muscles convulsed around him, sending sparkler after sparkler of pleasure jolting through her with each rhythmic contraction against him. Her back bowed from the force of the climax and her breathing became difficult to manage during the onslaught of perfect sexual sensation. Beneath her, Mitchell growled low in his throat, and he pumped harder and harder into her. Her own climax had triggered his and she had the pleasure of watching him fall apart right before her very eyes. If she'd ever seen anything more amazing in her life, then she damned sure couldn't recall it. Six and half feet of raw, beautiful man…coming. For her. When the last vestiges of orgasm pulsed from her body, Tewanda collapsed on top of him and kissed his glistening chest. She felt his fingers slide down her spine, then form a figure-eight over her hip. "Still hungry?" he teased, his breathing still gratifyingly ragged. Tewanda purred with pleasure and settled more firmly against him. "I'm satisfied. For the moment." If they could only stay in this moment, she thought as her eyes drifted shut.
Chapter Eighteen The next day, absolutely exhausted but curiously energized, Mitchell walked up Tewanda's front steps, knocked on her door, then pushed his finished manuscript into her startled hands the instant she opened the door. "Read it, then call me. Please," he added, so that he didn't come across as a bossy wreck. Her eyes widened with gratifying delight, then she smiled at him. "I will." She gestured toward her bedroom. "Go sleep." "Here?" Her eyes twinkled and slow smile dawned over her lips, one he felt clear down to his heels. "I might get hungry." "Devour the pages first," he said, heading down her hall. "I need to know what you think." He'd rather her read his book than have sex? Now, that was definitely dangerous territory, and he'd already realized that he was in way over his head. He'd either lost his mind or another significantly vital organ…and he grimly suspected he knew which one it was.
*** Three hours later Tewanda laid the last page of Mitchell's work aside and stared in blind awe at the manuscript he'd written. Fabulous didn't begin to describe it. It was fast-paced and thrilling, with enough red herrings and excellent characterization to keep it interesting even though she thought this kind of book would not have been her cup of tea. Frankly, she preferred romance, but had to admit that Mitchell's military thriller was positively brilliant. She could hear him when she read, could hear his voice in the words, the mark of a truly extraordinary story-teller.
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With a happy sigh that heralded the end of a satisfyingly wonderful read, Tewanda heaved her aching rear off the couch where she'd curled up to read Mitchell's novel, then made her way down the hall. One look at him sprawled beneath her covers, his dark head on her pillow, a masculine leg peeking out from beneath the duvet, made her chest ache inexplicably. God, he was handsome. And it wasn't just in the skin-deep superficial way, though admittedly he had that in spades, as well. He was kind and funny and noble and smart. He was strong and opinionated and didn't apologize for standing behind his convictions. In short, he was a good man, and for one more night, he was hers. The thought made her heart squeeze, but rather than dwelling on the inevitable moment when he left, Tewanda decided to tear a page from Scarlett O'Hara's book and worry about that tomorrow. She wasn't generally in the practice of postponing problems, having always been one to confront them head-on, but in this case she'd decided to make an exception. Time was precious and hers with Mitchell was coming to an end all too quickly. She skimmed a finger over his cheek and had the pleasure of watching him slowly come awake. A lazy smile slid over his lips when he saw her and he tugged her down onto the bed with him. "Well?" he prodded. "Don't sugarcoat it. Tell me what you really think. I'm tough. I'm former military, remember, so I can take it." "You're brilliant, Mitchell. It was fabulous." "You aren't just saying that because you're hungry, are you?" She smiled and drew back. "How do you know I'm hungry?" "You're nipples are hard." Tewanda giggled. "So's Lil' Mitchell. Are you hungry, as well?" "Lil' Mitchell?" he said, feigning outrage. "There's nothing little about me. Here," he said, rolling her swiftly onto her back. "Let me prove it to you." He kissed her neck, causing a delicious wave of gooseflesh to pebble over her heated skin. "You're sure it's good?" he asked, endearingly uncertain of his own talent. Tewanda leaned forward and kissed him. "It's better than good. It's phenomenal. You're truly gifted," she said sincerely. "Remember me when you're famous." Mitchell grinned. "Baby, I'm not likely to ever forget you." Then he very memorably satisfied her appetite, and she knew it was a meal that would have to last her a lifetime.
Chapter Nineteen Tewanda slid the snowmobile to a stop next to his rental car and killed the engine. "Here you are," she said, a little too brightly. Mitchell nodded and climbed off the back. He fished the keys from his pocket, then hit the keyless remote to unlock the door. In short order, he'd made quick work of moving his gear from the snowmobile to the trunk of the car. Everything about this scenario felt completely wrong to Mitchell and if were writing the scene in a book, he'd change it to reflect what he really wanted to do. Which was stay here with Tewanda…indefinitely. Unfortunately that had never been part of the plan and she'd made a point of reiterating that ridiculous Kelly Woman Curse several times over the past twenty-four hours. She was insulating herself, he knew, but he wished she wouldn't. It was ridiculous, dammit. She was a smart, beautiful woman who was perfectly capable of finding a good man. She wasn't bound by bad genes any more than he was. She was scared, a sentiment he recognized as well because things had happened between them at a terrifying rate.
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"You got everything?" she asked. Everything but you, Mitchell thought, but merely nodded. "I'll call you when I get back to Mississippi." She tried to smile, but faltered. "I'll be here." "You know, I could always change my ticket." He pushed his hands into his front pockets and shrugged. "Go back later—" Tewanda shook her head. "Don't," she said. "I'm in Maine. You're in Mississippi. There's more than a dozen states between us," she said, laughing softly. "It'd never work." "That's a flimsy excuse." "Mitchell, don't," she pleaded quietly. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "It's been great. Let's not ruin it." Funny, Mitchell thought, by his account that was exactly what she was doing.
*** Because she was a glutton for punishment, Tewanda sat on the snowmobile and watched as Mitchell's tail light's faded into the distance. Snow fell silently, much like the equally quiet tears which leaked from her eyes. Dammit, Tewanda thought, she'd promised herself she wouldn't do this. But watching him leave turned out to be much harder than she'd ever anticipated because it felt like he'd taken a part of her with him. Namely, her heart. It was odd to think that just five days ago she'd been happily ensconced in a brand-new home, celebrating her success and today she felt like everything she'd accomplished had been for naught. She aimed the snowmobile back toward her cottage, then walked back into her house and the emptiness closed around her…because he was gone. A broken sob fractured in her chest and she put a fist to her mouth to stem the flow. She wasn't a crier, dammit. She was a fighter. She was tough. Strong. Resilient. And ultimately, a coward. Her phone rang and she knew without checking the Caller ID that it was Audrey. Her friend had an uncanny habit of contacting her when her emotions were running high. Tewanda cleared her throat. "Hello." "You let him leave, didn't you?" Audrey said, hitting the nail on the head, as usual. "It was time for him to go," Tewanda clarified. "He had a plane to catch." All true, but still lies somehow. "You want me to come up there?" Touched, Tewanda sniffled. "No. You're pregnant. You don't need to be on a plane." Her throat tightened. "But thank you." Audrey tsked sympathetically under her breath. "Can I do anything?" Make me brave. Make him come back so I can say the right thing this time. "No. I'll be all right."
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Another lie. She would not be all right, not with the empty space in her chest where her heart used to be.
Chapter Twenty This was wrong, Mitchell thought, growing more uncomfortable and miserable with every mile he put between himself and Tewanda. And he hadn't even made it out of the Winnasauga city limits yet. At this rate, by the time he reached the airport he'd be wretched. Dead inside. Oh, to hell with it, Mitchell thought, turning the car around and aiming back toward Unwind. He would leave if she truly wanted him to, but he damned sure wasn't leaving until he'd told her exactly how he felt. He'd bare it all to her; he was shameless when it came to being with her. He didn't have to have an "I do." At this point he'd be willing to settle for a "maybe." Hell, anything was better than what she'd just handed him. Of course, she might give him the same damned spiel, but he wouldn't take it without stating his case first. The past few days with her had been the best he'd ever had in his entire life and he wasn't willing to give that up over a ridiculous curse or her cowardice. He wanted her—no, needed her—and he was perfectly willing to relocate if she so much as asked. She loved her job, was proud of her cottage and the accomplishment it represented. He could write anywhere and, for his own mental health, needed to put some distance between himself and his family. This could work. If she'd only let it.
*** Another day, another donut, Tewanda thought despondently as she sank her teeth into a chocolate covered éclair. Sugar, her antidepressant of choice. Honestly, if this was love then she was definitely better off without it, she'd decided. Mitchell had only been gone half an hour and yet she felt like she was drying up inside—probably all that damned crying. She should probably hydrate rather than carb load, but the donut was so much better. Maybe she'd take a hot bath—with her donut—and that would put some of the moisture back into her miserable body. She'd just started down the hall to set her plan in motion when she heard a knock at her door. She stilled and her heart gave a little jolt. Mitchell. He was back. Hands shaking, Tewanda opened the door. "What are you doing here?" she asked breathlessly, not daring to believe her eyes. "Someone told me that you'd take care of me. I was hoping I could talk you into doing that on a permanent basis." She blinked. "Permanent basis?" Mitchell's hesitant gaze tangled with hers. "I'm in love with you, Tewanda and I don't give a flying fig about your Kelly Woman Curse. I'm a good man and, given the chance, I'll prove it to you. Every day. For the rest
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of my life. Don't make me leave you. Be brave," he implored softly and traced a reverent heart on the side of her face. "Be brave and give us a chance." He loved her? Tewanda thought, her chest ballooning with hesitant joy. "Oh, Mitchell, don't break my heart," she said, her eyes watering, her throat clogged with hope. "Never," he told her, sweeping her into his arms. He laughed and spun her around the room. "And guess what else?" She kissed him then drew back. "What?" His twinkling gaze tangled with hers. "I promise that you'll never be hungry again." His voice, loaded with sexual innuendo, sent a dart of heat straight into her body. Tewanda giggled. "You're gonna feed me, eh?" "As often as you want," he promised. His gaze darted to the forgotten donut in her hand. "So you can put that away." Definitely, Tewanda thought. Because Mitchell Anderson had a future for her that would be a lot more satisfying.
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Sorsha's Secret by Deborah Hale Sorsha is looking for a little romance and adventure in her life. So she doesn't protest when her father sends her to stay with her aunt, even though Sorsha knows he's hoping she'll return with a husband to help work the farm. But life in the foothills of the Blood Moon Mountains takes on an interesting — and very dangerous — twist when Sorsha discovers in the barn a fugitive from the notorious mines!
Chapter One "Is that you, Jath?" An odd prickling sensation rippled down the back of Sorsha Swinley's neck as she peered into the dim rear corner of the barn where she thought she'd heard a rustling noise. Which was daft, of course. Her aunt's farm in the foothills of the Blood Moon Mountains was no different than her father's back in Windleford — quiet and dull. She'd been a fool to hope for anything different. Likely it was just her oaf of a cousin, hiding in the hay to avoid some chore his mother had sent him. And maybe hoping to give her a fright so he could tease her about it at supper. She'd show him! But first she needed to collect the eggs Auntie Ag had sent her to fetch for making dumplings. One of the neighbor lads had been invited to supper. Sorsha made a face as she groped under the black hen, which glared and clucked at her but yielded a warm, brown egg. Was it too much to hope tonight's guest might have something interesting to say for himself? Or that he might cast her an admiring glance rather than spending every moment discussing weather and crops with her uncle? If she'd guessed her father had sent her on this visit to find a husband, she might have refused to come. "That's not true and you know it," she muttered to herself as she poked through the straw on another laying box. She could never have turned down a chance to go somewhere she'd never been and do something different. Not that chores on Auntie Ag's farm were much different than chores back at Hoghill. At least the scenery in this part of the kingdom was more dramatic than back home…even if the people weren't. Once she had four eggs tucked into her apron pockets, Sorsha hurried back into the snug farmhouse and gave them to her aunt. "Thank you, lass!" Auntie Ag cracked the eggs into an earthenware bowl and beat them into a pale yellow froth. "You're such a willing little thing. You'll make some lucky lad a fine wife!" Sorsha concentrated on keeping her tongue in her mouth rather than sticking it out in disgust. She tried to sound sincere when she said, "Thank you, Auntie." For she knew her aunt's words were meant as high praise. Glancing down at her broad hips and strong arms, it was hard not to laugh over being called a little thing. Auntie Ag shook a measure of flour into the bowl, added a pinch of salt then commenced beating the batter again. "I only wish Jath would learn a thing or two from you — the shiftless creature. Have you seen him? I need more wood fetched in." Her aunt's words reminded Sorsha. "I reckon I know where to find him, Auntie." She headed back out to the barn, taking care to keep her footsteps light. When she reached the doorway, she paused outside it for a moment, listening. Sure enough, she heard the hay rustle again, just as she had when she'd been in fetching the eggs. Now she'd see who would get a fright!
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Gathering her energy, she shoved open the barn door and bounded for the stack of hay in the corner crying, "You can't hide from me, Jath, you lazy lump!" She felt her cousin wriggle beneath her when she landed on top of him, and she laughed, pleased with herself for turning his own trick back on him. Then from out of the dry, sweet-smelling hay came an odor that was anything but sweet. Sorsha wrinkled her nose. "Eeeeewe, what have you been doing, Jath, wrestling a musk pig?" The words had scarcely left her mouth when two large blackened hands thrust out of the hay and closed around her throat. Sorsha tried to scream when a creature of her nightmares rose from the hay — dark and gaunt, with a mane of black matted hair and wild eyes. But the sound stuck in her throat as he throttled her with desperate strength. "Why could you not leave me be?" The hoarse rasp of her attacker's voice sounded mad with rage, yet strangely wistful. "I meant you no harm!" Meant her no harm? Sorsha's head began to spin. If she didn't do something to break free, she would soon be dead at the hands of this beast who claimed to mean her no harm! With all the strength she could summon, she drove her fists into his middle and flailed at his legs with her feet. He gave a grunt of pain and his grip around her throat slackened enough that she was able to break free. Before she could draw breath to call for help, he spun her around, clamping a hand over her mouth and his other arm around her waist. To Sorsha, their brief but intense struggle seemed to stretch on and on. Her attacker was strong and desperate, but he looked half-starved, and either ill or wounded. She was a healthy farm girl, used to hauling water from the well, fetching armloads of firewood and hoisting heavy butter churns. It wasn't long before she had him pinned beneath her. As she gasped for breath to call for help, she heard Auntie Ag's voice just outside the barn. "She went to look for you. Have you not seen her? Oh, there comes your father now with young Huard. Go find Sorsha!" "Kill me!" gasped Sorsha's attacker. His limbs went slack, as if he had spent his last crumb of strength. "I beg you. Only do not let them…take me back to the mines!" "The mines?" If that was where he'd come from, then her attacker had truly escaped from her worst nightmare. The mines beneath the Blood Moon Mountains, where Umbrian criminals delved for metal and gems to arm their Hanish conquerors, were often called "a living death." Sorsha had never heard of any prisoner coming out of the mines alive…until now. The man's muscles suddenly contorted in a fierce spasm and his eyes rolled back. Sorsha might have thought him dead, but she could still feel his heart hammering. Only then did she realize her bosom was pressed hard against his chest, and her open thighs splayed over his hips. A fierce blush set her whole body atingle, blazing hottest between her thighs and in the tips of her breasts. She let go of her attacker and crawled backward away from him, disgusted by her reaction to a creature that scarcely seemed human. She half expected him to rouse and flee once she'd let him go, but he did not move. Overcome with curiosity even stronger than her fear, she edged back toward him. This would be a story worth telling her friend Maura when she returned home to Windleford — that she had fought and subdued a savage fugitive from the Blood Moon Mines! But when she looked more closely at him, she could not take pride in her victory. He was so thin, dirty and battered. And she could not forget the raw despair in his voice when he'd pleaded for death. "Sorsha?" called Jath from close by. "Ma says come for supper!"
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She should call her cousin and have him tie up the fugitive. Then they should take him to the nearest Hanish garrison. There might be some kind of reward, which her aunt's family could well use. If they were caught harboring an escaped miner, on the other hand… Sorsha shuddered. Would that be crime enough to land Jath and his father in the mines? The Han claimed that only outlaws, smugglers and those of that ilk were sent to the mines to keep Umbria safe for law-abiding folk. The question was, did Sorsha want to abide by Hanish laws?
Chapter Two "Sorsha?" her cousin called again from out in the farmyard. "Supper!" Sorsha stared down at the unconscious fugitive who'd tried to strangle her then begged her to kill him rather than betray him to the Han. "I'm coming!" she called. After a moment's hesitation, she heaped straw over the man so no one else would see him. She couldn't kill him and she did not have the heart to condemn him to something he feared worse than death. By the look of him, he might die soon, anyway. Then she could pretend to find his body and let her kin deal with it as they wished. Satisfied with her decision, she brushed the bits of chaff off her clothes and smoothed her hair. "There you are!" cried Auntie Ag when Sorsha entered the house. "Come sit by Huard. He's anxious to meet you." "Mistress Swinley." Huard looked her over as he bowed. A lass didn't have to be the Oracle of Margyle to know he was thinking, She'll do. He wasn't a bad-looking fellow. Just the kind her father would want her to bring home as a husband, no doubt — one with strong arms and an even temper. But Sorsha could not summon a spark of interest in him. After her aunt said the table blessing, she tried to make conversation, but Huard seemed more interested in talking about planting and plowing with her uncle. And she could not stop thinking about the man in the barn. Was he still alive? Could he smell the savory aroma of her aunt's stew while hunger gnawed at his belly? The thought took Sorsha's appetite away. She jumped up as soon as the others finished eating so no one had time to notice her barely touched bowl. "I'll clear the table." Perhaps thinking Sorsha meant to impress Huard with her industry, Auntie Ag did not object. Rather than dump her leavings into the slop pail for the hogs, Sorsha stole out to the barn with her bowl. The pile of hay in the back stall looked just as she'd left it. Was the man dead? She thrust her hand into the straw to feel for a heartbeat. When he grabbed her wrist, she gasped but did not scream. "I…brought food for you." His shaggy head twitched away the straw covering his face. "Why?" "Because you looked hungry. Are you?" "Starved." A hollowness in his voice made Sorsha's belly gape with answering hunger, though she'd just eaten.
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She shoved the bowl toward him. "Eat, then. I will not betray you to the Han." Whatever he'd done, he did not deserve a slow, brutal death in the mines. An exciting, dangerous idea took root in Sorsha's mind. His grip on her wrist slackened. "I did not want to harm you before. Truly." "I know," Sorsha whispered. He'd only wanted to hide in the hay, temporarily safe and free. When she'd jumped on him, it must have scared the poor man out of his wits. "I must go now. I'll come back later with drink and a blanket." Though the light was growing dim, Sorsha could see a look of bewilderment on his face, as if the smallest act of kindness were beyond his understanding. Returning to the house, she helped Auntie Ag clean the dishes, then made awkward conversation with Huard until he left. All the while, her heart beat faster and her thoughts whirled. Here was a chance to have the kind of adventure she'd always dreamed of. A chance to strike back, in her own small way, at the mighty Hanish Empire that had oppressed her country since before she was born. She would hide the fugitive until he was fit to travel. And afterward, when folks claimed no prisoner had ever escaped the Blood Moon Mines, she could savor her secret act of rebellion. After the family retired to bed, Sorsha lay awake, her mind humming with plans. Once she reckoned the others must be asleep, she crept out of bed and collected what she needed for her fugitive. "Don't be afraid," she called in a loud whisper as she slipped into the barn. "It's only me." By the flickering light from her stub of a candle, she glanced at the bowl of food she'd left earlier. "Did you eat?" "As much as I could. I've never tasted anything so good." He hesitated, as if searching for words he could barely recall. "Thank you." Sorsha set her candle up on a thick beam, away from the straw. Then she wrapped her extra blanket around the man's broad but bony shoulders and handed him a drink skin. From the bottom of her basket, she took a crock of salve she'd brought from Windleford. Her friend Maura had compounded it, and its healing properties were magically potent. Perhaps it was magical — Maura was the ward and apprentice of a wizard, after all. Dipping her fingers in the salve, Sorsha reached to smear it over a jagged gash on the man's cheek. He flinched when her hand came toward his face. "It's all right," she murmured. "I won't hurt you." How long had it been since he'd met anyone who could make that claim? He let her anoint the wound, though Sorsha sensed he was fighting well-honed instincts of self-protection. This wary hint of trust moved her. "Have you any other hurts I can tend?" A bitter chuckle wheezed out of him. "More than you could heal in a lifetime, mistress." "My name is Sorsha. What's yours?" He gave a weary shake of his head.
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"Don't worry," she said. "I won't tell anyone." "It's not that." He hung his head as if ashamed to admit, "I…cannot recall my name. I reckon I had one. But it seems like ten lifetimes since anyone called me by it." "Oh. How did you escape from the mines?" "A sickness killed many on my level. I crawled into the pile of corpses and pretended I was dead, too." His tone had a deadened sound as he spoke of it. "After they pulled us to the surface in the ore bin, I took off while the guards were busy with the next load. Been on the run ever since." On the run? Sorsha winced at the sight of the fugitive's cut, blistered feet. How had he ever walked on them? The nearest mine was high in the mountains. Every step must have been torment. Gently she daubed the raw, broken flesh with Maura's salve then bound his feet in strips of linen. Even with the ointment, it would be some time before the nameless man could walk any distance. "You can stay here until you're fit to travel," said Sorsha. "I'll bring you food and whatever else you need." He tensed then, and gripped her wrist hard. "Slag?" His gaze glittered with something avid and dangerous. "Can you get me slag?" Sorsha shook off his hand. "What is that?" A great shudder quaked through his wasted flesh. "The one thing that makes life in the mines bearable." "You aren't down there anymore," Sorsha reminded him. "So I reckon you won't need it." "I need it as bad as ever." He twitched. "Once slag gets its claws in you, it doesn't let go that easy." Had she thought this a glorious adventure? Sorsha chided herself. This man had suffered things she could not imagine — did not want to imagine. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I don't know where to get this slag stuff and I wouldn't if I could. I don't believe it can be good for you." "Not good for me?" He laughed in hoarse, cracked heaves. "It's pure poison!" "Why do you want it, then?" "Because I'll die without it, fool!" He lunged toward her, but when she drew back in fear, he sank into the hay and wrapped his long arms around himself. "Or wish I could die." He looked so lost and broken, Sorsha yearned to take him in her arms and ease his hurts. But his flashes of feral rage daunted her. The sooner she could get this man fit to travel and away from her aunt's farm, the better it would be…for both of them.
Chapter Three "Jath!" Sorsha ran to catch up with her cousin. "Have you ever heard of something called slag?" Jath started and looked to see if anyone else was close enough to hear. His voice dropped to an urgent hiss. "So I have! But how did you? Don't ever let Mam hear you say that word!" "Why? What is it?"
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"Bad stuff. Dust from the mines. Makes a person all dazed and fuddledlike when they breathe it." "What if they stop breathing it?" Jath pulled a face. "Stop breathing and you die, don't you?" "That's not funny, Jath. What if a person got used to breathing it, then came out of the mines?" "But nobody ever comes out.…" "I said what if?" Her cousin shrugged. "I hear bad folks over the mountain will steal or kill to get their next sniff of the stuff, so I reckon it can't be pleasant." His eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know, anyhow?" Sorsha did her best to look innocent and ignorant. "Just curious."
*** The fugitive's feet looked less like raw meat when Sorsha changed the bindings a few nights later. "This balm of Maura's must be magic," she murmured to herself. "Magic?" The fugitive flinched. "I want nothing to do with that wicked stuff!" "Wicked, is it?" Sorsha pointed to his foot. "Look at how fast you're healing. Call that wicked?" "I…reckon not." He didn't sound convinced. "There's a world of difference between the death-magic of the Han and the life-magic my friends practice." She went on to tell him what benevolent spells the wizard Langbard had cast on her family's farm so the stock never sickened and the cows gave extra-rich milk. "Anybody who's ailing in Windleford calls for his help, or Maura's, though all secretlike so the Han don't hear of it. And they always go, though folks are never as grateful as they should be." The fugitive shook his head as if he could scarcely believe her. "Is everyone in this Windleford place as kind as you are?" Slowly he raised his hand and brought it to rest against her cheek. Sorsha felt it tremble, though whether from his craving for slag…or something else, she could not guess. His touch set something inside her atremble, too. She tried to tell herself it was only a shadow of fear. But when her gaze met his and held for a long breathless moment, she knew it was not. "You're eating more." Her usually deep voice came out high-pitched. "That's good." He let his hand fall. "It made me sick to eat at first, hungry as I was. Everything tastes and smells too sharp when you come off the slag. The straw feels like nails digging into me, and any little noise sounds like thunder. Slag would dull all that." The sharp edge of need honed his tone. "Do you want to live all your life dulled to the world?" She had seen him sweat and shake and retch in the grip of his craving. What little she had coaxed him to tell her about the mines wrenched her heart with pity. "I reckon you needed it to survive the mines. Now that you're out, there are beautiful things in the world to see and hear and feel that you won't want to miss."
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"I reckon there might be at that," he murmured, gazing at her so intently it made Sorsha blush and look away. But when she anointed the healing gash on his cheek with more of Maura's ointment, her fingertips lingered on his face. "I brought you some of Jath's old clothes. They'll hang loose on you now, but we'll soon fatten you up." "I can't." He glanced down at himself, as if noticing for the first time in a long while how he looked. "I'd get them all dirty." "We'll clean you up, then," said Sorsha. "We should, anyway, in case someone sees you, or you have to leave suddenly. If you're clean and wearing decent clothes, you won't draw so much attention. The day after tomorrow is bath night. I can go last and say I mean to drain the tub afterward, but I won't. Add a few hot rocks later and the water will be nice and warm for you." "Bath," he agreed, though he spoke the word as if he scarcely remembered what it meant.
*** Three nights later, Sorsha stole out to the woodshed where the bathing tub was set up. "Come on," she called softly into the darkened barn. "I put extra dreamweed in the tea at supper, so they'll all sleep sound." A darker shadow detached from the others and moved toward her with a halting step. "I'm getting better, Sorsha. I really felt it for the first time today. I'm not so…raw." His words made her throat constrict. Watching his fierce, painful struggle to break free of the slag, she'd feared he might do away with himself rather than endure it. But he had refused to surrender, and for that she admired him. If their places had been reversed, she was not certain she'd have found the courage to cling to life that for so long had brought nothing but pain and despair. She led him to the woodshed, where a candle burned just bright enough to catch the fine wisps of steam rising from the freshly warmed bathwater. "Strip off and hop in." Sorsha tried to sound matter-of-fact as she turned away to check she had everything she needed. But the quiet sounds of his disrobing made her feel all warm and wriggly inside. When she heard him ease into the water with a sigh that sounded like pleasure, she spun around to hand him soap and a cloth. "Wet your hair down, will you? It'll be easier to cut that way." Obediently, he bent forward, plunging his head into the water. Sorsha stifled a gasp at the sight of his bare neck and back. His neck bore the mark of a branding, while his back was scarred from whipping. With an effort, she put them out of her mind by concentrating on her task. While he scrubbed himself from head to toe, she sheared his hair, leaving just enough in back to cover his branded neck. After cutting his beard as close as she dared, she lathered his face and shaved it clean, as she'd often done for her father. When he finally draped a cloth around his hips and climbed out of the wooden tub, the water was as black as liquid soot. Sorsha busied herself draining the tub and sweeping up the hair, all the while struggling to avert her eyes from the fugitive as he dried and dressed himself. Though still painfully gaunt and scarred in too many places, his body was firm and well shaped. With proper feeding and care, he might fill out to a fine figure of a man. "There," he said, after he'd pulled on a pair of Jath's outgrown breeches and a loose-fitting shirt. "I almost feel like a man again, not some starved, beaten beast."
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Sorsha swept her gaze over him. "You look just fi—" The word caught in her throat. Never had she guessed what ruggedly handsome features lay beneath that dirty tangle of beard! She'd been too busy trying not to cut him with the razor to notice when she'd shaved him. Did he glimpse the flicker of attraction in her eyes? Or did becoming a man again instinctively cause him to respond to the nearest woman? The next thing Sorsha knew, his arms were around her and his lips closing over hers, hot and hungry. His kiss tasted dangerous and forbidden…and altogether delicious.
Chapter Four Perhaps the fugitive had never kissed a woman before. Or perhaps the mines and the slag had robbed him of that memory. Sorsha did not have much experience to judge by, but she wondered if other men might employ their lips with more confidence and skill. The fugitive kissed her the way he'd eaten those first bits of food she'd brought him — ravenous, yet wary. That combination stirred her in ways a more gallant advance might not have. Yielding to the moment and to the unspoken attraction that had intensified between them over the past several days, she parted her lips and relished the sensations his kiss and touch kindled in her body. His lips strayed from hers at last, rambling over her cheeks and down her throat with a delicious rasp that struck sparks of passion in her. Sorsha arched her neck, the better to savor his attentions. Her fingers played through his wet, shorn hair. His head dipped lower still and his cheek rubbed against the straining fullness of her bosom. Even muffled a little by her night smock, it was enough to make a gurgle of pleasure rumble deep in her throat. Then she felt his hand tugging up her night smock as the hard hump of his arousal jutted against her leg. She recalled the animal matings she'd glimpsed around the farm — swift and fierce. Her father had often warned her to stay clear of male animals in rut, for they were dangerous. The peril of what she was doing suddenly dawned on her and she felt like a green fool for not seeing it sooner. "No!" Her sudden change from willing partner to hissing hill-cat caught him off guard, so she was able to break free and scramble to the other corner of the woodshed. She grabbed a heavy stick and shook it at him. "Get back to the barn! Just because I brought you food does not mean I'll satisfy every hunger you have." He stared at her as if dazed, his chest heaving beneath Jath's old shirt. "You can put down the stick. I'd never take you against your will." He shook his head and a look of sorrow twisted his rugged features. "I thought you hungered, too." "I…did." Sorsha still clutched the stick, but lowered the hand that held it. "I…do. But satisfying that kind of hunger is more dangerous for a woman than for a man." When his brow furrowed, she answered his unspoken question. "You might sow a babe in my belly that I would have to raise alone." Like what had happened to her friend Maura's mother. Sorsha remembered overhearing whispers of how Langbard had taken the young woman in, and how she'd later died of a broken heart and the shame of having borne a fatherless infant. Sorsha had never breathed a word of it to her friend, of course, suggesting instead that Maura's parents might have been murdered by outlaws. There was more for her to fear from lying with the fugitive than just getting with child. But Sorsha could scarcely put it into a clear thought for herself, let alone words to make him understand. "It may sound daft to you, but I was taught that mating is something folks should only do when they're wed proper."
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Again he looked as if she were speaking a language he did not understand. "Wed," she explained. "Promise to live together and look after one another for the rest of their lives. Ask the Giver's blessing on their union." "The…Giver?" Sorsha tossed the stick back on the woodpile. "Never mind. Just go get some sleep. And for the rest of the time you're here, no more kissing or carrying on. It's too dangerous. Do you understand?" He thought for a moment then shook his head. "I don't, but that doesn't matter. If you say that's how it must be, then it will, Sorsha. I owe you my life and more. I'd never do anything to put you in danger." With that, he turned and wandered out into the night. Sorsha watched him go with fire in her flesh and a gnawing ache in her chest that she doubted Maura's most potent tonic could ease. When she finally stumbled into bed, memories of the fugitive's kiss and touch haunted her dreams. Somehow she knew she could trust him to keep his distance from her. But could she trust herself? There had been times when his craving for the slag had driven him to the brink of violence, and her pity for him had been mixed with fear. But that was nothing to the fear she felt now, as she found herself falling in love with this dangerous man whose name she did not even know. How could she risk losing her heart to a man so tortured, dangerous…and perhaps doomed? She slept later the next morning than she meant to, then woke with a guilty start. She'd been so busy arranging the bath for her fugitive last night, she hadn't thought to feed him. After they'd kissed, she had ordered him away, still unfed. Bounding out of bed, she dressed quickly then hurried to the kitchen. "Auntie, why didn't you wake me? I hate to lie in so late in the morning." Auntie Ag placed a bowl of barleymush on the table before her. The soft bland porridge was drizzled with honey. Sorsha's mouth watered, but all she could think about was her hungry fugitive in the barn. He'd fasted far longer than she had. "You wouldn't sleep if you weren't tired, pet," said Auntie Ag. "You haven't seemed yourself lately. I catch you yawning late in the afternoon and I know half your food goes into the slop bucket, though you try to hide it. You're not ill, are you?" Sorsha almost choked on a mouthful of barleymush. "Ill? No, Auntie. I reckon it's all the…excitement." "Excitement? Here?" "Being someplace different and all. I reckon a bit of fresh air might perk up my appetite. Do you mind if I take my porridge outside to eat it?" "Go ahead, child." With a word of thanks to her aunt, Sorsha headed out the door. She'd have to be more careful from now on about sharing her food with the fugitive, so her aunt didn't get more suspicious. At least there would be no questions this morning when she returned with an empty bowl. Slipping out the kitchen door, she headed for the barn. She only got a few steps then froze. For there in the barnyard stood her uncle, looking pale and fearful as two Hanish soldiers towered over him. One had a vicious-looking hound on a chain. It barked loudly at Sorsha.
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One of the soldiers turned to her, bellowing a question in Comtung. "Where are you going with that food, girl?" Sorsha's knees began to tremble, but she tried not to show weakness. That only made the Han angrier. She held out the bowl. "For you, my lord. I thought you might be hungry." The soldier glanced at the barleymush and scowled. "Call that food? Only fit for sucklings!" "Your pardon, my lord, I will take it away." "Sorsha?" said her uncle. "Have you seen anybody strange around the farm?" "We search for an escaped outlaw," said the Han who had refused the food. Sorsha pretended to think for a moment. She willed her voice not to betray her by cracking. "I have seen no strangers." The Han with the dog headed for the barn. "I will look in here."
Chapter Five Panic seethed within Sorsha as she watched the Han and his hound stalk toward the barn where her fugitive lay hidden. A warning scream rose in her throat, but she had to stifle it for the sake of her family. "Mind your dog!" she shouted instead, hoping the fugitive would hear and understand her warning. "We have chickens in there." Not that it mattered if he heard, for there was no other way out of the barn and no way to hide from the hound's relentless sniffing. She dared not stay and watch them take him, or she might betray her part in keeping him hidden. He'd likely fight to the death to keep from being recaptured. Part of her beseeched the Giver that he might get his wish, though another part could not bear the thought of him cut to pieces by a Hanish blade or mauled by the hound. It took every ounce of will for her to turn and go back into the house, as if she did not care where, or how thoroughly, the Han searched for their quarry. Once the kitchen door closed behind her, however, she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. "What is it, pet?" Auntie Ag rushed toward her. "You're white as snow!" "Hanish soldiers," Sorsha gasped, hoping her aunt would think it was only that that had alarmed her. "Looking for an outlaw." "Is that all? You had me worried. I should have told you — the soldiers come by a few times a year, poke about a bit then go away with no real harm done." Auntie Ag's eyes narrowed. "Then again, we've never had a lass around the place before. Perhaps you'd better stay out of sight until they go." She grabbed the bowl of cold barleymush from Sorsha then shooed her upstairs to do some spinning. Sorsha dug out her aunt's spindle and a wad of wool, but she could not concentrate on the task. What was going on down in the barn? She waited and waited until it felt as if her nerves were being pulled taut as spun wool and whirled dizzily on the distaff. Then she heard it — the frenzied barking of the hound. Sorsha's sturdy legs gave way beneath her, and she sank to the floor, whimpering as if the hound were tearing at her flesh. This was partly her fault. She should
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have made the poor man leave the moment his feet were healed enough to carry him. If she had, he might be many miles away by now, where Hanish patrols were scarcer. But she hadn't wanted to let him go. She'd enjoyed her secret adventure and the forbidden feelings he'd stirred in her, forgetting this was no adventure to him but a matter of life and death. A while later Auntie Ag called from the bottom of the stairs, "It's safe to come down now, pet. They've gone." Her aunt sounded very calm about the whole thing. Sorsha ventured out to the head of the stairs. "I heard a lot of barking. What happened?" "One of them thought they saw something off in the woods, so they went to check. I doubt they'll be back." Relief swamped Sorsha. Perhaps… Had everything she'd said and done last night driven the fugitive away? Part of her rejoiced if it had, but another part grieved. He was still gone and she would never see him again. For the rest of the day, she went about her chores in a daze of regret and longing. When her aunt sent her to see if any of the hens had laid after all the commotion, her step lightened for the first time. "Hello?" she whispered, groping through the hay in the back stall. "Are you still here? The Han have gone — you can come out now." Something stirred in the hay and for an instant her heart leaped, but it was only a small hill-cat hunting for barn mice. With a sigh, she turned back to collect the eggs. If only she could have seen her fugitive once more for a fonder word of farewell than she had sent him away with last night. "Who are you trying to fool, you daft lass?" she muttered to herself. "If you saw him one more time, you'd only want to see him a time after that again." That night she told her aunt and uncle that she should be getting back to Windleford soon. No doubt her father would be disappointed when she returned without a husband to help on the farm, but he'd just have to get used to it. They would have to hire a chore lad, for Sorsha could not bear the thought of lying with another man when her heart belonged to… She did not even have a name to remember him by.
*** Late that night, she woke from a light, restless doze, conscious of a warm shadow looming over her. She gasped and shrank back, only to feel a hand cover her mouth. "Hush, it's only me. I didn't mean to wake you." Was she dreaming? Sorsha did not care. She grabbed his hand and smothered it with kisses, then tugged him close enough that she could throw her arms around his neck and rain more kisses on his face. "I was so worried for you!" she whispered. "Are you all right? Are you hungry?"
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"I was only hungry for one thing — to see you again before I go away. I must leave tonight." "Take me with you!" Sorsha tightened her grip around his neck. It was madness, but she did not care. Her heart and destiny were entwined with his — she'd never been so certain of anything in her life. "No!" He reached up to break her hold on him. "I have put you in too much danger already. I vowed I would not bring more upon you. If you came to any harm…it would be worse than anything I suffered in the mines!" So he did care for her, too — not just as a handy woman to satisfy his hunger. It made no sense that his feelings for her should prevent them from being together. She clung to him tighter than ever. "Come to Windleford with me! You'll be safe there. You can begin a whole new life and we can be together." "A new life," he murmured. "Could it be?" "It could and it will." Sorsha let go of him just long enough to dress and throw her clothes into a bundle. "What will your kin here think when they wake and find you gone?" Sorsha pondered the problem for a moment. "Wait here," she whispered, pushing her bundle of clothes into his hand. "Don't go without me, Promise?" "I…promise." Stealing into her cousin's room, Sorsha gave his arm a gentle shake to half wake him. "Just a moment more, Pa." He rolled away from her. "It's me, Jath. I'm feeling dreadful homesick and I'm going back to Hoghill now." "Oh? Want me to come with you?" "I'll be fine on my own. You go back to sleep, like a good fellow. But tell your folks in the morning where I've gone so they won't fret." "All right. G'bye, Sorsh." He was snoring again before she crept back out the door. To her vast relief, Sorsha found her beloved waiting for her as he'd promised. After gathering a little food for the journey, they harnessed her pony and set off into the night. Two fugitives from the Blood Moon Mountains.
Chapter Six For the next few days Sorsha and her fugitive journeyed in stealth, making their way eastward by night, then finding some hidden spot to sleep. When they woke after midday, they would eat and talk quietly together, waiting for the friendly cover of night to fall before moving on. Sorsha did most of the talking — about Windleford and Hoghill and the new life they would make together there. The peril and worry of the past weeks had taught her to cherish the placid peace of her old life on the farm. Now she yearned to share it with the man she loved. A man who had known so little of either.
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When at last she glimpsed the familiar buildings of Hoghill, she nearly wept with relief. "Sorsha!" Her father ran from the barn and caught her in his stout arms. "It's good to have you back, lass. I've missed you!" She returned his hearty embrace. "Me, too, Da!" Her father turned to stare at her traveling companion with an expectant grin. "And who's this young man you've brought with you?" Sorsha beckoned him forward, introducing him by the name they'd agreed on. "Da, this is Newlyn. I met him on my visit to Auntie Ag's and we wed there. He's looking forward to making his home with us at Hoghill if that suits you." Her father beamed. "I hoped you'd fetch home a husband. If this one suits you, he'll suit me just fine. Welcome to Hoghill, Newlyn! What's your kin name, son?" Before Sorsha could fumble a reply, Newlyn spoke. "Where I come from…we only go by one name. I'd be honored to take yours if that's all right." "Well, now. I reckon it is." Sorsha's father looked even better pleased, if that was possible. "Newlyn Swinley has a nice sound. And it'll mean Hoghill can still rightly be called the Swinley Place." That evening as she prepared supper, Sorsha hummed a merry little tune to herself. She looked forward to feeding Newlyn proper hot meals and sharing them with him. She would sew him some new clothes and teach him how to do farm chores. All the familiar activities that had once felt like drudgery now took on new value and purpose for her. At supper, Newlyn seemed anxious and awkward with the simple luxury of eating at a table. Every noise made him startle, as if he expected Hanish soldiers to batter down the door and arrest him at any moment. Luckily Sorsha's father was too pleased with the way his plans had worked out to notice anything amiss. "I hope you won't think me too forward —" he leaned back in his chair after he'd finished eating "— but I had your Mam's and my big bed moved into your room, Sorsha. It's more than I need now." His words brought a hot blush to Sorsha's cheeks. Though she had slept in Newlyn's arms the past few days, he'd never again tried to kiss or touch her as he had the night of his bath. To cover her embarrassment, she jumped up and began to clean the dishes. "That was kind of you, Da." "I reckon I might head over to Langbard's for a spell." Her father rose from the table and grabbed his cap. "Tell him and Maura our good news. Maybe have a pint or two with the old fellow. Don't wait up for me." With that, he was off. "Don't mind Da." Sorsha shook her head. "He's about as subtle as a hungry boar." She sat down next to Newlyn and took his hand. "So, what do you think of the place? Do you reckon you'd like to stay?" "It's a paradise, Sorsha. But I'm not sure I'm fit for this. Maybe it would be better if I move on." The thought chilled her. "Move on where and do what? Join some band of outlaws? Live like a wild beast? Risk the Han catching you again?"
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The haunted look in his eyes told her he did not want that. She must use every means of persuasion to make him stay. "I hope you didn't mind my telling Da we were married?" "No!" One of his hands easily enfolded both of hers. He raised the other to cup her cheek. "I wish it was true." Sorsha leaned into his caress. "It can be." She recited the words from the ritual of joining. "I offer myself to you — all that I have and all that I am. I promise to sustain you, heal you, support and cherish you as long as I live." When he did not make the ritual reply, she prompted him, "Do you accept me as your lifemate with a joyous and thankful heart?" Newlyn scarcely needed to answer. Joy and thankfulness glowed in his dark eyes. "Aye," he whispered. "I do." He repeated after her the bridegroom's offer, which she accepted without an instant's hesitation. "There's generally a bit more to it than that," said Sorsha. "But that's the important part, I reckon." "What now?" Newlyn asked. "Now…" Sorsha clung to his hand as she rose from the table. "We go to bed. Are you still hungry?" Newlyn got to his feet and followed her out of the kitchen. "I ate my fill at supper." She led him into her bedchamber…their bedchamber, pushing the door closed behind them. "I didn't mean that kind of hunger." Twining her arms around his neck, she offered him her lips and any other part of her he would have. Again she asked, "The night of your bath you said you were hungry. Are you still?" A light of understanding glimmered in his eyes, followed immediately by a hot flare of wanting. He gathered her close and answered in a hoarse whisper, "Starved." Then his lips closed over hers, sweetly ravenous. His hands fumbled over her, awkward in their eagerness, but still gentle, as if he held his raw passion on a tight rein. Desire swelled within Sorsha, dark and delicious, making her impatient to embark on a different kind of adventure. Newlyn hoisted her into his arms and carried her the few steps to the bed, easing her down upon it, and hovering over her. It felt so right to begin this new stage of her life in the bed where she'd been born. Between kisses, caresses and whispered endearments, they shed their clothes and began to explore each other in the warm twilight with innocent, wanton curiosity. It did not take them long to discover many ways to bring each other pleasure. Each time she glimpsed some mark of violence upon his body, the sight brought a pang to Sorsha's heart. She remembered his despairing claim that he had more hurts than she could heal in a lifetime. If it took a lifetime of tenderness and patience, she vowed she would heal every wound of his battered spirit. His touch carried her to a peak of moist, quivering desire then launched her to the rising moon on powerful wings of rapture. She clamped her lips to imprison a cry of pain when he claimed her with a restrained thrust. She feared he might stop if he knew it hurt her, and she did not want him to stop until she had
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brought him the kind of ecstasy he had brought her. When he thrashed and gasped her name in the potent grip of his release, she felt a warm echo of his pleasure. "It will be well, Newlyn, you'll see," Sorsha murmured as he cradled her in his arms. "I'll never let anyone hurt you again." A faint chill pierced her heart as she spoke those reassuring words. In such dark, dangerous times, did she dare make him such an impossible promise?
Chapter Seven "Sorsha, I'm so glad you're home safe!" Maura Woodbury gathered her friend in a warm embrace. The two women had never been apart so long in their lives. "I worried all the while you were gone. The very name Blood Moon Mountains gives me a fright." "Auntie Ag's place is just in the foothills." Sorsha drew her friend into the shade of the porch where she was sewing a shirt for Newlyn. "It's not so different from here. Hanish soldiers did search the place one day before I left. Apart from that, it was quiet." "Not too quiet, I hear." Maura gave a teasing smile as she settled into a chair. "To think you're a married woman now. I never imagined you'd meet anyone up in the mountains to take your fancy. He must be quite a fellow, this new husband of yours." "He's a fine man, Maura." The power of her newfound love overwhelmed her for a moment, making her throat clench and her eyes mist. Her feelings for Newlyn made her ache even more to think of all he'd suffered. "If you only knew…" "Only knew what?" Sorsha caught herself. Only once before had she kept a secret from her dearest friend. Then it had been to protect Maura. Now she must protect Newlyn, even if it meant being less than truthful. "Only knew…what a…fine man he is. And you will as time goes by. I know it." "I hope so." Maura leaned toward Sorsha, resting a hand on her arm. "For your sake." Her voice carried a note of doubt. Sorsha told herself it was just Maura's way. With Langbard always fretting over her safety, no wonder she imagined a threat behind every tree. Until now, Sorsha had been impatient with the old wizard's overprotectiveness. With a loved one of her own at risk, she could sympathize with him. But Maura was not in the kind of danger Newlyn would be if discovered…was she? The three men joined Sorsha and Maura on the porch. "A blessing on your new union, child," said Langbard. Sorsha sensed an unusual wariness about him. Until today, she had never seen him worried about anything except Maura's safety. Surely he did not think Newlyn posed a threat to that? Newlyn greeted Maura with a little bow. "So you're the lady who makes the good salve." "Yes," said Maura, "how did you know?" A look of alarm tensed Newlyn's rugged features as he searched for a reply.
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"Why, I told him all about you, of course!" cried Sorsha with forced cheer. "And Langbard, too. Shall I fetch everyone a cup of cider?" When they accepted the offer of refreshment, she headed for the kitchen, beckoning Newlyn. "Will you lend me a hand, love? I'll never be able to carry five cups at once." While Sorsha poured the cider, Newlyn whispered in her ear, "That wizard knows something's not right with me. He asked all sorts of questions about my kin and my village. I didn't know what to say." "Don't fret." Sorsha handed him two of the cups. "Once they see you don't mean any harm and how happy you make me, they'll accept you." "I hope so." Newlyn sounded every bit as doubtful as Maura had. The weeks that followed were the happiest Sorsha had ever known. Newlyn's pale skin gained a healthy tan and his old scars began to fade. Though he would never be stout, he quickly put on enough lean, muscular flesh to satisfy his bride. Sorsha's father had never been in a better humor in the five years since her mother's death. It was more than just the relief of having a willing young helper around the farm and the satisfaction of knowing Hoghill would one day pass to another generation of Swinleys. He seemed pleased with the change in Sorsha, too — the new contentment she had found with the placid, peaceful life of the farm. Newlyn showed a rare gift for working with animals. "I've never seen the like," mused Sorsha's father. "You'd almost reckon he can tell what they're thinking." "I know how it is to be treated like a beast," was all Newlyn would say when Sorsha repeated her father's praise. Under his patient handling, the donkeys and oxen became more tractable — the cows and ewes gave more milk than they had in years. And when each peaceful, healing day came to a close, the newlyweds snuggled in their bed, sometimes taking passionate pleasure in one another, other nights just lying close and talking until they fell asleep. When they woke the next morning, Sorsha would see a little less of the haunted look in Newlyn's eyes and she would rejoice.
*** One late summer day, Sorsha returned home from a visit with Maura. Her heart clenched in her chest when she spotted a strange horse tethered by the water troth. Treading quietly, she approached the house, alert to the sound of voices from the kitchen. She could make out her father's — grave and anxious. "I don't understand it. She brought him home and introduced him as her husband. Said she'd met and wed him on her visit with you." "I should have come sooner." The voice belonged to her cousin Jath — curse him! "But we were so busy haying. Mam near had my head for letting Sorsha go off alone." Visits between their family and Auntie Ag's were so infrequent, as a rule, Sorsha had not worried how she would explain her lie about getting married. "But she didn't come alone," said Sorsha's father. "Are you certain you don't know any lads called Newlyn?" Newlyn? Sorsha looked about with mounting alarm. Where was he? She must find him.
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Stealing away, she searched Hoghill, but found no trace of her husband. He must have fled when he'd heard Jath's voice, which he'd have recognized from his days hiding in their barn. That thought kindled a tiny spark of hope in Sorsha. She crept to the barn door and listened. After a few moments she heard a familiar rustle from inside. "Newlyn," she called in a whisper. "It's me. I know you're here. Come out and talk to me or I'll come in after you." Following a tense, breathless moment, Newlyn emerged from the hay. "I was just waiting till dark to go." "Without me?" Sorsha's voice broke. "And take you away from this?" The despairing sweep of Newlyn's arm took in all of Hoghill Farm and told her he had come to love it in a way she'd only begun to. "I couldn't live with myself, love. Being an outlaw and a fugitive isn't much of a life for a man, but it's none at all for a woman." "I don't care!" Sorsha threw herself at him. "It's no life here for me without you! I won't let you leave me again!" They had wrestled once before in the hay, and she had managed to restrain him. Now she was no match for him…at least, not physically. "I'll tie you up until I get away if you force me to!" threatened Newlyn. "I promised I'd never put you in danger. Now I have and I can't bear that." She could tell the arms that pinned her with such grim force ached to embrace her instead. "Don't go!" She had only her love to hold him now, but it was strong. "Trust me — let me try to find a way for you to stay. I think I know how." "I'll give you until moonrise, Sorsha." He pressed his lips to her brow. "After that, I must go and I will not take you with me." He had never sounded so fiercely resolved. And never had she feared him more.
Chapter Eight Never in her life had Sorsha dreaded moonrise as she did this night. If she could not find some way for Newlyn to stay at Hoghill Farm, she would lose him forever. Already she had wasted precious time telling her father and cousin the truth and pleading for their help. "An escaped miner?" her father cried as her cousin shook his head in disbelief. "Newlyn's a good lad, but it's just too dangerous to have him living here with the garrison so nearby. If the Han ever found him out, we'd lose the farm. I'd end up in the mines, and I hate to think what might become of you. I know you love him, lass, but he cannot stay." "If he cannot stay, then neither can I!" Even as she ran from the farmhouse, Sorsha knew her father's fears were not groundless. But the Han had never taken any notice of Hoghill. If a wizard could live quietly on the edge of Windleford without drawing their notice, then perhaps an escaped miner could, too. A wizard! That was it! Sorsha ran all the way from Hoghill to Langbard's cottage.
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"Sorsha, what's wrong?" Maura looked more alarmed than usual when she answered her friend's urgent knocking. "Your husband…?" "How did you know?" "Any fool could see there was something not right." Maura drew her inside to a chair by the hearth. "But you were so blinded by love. Now tell me what's happened? He hasn't harmed you, has he?" She called for Langbard, who came running. "He'd never harm me. It isn't that." She had urged Newlyn to trust her. Now she must trust her friends — the only ones who might have the power to help her. Mindful of the rapidly sinking sun, she gasped out the whole story. "Please, Langbard. You're a powerful wizard. Can you help us? Newlyn is a good man. He deserves a chance at a decent life and I cannot bear to lose him!" Langbard beckoned to Maura. After they exchanged hushed whispers, she hurried away to the room at the back of the cottage where she prepared her medicines and magical agents. Langbard knelt beside Sorsha. "I wish you had told us this sooner, my dear. I'll admit it worries me to have a man like Newlyn living so nearby. He could bring danger to Maura and me. But you have been a true and loyal friend to Maura all these years. For the sake of that friendship, I will do what I can." A short while later, Langbard and the two women raced back to Hoghill with a special draft Maura had brewed. "So you've heard about our troubles, Langbard?" Sorsha's father looked more grieved than angry. "When I think he was hiding in our barn all that time," muttered Jath. "If those Han had found him…" His ruddy face went pale. "Drink this up." Langbard poured the two men cups of Maura's brew. "It will steady your nerves." As Maura's father and cousin guzzled the draft, Langbard began to talk about all manner of commonplace things — the weather, the crops, Jath's journey to Windleford. "Well, it's been pleasant visiting with you," he said at last. "But Maura and I must be getting home to supper." "Good to see you, Langbard." Sorsha's father looked as though he hadn't a care in the world. Neither did her cousin. "Come visit anytime." Sorsha saw their "guests" out to the farmyard. "What was that all about?" "A strong draft of muddlewort and some other ingredients," said Langbard. "Neither of them will have any memory of what's happened today. And they'll be primed to believe whatever you tell them. So think up a good story that will satisfy them both, and stick to it. You have my word, Maura and I will never betray your confidence." It was a wonder Sorsha did not strangle them in her frenzy of relief and gratitude. "Stay just a moment more," she entreated them. "I know Newlyn will want to thank you, too." She flew to the barn. "Newlyn!" she called. "It's all right. Langbard has made it all right. You can come out now and you can stay!"
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For a moment, nothing moved. Dread kicked her in the belly. Then Newlyn emerged, covered in hay, and took her in his arms. "Are you certain?" She explained what Langbard had done. "Come see for yourself. And come thank my friends." "There is still some of the draft left," said Langbard when he had been thanked twenty times over. "You may have it if you wish, Newlyn. It would ease the worst of your memories about the mines." Newlyn gazed at the flask in Maura's hand for a long moment, as if he had never thirsted for any drink worse in his life. Then he shook his head. "I thank you, but I don't want to forget the mines. Hard as it is to bear the memories by times, they make me treasure what I have now all the more." Langbard gave a nod of grave approval. "I see Sorsha has made a wise choice after all. Which leaves only one thing left to do." To their baffled looks he replied, "Get the two of you properly married, of course. There is a little glade not too deep in Betchwood that I have used before when couples have asked to wed according to the Elderways." "How soon can we do it?" asked Sorsha. "Dawn is the time for weddings," replied Langbard. "If you call for Maura and me tomorrow morning before sunrise, you will be able to eat breakfast as lifemates in the eyes of the Giver."
*** So it was that the rising sun found all of them together in the woodland glade, Sorsha with the traditional wreath of flowers in her hair, and Newlyn with a wreath of leaves in his. Once again they offered themselves to one another and were accepted with joyous, thankful hearts. This time Langbard and Maura were there to entreat the Giver's blessing on their union. At the end of the ritual, it was customary for the bride to toss her wedding wreath into the air, where it would break apart and any unwed girls in attendance would scramble for the blossoms — tokens that they would one day find true love. Instead, Sorsha carefully lifted the bridal wreath off her head and set it on Maura's, bestowing a kiss on her friend's cheek. "I hope some day the Giver will bless you with as fine a husband as I have found." Maura blushed and thanked Sorsha for her good wishes. But Langbard paled and looked worried. Or perhaps she just fancied it. "One day," he murmured, gazing around the glade, "I hope folks who wish to wed according to the Elderways will not have to do it in secret." Little chance of that, thought Sorsha, unless the Waiting King should return to deliver his people from their conquerors, as the old legends claimed he would. Until that day, if it ever came, she would make her home a haven of light and peace in these dark, troubled times. "A secret ceremony suits me well enough." Newlyn wrapped his arms around his bride as if he never meant to let her go. "So much about Sorsha and me has been a secret." "Everything but how much I love you." Sorsha returned his embrace with a sigh of sweet fulfillment. "And how happy we will be together."
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Sweet Refrain by Felicia Mason Jodie Gallagher wants to get married — someday. But not until He sends the right man along, and not just so she can advance her career at Bradshaw International, where an unwritten rule prevents single employees from being promoted into senior positions. But could the right man be closer than Jodie thinks? And can he finally show her how to follow her heart, and make all her dreams come true?
Chapter One Time was running out for Jodie Gallagher. The employee recognition gala was in less than a week and she'd yet to secure a date for the evening. Bradshaw International Ltd. may have been one of the region's leading manufacturing enterprises, always on the cutting edge of technology and experimentation, but its leadership was solidly traditional. The founder firmly believed in family values. To his way of thinking, that meant every member of the management team should have a family — an adoring spouse, a kid or two or three and a cocker spaniel or Labrador retriever to round out the photo on the holiday cards. Old Man Bradshaw always said plenty of room existed at the top for talented employees. The only problem was the road to the top of his particular mountain was paved with One Way and No U-Turn signs. Jodie wanted a husband and a family — eventually. And not because having such would improve her career. She had a lot of love to share, but love that needed to be put on hold while she pursued a career. Apparently, since He hadn't sent the perfect guy her way anyway, the Lord had a similar plan. Once upon a time, Jodie had a list. Her ideal mate would be no taller than six foot two and no shorter than six foot. He'd have blond hair and deep blue eyes. He'd always wear undershirts under his dress shirts, and cuff links in his French sleeves. He would drive a certain type of car, make an income that was large enough to support a family of up to five — in case she decided not to work after their children were born. He'd have a sense of humor, would smile a lot and would always surprise her with sweet little nothings to keep the romance alive in their relationship. As a couple, they would be active members of their church, volunteer together in the community and, of course, live happily ever after. It was old-fashioned and wonderful…and apparently unattainable. Jodie sighed at her desk. She'd been keeping an eye out for her fantasy man for a while now and more than biological clocks were starting to tick. She'd be twenty-eight on her next birthday. The truth of it was — she reluctantly had to admit — she hadn't allowed herself much time to date. Work was her constant companion. The routine, she grudgingly conceded, had gotten old. "Gallagher, you coming to the meeting or not?" Jerked out of her reverie, Jodie snatched up her notes. The irritated voice belonged to her boss, Ethan Lamb. "On the way," she told him. "Ethan, I really don't think…" He cut her off. "We've been over it before, Gallagher. Leave the talking to me." Jodie frowned. That sort of condescension is what made her think it was time to end her tenure at Bradshaw International. She did want something more. She thought she could get it here. At one time, Ethan had been the perfect mentor, showing her the ropes and guiding her along. But lately, he‘d been short-tempered. She suspected something had happened to him in the past six months. He'd definitely changed — and for the worst. She wasn't at all comfortable with the presentation Ethan was about to make in this meeting. His conclusions weren't valid. And in addition to patronizing her, he'd pooh-poohed her objections and concerns.
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If this were her company, she'd do things differently. Vowing to send out a round of résumé packets before the week ended, Jodie took her seat in the boardroom at Bradshaw International. All of the VPs sat at the large oval table, while the junior execs occupied swivel chairs ringing what Jodie had come to think of as the Grown-Ups' Table. She wanted to sit at the GrownUps' Table. She had a stake in this company, a stake that she'd claimed the moment she'd accepted the offer to be a marketing assistant. A quick learner with plenty of ambition, she'd moved up the ranks in the department. Three promotions later, she'd found herself hitting a ceiling — one that had little to do with glass or gender but marital status. No one specifically said anything, but the message was nonetheless clear. Jodie bit back a sigh. Before she found a husband, she needed to find a date. A millisecond later Mark Bradshaw strode into the room. Jodie's tummy did that odd little flip she'd come to recognize whenever she saw him. C. B. Bradshaw, commonly called The Old Man by just about everyone, may have been chairman of the board, but the operational reins were fully in the hands of his utterly gorgeous grandson. Tall, with a slightly rakish appearance, as if he'd just flown in from Monte Carlo or Rio or the south of France, Mark Bradshaw turned heads everywhere he went. Including in his own boardroom. His blond hair always seemed a little too long, but without a doubt he was the most eligible bachelor within a one hundred-mile radius of Portland, Oregon. At just over thirty, Mark was everything Jodie wanted in a man — even though at six foot four, he was too tall for her tastes, and way too rich. Forget that whole business about not being too rich or too thin. Just thinking about all those zeroes in the kind of money the Bradshaw family commanded made her dizzy. Jodie wanted to be comfortable, not burdened. And at five foot six in heels, she didn't want to have to strain her neck to see her guy. In Mark Bradshaw's case, though, she could make an exception — on both points. Jodie, like all the others, watched him take command of the room. "What a man," her friend Nikki said in a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned over toward Jodie. Jodie agreed with a nod but kept her expression neutral. Boy, did he ever fit her image of the ideal man. Too bad he didn't even know she existed. *** All talking came to a halt the instant he walked into the boardroom. Mark Bradshaw heard the whispers behind his back. They'd never bothered him. Not until now — when he saw her doing it as well. For a moment, he wondered about her loyalty. He'd well vetted all of the key players in the company. Had he missed something important about her? More important than that — was the announcement he planned to drop on them all today the right move at the right time? His course already set, Mark gritted his teeth. Belatedly he remembered he was trying not to do that anymore. "Good morning," he said, his tone as terse as his mood.
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He strode to the seat of power, one he'd always felt uncomfortable filling. But with Gramps remaining in one of his stubborn moods, there was little help for it. Somebody had to run the company. "Let's get…" he almost said, Let's get this over with, but caught himself at the last moment "…the day's business on the table." He nodded for the vice president of production to begin his presentation. The meeting droned on for the better part of an hour. Thinking he might collapse from boredom, Mark swiveled his chair a bit to see Jodie Gallagher better. The only thing that kept him focused was her. When the marketing vice president got up to highlight a series of charts on a multimedia presentation, she glanced over at him. Mark smiled at her. Instead of smiling back — like any other woman might — her eyes widened and she blinked several times before darting her gaze back to Ethan Lamb. Mark sighed. So much for that. He put his attention back on the report being given. The more he listened, though, the more his brow furrowed. He glanced over at Jodie Gallagher, who sat perched on the edge of her seat, biting her lower lip, worrying at the cap of her pen. He frowned, looked back at the screen that dropped from the ceiling for just this sort of meeting. He didn't want the CEO mantle, but he knew how to wear it and he knew when someone was trying to pull something over on him. "I have a question." All eyes shifted to Mark. He noted that a couple of people looked as if he'd disturbed their naps. No wonder Bradshaw International's growth had stagnated. Not only was he bored, so, too, were the people who were supposed to be jazzed about what they did. Mark suspected that many, if not most, of the folks sitting at the oval table were there merely collecting a paycheck and executive bonuses, marking time until retirement or a better offer with a competitor came along. The marketing vice president, not used to being interrupted, stammered, lost his place, coughed and then blinked. "Yes, sir?" "I'd like to know what Miss Gallagher thinks." Jodie's eyes widened. She clutched her portfolio pad, dropping her pen. "Excuse me?" From his position at the oval table, Ethan glared at her. Assistants, they all knew, were to be seen, not heard, in these monthly meetings. Such was the business culture of the company. Mark rose, picked up the fountain pen and handed it to her. For a moment, their hands touched. He heard the quick intake of breath she tried to mask. "I'm going to do something a little different today." "But I'm not finished," Ethan said. The quelling look Mark sent his way all but said, You are if you don't sit down. Ethan sat. Nervous glances were exchanged all around.
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"VPs to the outer ring," Mark said. "I want all of the assistants right here." He returned to his seat, tapped the cherry table for emphasis. "Quickly, people. We've already been in here too long." "But Mark, Mr. Bradshaw…" Mark held up a hand. "That includes you, too, Stanley," he told the sales division chief, who‘d been with the company longer than Mark had been alive. "Time is money, people. Let's move." With unsure glances cast in every direction, the nine assistants, one to each vice president, exchanged places with their bosses. After everyone was settled, Mark smiled. He took his seat, leaned back in it. "Now, Miss Gallagher, you've been working here for what, two years now?" She nodded. "Yes, sir." "And you've listened to all of these reports, right? You know how we've fared in the marketplace." "Y-yes." It was clear Jodie had no idea where he was going, and that was just fine with Mark. He wanted to see how she operated under pressure. "Tell me, Jodie," Mark said. She lifted a brow at the use of the first name. The boardroom was as formal as it got. Another one of the company's problems. "What would you like me to tell you, Mr. Bradshaw?" He pointed toward the screen that still bore the last image from Ethan‘s presentation. "Why don't you point out all the flaws in your boss's report."
Chapter Two Suddenly, the prospect of not having a date for the gala didn't loom quite so ominous for Jodie. She wouldn't need an escort because if she truthfully answered Mark's question about her supervisor's report, she wouldn't have a job. Ethan, said boss, would fire her on the spot. If she lied, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. Jodie opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, then glanced down at her notepad. "The report was prepared with the best figures available to our division." Not only pretty, Mark thought, diplomatic as well. He could admire that in a woman. He straightened, folded his arms across his chest and met the gazes of each of the vice presidents now shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. "Folks," he started. "I've been at the helm of Bradshaw International for almost a year. I've spent that time assessing our strengths and our weaknesses. The conclusion hasn't been comforting since I've found a lot of the latter and not nearly enough of the former." Jodie figured she'd have to get her résumé together sooner rather than later. If she had a company, she sure wouldn't run it the way Mark Bradshaw ran his — like a dictator state.
***
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Hitting his stride now, Mark paced the area behind his chair, pausing every now and then to meet the unswerving and worried gaze of one of his direct reports. For their part, some of the assistants sitting at the table looked intrigued, while the others, like their bosses, had that panicked deer-in-the-headlights expression that didn't bode well for the long term. Jodie Gallagher looked the proverbial cool, calm and collected. Her dark hair gleamed and her gaze followed him as he moved. "When my grandfather started this company he did it with a vision, a plan that was before his time," Mark said. "Lots of people called him crazy. No one, not even the two reluctant investors he scrounged up to assist him financially, believed that what he wanted to do could ever be successful." He walked to the large window and looked out at the courtyard. In chilly February, no flowers bloomed there. But in a few months, a fountain spraying water would enhance the riot of color surrounding the garden statuary. "It's a new day," Mark said as much to himself as to the people in the room. Facing his directors, Mark launched what had been in his heart for a while now. "Starting now, there's a new game in town." "What, exactly, is this new game?" one of the vice presidents ventured. The words were on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to fire every one of them. Their has-been ideas and stale approaches had nearly run the company into the ground. The future, Mark knew, lay with a management team willing to go to the edge and beyond. And it wasn't about age, but vision. Stanley Grace, who'd been with Bradshaw International for nearly four decades, was a prime example. Stanley had one of the sharpest and creative minds in the industry. He kept his division on the cutting edge, consistently showing strong results despite divisions like Ethan Lamb's. What would someone like Stanley do with the right support from all around? It was time to see who was up to a new challenge. "It's a new way of doing business." Mark opened his portfolio and pulled out a sheaf of clipped papers. He'd given this a lot of thought. "I've created six teams. Each team has two weeks to create a new approach toward increasing not only our market share, but changing the way we do business." "This is highly irregular," Ethan said. "My division has been…" "As of today," Mark said, "all divisions and departments are up for review. I'm going to reorganize the company. And I want to name as my new personal assistant in that endeavor Jodie Gallagher."
*** Jodie's mouth dropped open. Nikki nudged her and mouthed, "You go, girl." With two bombshells dropped on her in less than thirty minutes, Jodie wasn't so sure getting up and dressed this morning had been a good idea. In a matter of moments she'd gone from having her job on the line to being offered the job of a lifetime. Sort of. Working closely with the CEO of Bradshaw International was the type of career boost junior execs dreamed of. The best part about being Ethan's deputy was that she got to see Mark Bradshaw in these meetings. She had ideas about how to make Bradshaw International better, some of which she'd broached with Ethan — to no avail.
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Working closely with Mark Bradshaw ranked way up there in the Bad Idea department. Make that the Really Bad Idea department. How could she work for someone she'd had a crush on from the moment she'd seen him? She'd wanted to advance in the company. But this? She practically fell to pieces when he looked at her. How was she going to do her best work if she worked for him? Better that she stay right where she was. Mark met her stunned gaze, then winked as he started distributing the sheets with the new team assignments. "When you say change the way we do business, what do you mean?" someone asked. "Just that," Mark said as people started glancing at the sheets. A few gasps sounded when the groupings were noted. Jodie accepted one of the sheets from Nikki and tried to make heads or tails of it. Her mind still reeled from Mark's announcement. "Breathe, girl," Nikki whispered. Jodie glanced at her friend, nodded and took a deep breath. The words on the paper focused and she realized why the team assignments were causing such a stir in the room. He'd deliberately mixed old thinkers with new, combatants with in-house competitors, to see what sort of creative options they might come up with. The muttering, mostly from the outer ring grew louder. "This is highly irregular," she heard someone sputter. "Listen up, folks," Mark said as he shrugged out of his suit jacket. The suit looked as if it had been tailored for him so it fit well. Somehow it didn't fit his personality. He tossed the jacket on the chair behind him and rolled up his sleeves. "Everything, and I mean everything, is up for grabs. Each of you has a flowchart with the current structure of the organization. Change it. Make it fit the twenty-first century. Make it relevant to today's consumers." "If C.B. were still running the company…" Mark's arctic blue eyes zeroed in on the detractor. "My grandfather isn't running the company. I am." "Anyone who wants out," he added as he pulled another sheaf of papers from the portfolio, "can walk right now. I'll offer a month's severance for every year of service. The deal is good for anyone in this room. Takers can pick up one of the packets here with all the forms. Fill them out and have them on my desk by the end of business today. Everyone else, we'll meet here in two weeks to review the plans you've come up with. Then I'll share some of my ideas with you." He looked at the table of assistants and the outer ring of what Jodie suspected were mostly soon-to-beformer VPs. "Any questions?" No one said a word. "Excellent." Mark smiled, but it didn't come across as a particularly friendly or welcoming gesture. "Well, then. This meeting is adjourned." Jodie let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
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He snatched up his jacket and the leather portfolio. "Miss Gallagher, you've had a few minutes to weigh your options and consider my offer. If you want the new job, come with me. We have work to do. If not, you're assigned to team number four." Jodie swallowed hard. She looked at the paper with the team assignments. Ethan was on that team. She cast an unsure glance at him. Was this the answer to her prayers? To find herself with her back against a wall, forced in a split second to make a decision that could affect the rest of her career? Lord, tell me what to do. "Miss Gallagher?" In just that moment, Jodie realized that she had to choose. Go forward or go back. Uncertain terrain lay in either direction. This, she thought, must be what Moses and the Israelites faced: the Red Sea and certain death in front of them, Pharaoh's army behind. Stuck in the middle, just like those ancient people, Jodie sent up a fervent prayer for assistance. But the entreaties of her earlier prayers echoed in her head. Lord, I need a change at work. Lord, I wish he'd just notice me. At home and at church she'd prayed for a new opportunity to be relevant. And, she had to admit, she'd prayed that Mark Gallagher might notice her. Now that he had, she wasn't at all sure she wanted that particular prayer answered. At least not this way. In the beginning, Ethan had been good to her. He'd taken her under his wing, taught her everything he knew. She owed him loyalty for that if nothing else. She couldn't just walk away, turn her back on the mentor who'd given her the chance to succeed when few others gave someone her age the chance to do so. At the door, Mark waited. "Choose, Miss Gallagher." She looked at Ethan and then at Mark. "I'm sorry," she said, meaning it, hoping he understood.
Chapter Three The room fell silent. All eyes were on Jodie as they waited for her answer. She knew they all thought she was trying to make up her mind about being Mark Bradshaw‘s special assistant. In truth, Jodie stood there caught between the promise and the provision of God. She knew what the Lord had promised for her life. She just wasn't sure if this was His way of getting her to that provision. On the face of it, it seemed like a sharp detour. But it felt right, so right. Was that because she had a thing for Mark or because it was the right move? She'd seen the way he looked at her sometimes when he thought she wasn't paying attention. And what was that wink all about? Was she walking into a new professional opportunity or a work situation that might quickly become entangled in drama? There was only one way to find out. Though she felt like she was taking a step off a precipice, Jodie picked up her notepad and copy of the new team assignments. She stepped away from the table and walked toward Mark and an uncertain future. "I'll take the job." "Excellent," Mark said with a smile. He held the door open for her.
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As they walked out — together — Jodie's heart pounded triple time. But it also soared. Behind them, a cacophony of voices erupted in the boardroom. *** "You all right?" Mark asked her a little while later. "To be honest, I'm not sure. I walked out on a boss who has, for the most part, been good to me." "It's the ‘for the most part' part that I'm worried about." Jodie turned from the view of the valley. Mark's office was on the top floor of Bradshaw International's building. Though large, the building didn't overwhelm its surroundings. The office wasn't what she'd expected either. Instead of being all contemporary chrome with the look of an interior decorator on a hightech binge, its comfortable sofas, lush green plants and paintings of both musicians and church choirs made his suite look like a well-appointed family room. "This isn't what I imagined your office would look like." He chuckled. "The stereotype version is next door. I use it for meetings. This is where I get work done." "Wayside, Oregon is an unlikely headquarters for a company like this." Mark grinned. "That's why I wanted you as my assistant." Jodie faced him, curious about just that. But her question and her breath caught at the sight of him. He leaned on his desk, his legs stretched out and crossed, looking for all the world like a model between fashion shoots. He watched her intently. "Wh-what?" "Not many people would have the nerve to tell their new boss that they thought the company's headquarters was the pits." Mortified, Jodie reached a hand out toward him, then dropped it. "That's not what…" "I know." He continued to stare at her. Jodie tried to check for a run in her hose, the edge of her slip peeking from her hem, a hair out of place. Then, consigning herself to the fact that she'd blown this meeting, she flatout asked, "Is something on me out of place?" "No," he said. "You look fine." He cleared his throat, straightened and turned his back to her. "My decision to name you my special assistant didn't happen on a whim. You have an impressive track record here." Not sure what she did to turn the warmth in his voice a bit cool, Jodie pulled on her professional demeanor. "Thank you, sir." He held up a finger. "Mark, please. My grandfather is ‘sir.'" "In the meetings, you make everyone say ‘sir.'" He faced her then, a grin showing off a dimple. Jodie realized working with him was going to be a challenge.
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"That's one of the company culture things I'd like to change. You have some ideas." She didn't mistake his statement for a question. "I do." He invited her to sit in one of his deep leather chairs. "Has the company ever been reorganized?" Jodie asked. Mark nodded. "Once before. In the seventies. The Old Man was bored so he switched everything and everybody around just for kicks." "Is that what you're doing now with the livelihoods and careers of so many people, changing things just for kicks?" Instead of rising to the bait, he smiled and leaned back in his seat. "As a matter of fact, yes."
Chapter Four Mark considered telling Jodie just a portion of the truth. But he was a man of integrity, and integrity in this instance required the whole story of why and how he‘d come to be CEO of Bradshaw International. He'd be hard-pressed to explain why, but Jodie Gallagher's opinion mattered to him. A lot. So much so that he found himself opening up in ways to which few people at Bradshaw International had been privy. "I'm an unlikely CEO," he said. "Running this company is not something I wanted to do." If she was surprised by his candor, she gave no indication of it. "How can you not want all of this?" Jodie asked, waving a hand encompassing the luxurious office suite. "A lot of people work their entire lives and never get to this point." Mark ran a hand through his hair, frustrated that she couldn't seem to understand his point of view. "I didn't take you for a person who focused on the trappings of success." She bristled at that. "I don't. But I can appreciate people who have worked hard to get what they have. A lot of people right here in this company would trade places with you in a heartbeat." "You included?" When she didn't deign to answer, he continued. "I'm not everybody or a lot of people," he told her. "I'm not comfortable in this. This," he said, flicking a hand over an extremely valuable vase on the end table next to her, "is not me." Jodie made to catch the vase, but Mark absently steadied it. "To whom much is given much is required," she said. He whirled around. "Exactly. And I'm wasting some of the other talents I've been given running this company." Jodie shook her head. "So you're going to disrupt a lot of lives just so you're not bored anymore. That's not fair." "You're looking at this from your perspective. From my seat, the view isn't all that terrific."
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He was quiet for a long moment. The silence didn't discomfit Jodie. As a matter of fact, she found herself riveted by their conversation, one she never — not even in her wildest imaginings — thought she'd have with him. He offered her a beverage. When Jodie settled with a glass of fruit juice, Mark went to the window. Though he spoke to her, he faced the view. "The truth is we've been losing money for a while. Not in product sales, which have remained level, but by missing new opportunities for growth. That can be reversed," he said, facing her again. Then, nodding, he conceded her point. "I am bored. But I also have to be a good steward over what's been given to me, entrusted into my care." "You don't want to be like the servant in the Bible who buries his talent. I feel the same way." For a moment, Mark looked surprised. Then a slow smile spread broad on his face. "You speak like a woman of faith." "You say that as if you believe faith and business can't work in hand." "The two can be compatible," he said. "I'm a living witness." Finally finding common ground, they spent the next forty-five minutes talking about what would make Bradshaw International a better company. Mark was explaining what the rest of Jodie's duties would be when the sound of a jazzy melody drifted from his desk. "Whoops." He jumped up. "My alarm." "You have an alarm clock that sounds like a saxophone?" He nodded as he turned it off. "It's custom-made." Jodie saw him glance at his watch. "Is there anything else you wanted to cover?" "Not now," he told her. "Why don't you call it a day?" "It's barely 3:30. I have some things I shouldn't leave undone in the marketing department." He saw her to the door, formally shook her hand and bid her well. "Don't worry about Ethan. If he gives you any trouble, just let me know." Jodie doubted if that would be the case. *** As he thought about what he'd done that day, Mark tried his best to come up with a plausible explanation for his behavior in the meeting and his frankness with Jodie afterward. Try as he might, he couldn't find one. Jodie Gallagher was on the fast track at Bradshaw International. She'd shown this afternoon that she wasn't afraid to speak her mind. And to pull off the organizational plan he had in mind, he needed to tap into the mind-set and creativity of the company's best and brightest. He couldn't be faulted if one of them just happened to have killer legs and a dazzling smile.
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"But that doesn‘t make you an irresponsible letch," he muttered to himself as he snatched up his briefcase. He'd all but made a public declaration for her. The truth of the matter was that he'd been intrigued by her work ethic, her enthusiasm…and, well, yeah, her smile from the moment he'd seen her photo at Mrs. G's house. Eunice Gallagher served as the church secretary at Community Christian Church where Mark had worshiped since returning to Wayside. The Old Man's fake heart attack had brought him home. Looking for a responsible heir from among his grandchildren, C. B. Bradshaw had had his secretary put out a family alert that The Old Man had had a serious heart attack. Two of the grandchildren called expressing concern, the others didn't return the phone call. But the one who came running lickety-split: Mark, the sucker. The others, his cousins, either didn't care or wouldn't disrupt their lives to check on the man who'd made possible their lives of leisure. He told Jodie he'd been bored and that was true. The teams he'd created looked random, but he'd spent a lot of time poring over the staff lists to create matchings. The reorganization and the potential for taking the company to a new level excited him. For now, though, he had an equally important task. Outside the door of his office suite, he looked both directions along the hallway, then dashed to the service elevator — his secret escape route. Admittedly, his job had a few bright moments. Among them, sneaking out of work early — being boss had to count for something — and seeing Jodie Gallagher. "Pretty pathetic, Bradshaw," he said to himself. As the elevator descended to the garage, Mark stripped off his expensive necktie and tucked it in his suit jacket pocket. Next, he loosened the collar of his white dress shirt. By the time he reached his beat-up pickup truck — parked next to a veritable fleet of luxury cars owned by his executives — Mark's appearance had been transformed. Since he was running late, there was little he could do about his slacks. He tugged the tails from his shirt and ran a hand through his hair. Tossing his suit jacket and leather briefcase behind the driver's seat, he traded wing tips for a pair of scuffed running shoes that had seen plenty of better days. The shoes, like the truck, bore his personal stamp of approval. In addition to being both functional and practical, Mark loved the truck because it drove The Old Man crazy. A few minutes later, he pulled into a parking spot behind The Latte Lounge. "Yo, Mark. What took you so long, man? We're burning daylight." "Sorry. Got held up at work." Neville Jackson looked him over. "You don't look like you're the rich and powerful head of a conglomerate." Mark grinned at his longtime friend, he of the braided hair and soul patch. "And you don't look like you have Ph.D.s in urban planning and criminology." "Touché, my brother." "Everybody here?"
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"Waiting on you." Twenty minutes later, with Neville on drums and Mark Bradshaw working his saxophone, The Latte Lounge's house band kicked their rehearsal into high gear.
Chapter Five Jodie understood why Mark Bradshaw worked for the family business. What she didn't understand is why he chose to live in tiny Wayside. The town was charming — in a rural sort of way. She didn't mind commuting forty minutes every morning to get to Wayside, she just couldn't imagine living in such a little place. Except for Aunt Eunice and a few others, all the members of her branch of the family tree had long since departed for greener pastures in Portland, Bend and even Seattle. Eunice Gallagher, one of Jodie's favorite aunts, ministered as the pastor's secretary at Community Christian Church. She'd made a comfortable home in the idyllic small town, and ignored opportunities to head to a bigger place. For some reason, it always seemed to take Jodie longer to get home at the end of the day than it did to get to work in the morning. This time, as she drove through the familiar streets, she slowed down a bit contemplating why that was. She focused on what was there, rather than what wasn't. An ice cream shop, several galleries, an interesting little café. A white gazebo stood empty in a public park. That would be the sort of place to have a picnic in the summer. Maybe while a band played in the gazebo. "Yeah, right," Jodie said as she took the turn off Main Street that would lead her to Aunt Eunice's. "As if you have time for picnics." She blinked, then frowned. Why didn't she have time for picnics? Other people did. Life needed balance. By the time she pulled into her aunt's drive, Jodie came to the realization that she was letting life pass her by. She'd fast-tracked on her career since graduating from college. When was the fun supposed to begin? When would she find time to make time for love? Balance was the secret. Though responsible for a multimillion-dollar company, Mark Bradshaw had learned to strike a balance in his life. A saxophone alarm — not an insistent buzz like her own alarm — reminded him to stop and go do something. She bet he was having fun. "Auntie?" "In the kitchen," Eunice called. "Come on back." Eunice's large country kitchen was a place where many meals had been eaten over the years. Now though, just about every flat surface held cookie sheets. "Whoa!" Eunice said as she tried to balance two trays while shutting the oven door. "I've got it." Jodie handled the oven while Eunice placed the two cookie sheets along the rim of the sink. "It looks like a gingerbread-man factory."
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Laughing, Eunice pulled off the oven mitts. "That it is. I thought I'd whip up a few for the children's Bible study tonight. Then realized the grown-ups like cookies, too." That was just the segue Jodie needed. "At Community Christian?" "Uh-huh," Eunice said as she inspected a cooled tray of the treats. "Do you know Mark Bradshaw?" Eunice beamed. "Know him? I practically raised him. He's grown up to be a fine young man. His work keeps him busy, but not so busy that he doesn't participate in church activities." Already feeling convicted, the comment came across as a mild rebuke. Jodie knew it wasn't meant as such. "You haven't run into him at work after all this time?" "As a matter of fact, I have," Jodie said. "He offered me the promotion of a lifetime today." Eunice clasped her hands together. "Why, Jodie, that's wonderful news." "You think so?" "Jodie, what's wrong?" She shrugged. "I don't know. I just want something more in life. A promotion is great, but..." She shrugged again. "I feel like I'm missing something. Like this is a crossroads for me. A chance to do something great." "Like start Just Right For You, that business you've been talking about for a while now?"
Chapter Six After their practice set, Mark sat with Neville in the coffeehouse. Both men had tall glasses of ice water in front of them. "You're looking awfully glum, Bradshaw. Like you'd rather be playing the blues. What's on your mind?" Mark ran his finger around the rim of the glass, watching the condensation send patterned rivulets the length of the tumbler. "I've met the woman of my dreams." "And this is bad because?" "She works for me." "Hmm. That bites," Neville said. "So fire her." Mark shook his head. "She's good. Very good." Neville studied his friend for a moment. "I see you've managed to cast yourself as martyr again. You must like that role." The observation stung because it was the truth. That didn't mean Mark had to embrace or accept it. "I'm not playing martyr."
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"Hmm," is all Neville said as he studied the menu. When a waitress came over to refill their water glasses and leave a basket of assorted biscotti, he ordered a vegetarian wrap then turned to Mark. "Want something?" Mark shook his head. "Bring him his usual," Neville told the waitress. "Your practice sounded great, but you don't look so hot, Mark. You all right, honey?" the waitress asked. Distracted, Mark nodded. When they sat alone again, Mark contemplated his friend. "I wish I could do this all the time. Music is what I love the most." "You can," Neville said, munching around a piece of chocolate-covered biscotto. "If you really want to, that is. You just like the idea of being the long-suffering heir. The only one who could save the day." Mark gave him a curious look. "What do you mean?" "Do you really think Old Man Bradshaw would turn his beloved company over to just anybody who came knocking on the door? Trust me, he had a backup plan in place if you hadn't done what he'd expected you'd do." Mark chewed on that for a bit. Neville was right — again. He could have ignored the summons from Gramps just like everyone else had. But he'd recognized an opportunity to do something he really wanted to do — make a mark on the business world. All he'd been doing in the months since taking over at Bradshaw International was marking time. Now, with the reorganization underway, he couldn‘t wait to do some really innovative work. Unfortunately, his preoccupation with a certain employee was making things difficult. *** Jodie arrived at work the next day worried things might be awkward with Mark given some of their discussion the day before. But Mark was all business. After a quick rundown of what he wanted done, he dispatched her to individual department meetings. It was after four when he popped his head into Jodie's new office that was adjacent to his much-larger one. "Got a minute?" She reached for a notepad and her fountain pen. "You won't need that," he said. Jodie followed him into his office — the contemporary chrome one — and took a seat where he indicated. "I wanted to talk about yesterday," Mark began. He ran a hand through his hair and Jodie was struck by the fact that Mr. Cool and Calm actually seemed nervous. "I wasn't completely honest with you," he told her. "Regarding?"
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"Regarding my interest in you." Jodie clutched the leather armrests of the chair. Was he about to retract the promotion? "I named you my special assistant because you're very good at what you do," he said. "But there's another reason. One I'm not very proud of." She waited. "I'm attracted to you, Jodie. I have been from the first time I saw you." She opened her mouth to tell him she felt the same way, but he held up a hand stemming her words. "I realize that there are laws…issues that I'm probably violating. I just didn‘t want there to be any awkwardness between us." She'd been worried about the same thing — and for a similar reason. "I know I just offered you the job, but if you'd prefer to work elsewhere, I'll understand. Actually, I‘ve been thinking maybe I should be the one who leaves." "That won't be necessary," she told him. She rose and cautiously approached him. "What would you say if I told you that the feelings you have are reciprocated?"
Chapter Seven Mark clasped Jodie's shoulders and looked her in the eye. "What are you saying?" "Exactly what you think." Mark closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of her hair. "What's something you've always wanted? More than anything and for as long as you can remember?" Jodie swallowed. Looked away. She couldn't tell him that. Even her closest friend — the only person she'd ever told — thought she was weird. Maybe she'd watched too many classic television sitcoms from the 1950s and '60s. Maybe she was just a throwback to an earlier age. Before she'd morphed into career woman extraordinaire, all she'd ever wanted was to be a wife and mom, to make a comfortable home for her family, to watch her children grow. When teasing her, Jodie's friend and coworker Nikki called her June Cleaver. Since none of what she wanted appeared as if it might pop up on the horizon, she'd focused on work all these years. "Yes, I've wanted things I couldn't have," she told Mark. "Couldn't have," he challenged, "or were too afraid to go and get?" That brought her up short. Was she afraid of the very thing she'd wanted, the thing she'd prayed over and over about? "Pray until something happens" went the saying she'd heard during a fellowship at church a while ago.
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Was he — Mark Bradshaw — the something of that prayer? The likelihood that Mark Bradshaw was the right man for her was astounding. As were the implications. Maybe she hadn't heard him correctly. "Could you repeat the question?" "It wasn't necessarily a question, Jodie, but more of a rhetorical point. Sometimes people are afraid to go after what they really want. The fear stalls them before they get out of the starting gate." Jodie wasn't a reckless person. She was a woman of lists and plans and backup plans to the just-in-case plans. But what she said next surprised even her. "Kiss me, Mark." It was his turn to blink. She saw him swallow, then gape at her. He took a step back. She advanced two. "Kiss me, Mark." "Now look, Jodie. This isn't something…" She put a hand on his arm, leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. A moment later, his arms encircled her waist as he deepened the embrace. Before he — or she — got too involved in the moment, Jodie stepped away. Her heart beat wildly and she looked up at him. He seemed as stunned as she felt. "What'd you do that for?" he asked. "To see if I was afraid to go after what I really wanted."
*** All the way home, Jodie castigated herself for her rash behavior. She'd practically thrown herself at the man. There were workplace rules about that sort of thing. But truth be known, she was glad she'd done it. In those few moments when they'd kissed, she realized that all her dreams could come true. She had to be willing to step out on a limb and do something with what had been offered to her. And what had been offered wasn't a new job at Bradshaw International, but the chance — right now — to go after what she wanted most. The doors had been opened. She just had to walk through and claim her blessing. That night, she reviewed the business plan she'd created. A plan she'd been too afraid to implement. "I can do this," she said. After graduating from college, she'd accepted a six-month internship in a small firm in Portland. She'd parlayed that experience into a full-time position. After her stint there, she'd put in two years at another company before moving to Bradshaw International where she'd honed her skills. Now, all she needed to do was trust her instincts and her own truth and apply those skills to what she really and truly wanted to do: start her own business. The reorganization at Bradshaw International was just the push she needed to start out on her own. So why did it feel like just the wrong thing to do?
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*** "I'm quitting," she said the next morning. The warm greeting on Mark's lips fell away. "What do you mean, quitting?" Jodie deposited her bag and her coffee mug on the table. "As in resignation. Adios." From her portfolio she pulled an envelope and handed it to him. "The official letter. I wasn't sure if I should give it to you or to Ethan. Since you're officially the boss of record," she shrugged. Panic shot though Mark. She couldn't leave him now. Not when he'd finally acknowledged that she was the one he'd been searching for. Not before he'd had a chance to tell her how he felt about her. That was it, he realized. "What happened between us last night frightened you." She glanced up and shook her head. "I might be naive about some things, Mark. But I have been kissed before." "Then why are you quitting?" "It's time," she said simply. "Sometimes you just have to take that leap into the unknown and follow the direction of your heart." "And your heart's leading you where?" She smiled, a dazzling smile that nearly knocked Mark to his knees. He groped for the back of a chair, hoping he could make it look natural, not as if he needed the chair's support to keep him standing. "This isn't about you," she told him. "And it isn't about what happened yesterday. I'm resigning for me. There's something I've wanted to do for a while now." "And that is?" "Launch Just Right For You, a marketing firm." He lifted a brow. "You're going to compete with Bradshaw?" Jodie chuckled at his almost imperial tone. "I hardly think a one-woman start-up focusing on small business is going to be any threat to a sixty-year-old company." Contemplating her, he stroked his chin. A sudden glint in his eye gave her pause. "What?" she asked. "Since you've resigned — a resignation I accept," he added, tucking the envelope in his inside jacket pocket, "we don't have that awkward employer–employee thing going on anymore. I'm free to ask you to go out with me."
Chapter Eight
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It was funny the difference a few days could make. At the start of the week, Jodie had been stressing over not having a date for the employee recognition gala. A few short days later, she'd been promoted at the company and then resigned to head up her own enterprise. For now though, thoughts of business plans and price-to-earnings ratios were far from her mind. Resplendent in a white tuxedo, Mark returned from the punch bowl bearing refreshments. It still took Jodie's breath away to realize that they were actually an item. "You know, I was just talking to someone from the finance division over there. He said he was really stressed about coming here tonight because he didn't have a wife or a date who looked like a wife. Isn't that the weirdest thing?" Accepting the small glass from him, Jodie shook her head. "I was stressing over the same thing earlier this week." Mark looked stunned. "Why?" "Because of company policy." "What company policy?" "That the only way to advance is to have a family." Mark's expression grew even more bewildered. "What are you talking about?" "Mark, C. B. Bradshaw made it clear that the only way to advance in his company was to have a spouse and children. That's one of the reasons many people haven't applied for some of the top positions when they've come open. At least that's what I saw in my time at Bradshaw." He rubbed his temple then pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe this. Would you excuse me for a moment?" Jodie watched him disappear in the crowd. A moment later, he stood at the bandstand, a cordless microphone in his hand. "Ladies, gents." It took a minute or two, but the room quieted and all eyes turned toward Mark. "It's just come to my attention that some employees here were under the erroneous assumption that there couldn't be any advancement into management without meeting some sort of marriage rule." Mark saw heads nod and knew that the belief was widespread. "C.B.? Are you here?" "Stop your yelling. I'm old, not deaf," C. B. Bradshaw said as he was assisted up the short staircase. He made his way to where Mark stood and took the microphone from his grandson. "When I started this company a lot of years ago, it was tough getting people to live out here in the country. Wayside wasn't built up like it is today. Everybody wanted to be in Portland, in the city. To encourage folks to stay, the ones who got promoted were family people — folks who'd establish some roots here in town. "You people must have missed the memo when we did away with that foolishness about twenty-five years ago." Chuckles sounded throughout the audience.
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Mark leaned over and spoke into the microphone. "So everybody can just relax, enjoy the party and stop worrying about having to get to the altar to advance." C.B. snatched the mike back and jerked his thumb toward his grandson. "Yeah, look at him. He's running the place and he's single. Hasn't had the decency to offer me a great-grandchild." Mark's gaze met Jodie's. "Hopefully not single for too much longer."
*** After considerable mingling, Mark and Jodie slipped away. "I have an appointment," he told her. "Will you join me?" Admiring his dedication, Jodie said "yes." "Did you mean what you said up there? I mean about us?" she added, in case he wasn't sure just what she referred to. He took her hand in his as he drove. "I always say what I mean." He kissed her hand and Jodie smiled. A few minutes later, she had reservations when he parked in the back of The Latte Lounge. "You have an appointment in a bar?" He nodded. "Remember I told you I had other talents?" "Yes," she answered, drawing out the single word on a hesitant note. "Well, one of them is music. I'm in a band. Well, really a combo. We play here twice a week. Come on," he said, taking her hand. "Our set starts in about ten minutes." As Jodie listened to Mark and his friends play, she was reminded of what Aunt Eunice told her about following her heart. When the band took a break, she pulled out her cell phone and called her aunt. "You know that terrific promotion I was telling you about?" "Indeed. Just this morning, I was bragging about you to Reverend Baines at the Church. Where are you? It sounds like a party." "I'm at the Latte Lounge off Main Street. I didn't take the job, Aunt Eunice. As a matter of fact, I quit. I'm going to start my own business." Instead of expressing dismay, Eunice laughed. "Well, that's even better news." Jodie shook her head. "Did you hear what I said, Aunt Eunice? I quit my job. My well-paying, security blanket." "I've been praying that you might have both the faith and the courage to follow your heart. It looks like you're finally there." Aunt Eunice was right, Jodie thought. She was following her heart in all aspects of her life. When Mark and his friends returned for their next set, Jodie listened to the sweet refrains knowing that no matter what happened next, life would always be a sweet adventure.
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Knight of Passion by Margaret Moore A lady in disguise, a stolen kiss, a vicious suitor… Sir Kynan Morgan shares a passionate kiss with a pretty village wench, only to discover the young woman is a lady, and the promised bride of another man. When Kynan learns the prospective groom is no gentleman, he vows to protect the lady, even if it costs him his life. Lady Rosamond de Beauclaire was content with her betrothal until a Welsh knight taught her the meaning of passion. But she dare not break her word and dishonor her vow. The repercussions could be fatal — for herself, her family and the man with whom she's fast falling in love.
Chapter One Sir Kynan Morgan smiled to himself as he watched the comely wench laughing among the crowd gathered around the bonfire. She was obviously enjoying the antics of the jugglers and tumblers illuminated by the flickering light. The performers had likely come to entertain in the hall of Beauclaire Castle during the celebration of the marriage of Lord Beauclaire's daughter that was due to take place in less than a fortnight, just as Kynan had come to participate in the tournament Lord Beauclaire was hosting as part of the nuptial festivities. Kynan had seen many a pretty lass and lady in his travels from Wales to the king's court, but few caught his eye as this one did. She had fine features and full lips that fairly begged to be kissed. Her curling honeycolored hair hung loose about her slender shoulders, and he could easily discern her shapely form beneath the loose-fitting, simple gown and girdle she wore. But it wasn't just her face and figure that caught his eye. It was the dimples caused by her merry smile, and the look of bright intelligence in her eyes as she laughed and clapped. As a guest of Lord Beauclaire, and a man who prided himself on never taking advantage of his rank, Kynan would content himself with watching her from afar. Nevertheless he was glad he'd decided not to go to the castle as soon as he arrived in Beauclaire, but to stay a night in the village instead. Not that it was a difficult decision. He didn't relish spending any more time among Norman noblemen than he had to. "Hey, Rafe, wouldn't you like to have a go with her, eh?" The sly, drunken whisper caught Kynan's ear and he turned to see three youths — squires by their attire — leering at the pretty wench. "Aye, I would," one answered, and with a low laugh, he started toward her, followed by his friends. Kynan sauntered after them. Too much ale and youthful male vanity could be a dangerous combination. The wench stopped smiling when she saw the young men headed her way. She turned and disappeared into the gap between two wattle and daub buildings, their second stories overhanging the alley. The three drunken squires called out for her to stop as they gave chase. From the growing annoyance in their voices, Kynan realized the wench could be in serious trouble and quickened his pace, pulling his sword from its scabbard in one smooth, well-practiced motion as he ran. He rounded the corner and saw, in the bright light of the full moon, the young woman backed against the wall of a thatched hut, the three squires facing her in a half circle.
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"I don't call that very friendly," the one named Rafe — tall, thin and pockmarked — declared. "We're guests of his lordship and you ought to be more sociable." "We aren't going to hurt you," a second squire slurred, swaying on his stocky legs. "All we want's a kiss." "We'll give you a drink if you kiss us," the third one said with a besotted grin. "I don't want a drink from the likes of you," the wench retorted, her accent, like her dress, that of a peasant. As she spoke, her whole body tensed as if ready to spring at them and defend herself. No tame, timid lass this, Kynan thought with approval as he drew near. "Didn't you hear her, boys?" he announced behind them. "She doesn't want a drink from the likes of you, and I can't say I blame her. I can smell you from here." The young men whirled around. They took one look at Kynan's broad-shouldered, powerful warrior's body and the sword held loosely in his experienced hands, then tripped and stumbled and fell over themselves in their haste to flee. When they were gone, Kynan looked at the young woman and gave her a smile as he sheathed his sword. "I don't think they'll be bothering you any more tonight." "No, I don't think they will," she agreed. She laughed softly, the sound as merry as her smile, and a reward far finer than many he'd received. "Thank you, sir knight. Maybe they didn't mean any real harm, but I'm grateful for your aid just the same." Warmed by her words, Kynan said, "You're most welcome." "You must be here for the tournament, Sir…?" Even though she'd rightly guessed he was a knight, she spoke with a frankness most unusual, especially from a peasant girl. Usually women either stole shy glances at him and never met his gaze directly, or they regarded him too boldly, with an unmistakable invitation in their eyes, whether they were highborn or low. This young woman did neither. She simply regarded him as she might a friend. As pleasant as that thought was, he realized he wanted to be considered more than a mere friend. "I'm Sir Kynan Morgan." "Come a long ways, too, haven't you? From Wales?" "That's where my home is," he said as he strolled closer. He came to a halt a few feet from where she leaned back against the hut. She ran a measuring gaze over him. Far from finding that impertinent, he wondered if she found him as attractive as he found her. "I haven't seen you at the castle," she noted. "That's because I haven't actually entered it," he admitted. "Being a Welshman, I'm not particularly fond of the company of Norman nobles, although I understand Lord Beauclaire is a fine fellow." His smile grew. "Now that you know something about me, I'd like to know the name of the damsel I've assisted." She immediately stopped looking at him and stared down at her feet. Perhaps she'd suddenly remembered how a peasant was supposed to behave toward a knight, or maybe his admiration had been too obvious and he'd frightened her. "It's Rose and I ought to be going now," she murmured, giving him a shy smile that made him both relieved and happy even as she sidled away.
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"Please allow me to walk with you, in case those drunken louts return." "No, sir, no, I couldn't let you trouble yourself." He deftly intercepted her and bowed as he would to the queen. "It would be my honor to ensure that you reach your home safely, Rose." "No!" Her retort sounded astonishingly like a command. As Kynan regarded her with surprise, she quickly looked down at her feet again. "You see, Sir Kynan," she continued in a deferential tone, "I'm not supposed to be in the village at all. I wasn't to leave the castle and I'll be in trouble with my mistress if she finds out I did." She looked up at him with a pleading expression in her beautiful hazel eyes. "You won't tell anyone about this, will you, sir?" How could he resist that plea? "Don't worry, Rose. Your secret's safe with me." He couldn't help himself. He reached out to stroke her cheek; it was as soft as he'd guessed it would be. "I give my solemn vow as a knight of the realm." "You would give a peasant girl such a promise?" she asked in an incredulous whisper. As her eyes sparkled in the moonlight, it was all he could do not to kiss her. "Aye, I would. You have my solemn vow and pledge that no one will ever know we met here tonight." Then, to his complete and utter shock, she threw her arms around him and kissed him full on the lips. Passion and yearning came hard on the heels of his surprise, and he pulled her closer. She responded with fervor and longing, parting her lips and allowing his tongue to slide into the moist warmth of her mouth. Good God, she was more than merely grateful for his help and surely it wouldn't be taking advantage of her to make love with her when she was so obviously willing — She broke the kiss. Gasping, she put her hand to her lips, turned and ran off into the darkness. "Rose!" he called, running after her. He couldn't find her. He searched the green, the streets, the back alleys, the entire village, but she wasn't there. It was as if she'd vanished into thin air, or he'd dreamed that encounter. And that astonishing kiss.
Chapter Two "Where have you been, and looking like that?" the middle-aged Marion cried, bustling toward her mistress as Rosamond crept quietly into the bedchamber. "Really, now, my lady, aren't you a little old for dressing like a peasant and making merry in the village? And you getting married in a se'ennight, too." "I just wanted a little amusement before I wed," Rose replied as she gave her maidservant a contrite smile. "When I'm the wife of Sir Dominick de Verly and chatelaine of his castle, I won't be able to go out among the villagers and enjoy their simple pleasures anymore. I'll have to act the lady then." "Aye, that's so — thank God," Marion said briskly as she poured water into the bronze ewer on the table near the curtained bed. "No more scampering off to climb trees and catch fish and generally get into mischief."
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As she went to wash, Rose doubted Marion would call that kiss she'd given the darkly handsome, well built and chivalrous Sir Kynan Morgan mischief. A shameful, lustful impulse, she'd say it was, and she'd be right. Rose also knew she should be sorry and ashamed, but she couldn't forget the incredible sensation of Sir Kynan's lips moving over hers, arousing such — "Nobody recognized you?" Marion asked as Rose reached for her ivory comb beside the bronze basin and ewer. "I was careful to keep to the shadows." Marion shook her head. "Maybe I ought to be glad you'll be your husband's responsibility soon. I'm not surprised I don't have a black hair left on my head, the merry chase you've led me all these years." Rose hurried to embrace the woman who'd been a mother to her, her own having died giving her life. "I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused, Marion." "Well, you could have been a lot worse, I suppose," Marion said, wiping away a tear before continuing to tidy up the large and luxuriously appointed chamber. "But that's because you've been lucky. I hate to think what Sir Dominick might say if he saw you dressed in that peasant's gown and wandering about the village in the middle of the night." "It wasn't the middle of the night," Rose protested. As for what her betrothed might think about her visit to the village…it didn't matter, since he hadn't seen her. She was more worried about what Sir Kynan might say or do when he realized the woman he'd rescued from three drunken squires was the daughter of his host, as well as the bride — provided Sir Kynan even recognized her when she was dressed in fine silks and satins. She was sure those foolish squires wouldn't…but Sir Kynan was older, and his intelligence had fairly gleamed in his dark brown eyes. Yet he'd given his solemn oath that he'd keep her secret, and she hoped he wouldn't break his word, even if she hadn't been completely honest with him. As she combed her thick hair, she wondered what Dominick would have done if he'd been in Sir Kynan's place. Of course he'd have been just as chivalrous, she told herself. Dominick was as handsome, too, although he was fair while the younger Welshman was dark. Dominick's voice seemed harsher — but so would most men's, compared to the Welshman's musical lilt. And Sir Kynan's dark hair had been shockingly long, all the way to his shoulders, like some sort of Viking's. His clothes had been plain, too. Yet Sir Kynan Morgan looked at you with more respect and admiration than Dominick ever has. Rose swiftly silenced that critical inner voice. "What did Sir Dominick say when you told him I'd decided to retire early?" she asked, glancing at Marion. Marion grinned, revealing the gap between her front teeth as she put the silk damask gown Rose had worn to the evening meal in the chest lined with cedar and closed the lid. "He was worried you were ill, like the good man he is. I told him you were fine, just tired." She gave Rose a wink. "I'm sure he won't want you exhausted on your wedding night." Rose blushed and said nothing as she tried to get the comb through a knot in her hair. Marion set a stool behind her mistress and took the comb from her. "Sit down, my lady, and let me do that before you pull your hair out by the roots."
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Rose dutifully submitted, folding her hands in her lap. "So what did you see in the village?" Marion asked. "There were jugglers who were very good," Rose replied. "I think they were Italian. There were tumblers, too, and a magician, but I couldn't see him very well. Has my father retired?" "Aye, a while ago, after the minstrel finished a long song about two lovers that got turned into birds." Sir Kynan was probably an excellent singer, Rose reflected. He was Welsh, for one thing, and judging by his voice — "There, that's better," Marion said as she set down the comb beside the ewer. "Now get into a clean shift and into bed." As Rose changed, Marion sighed and said, "I'm so happy to think you'll be wed to such a fine man as Sir Dominick." Rose didn't answer.
*** "Ah, here's my beautiful bride-to-be, and well rested, I trust?" Sir Dominick said jovially as he joined Rose in the chapel for mass the next morning. Although Rose returned her betrothed's smile, she realized she'd never really noticed how thin his lips were, or that fine clothes, bejeweled fingers and a smooth head of pale blond hair could be less impressive than a plain leather jerkin, woolen breeches, scuffed boots and long hair. Without waiting for her answer, Dominick lifted her hand and placed it on his forearm, then covered it with his own. "I wouldn't want you to fall ill, my love." He leaned close. "With only a se'ennight until we're wed." Only a se'ennight. Her beloved white-haired father appeared at the chapel door. When he saw her, he hurried toward them as fast as he could these days. "Ah, Rosamond, my dear. And Dominick." He beamed at them both. "Not long now, eh?" "Every second I must wait to claim my bride seems an eternity," Dominick said, squeezing Rose's hand and sliding her another smile. What woman in her right mind wouldn't be thrilled to hear those words, or have such a man want to marry her? Rose thought, silently chiding herself as she had a thousand times last night while she lay sleepless in her bed. She'd been rightly pleased when Dominick had asked her to be his wife. Surely any little discontent she felt now would disappear once she was wed. Then Sir Kynan Morgan sauntered into the chapel. Her heart seemed to stop beating, even as the rest of her body warmed. He was as plainly attired as before, yet he had no need for costly apparel to stand out among the other young noblemen. His air of calm selfassurance, as if he feared no man because he had absolutely no reason to, set him apart far more than his handsome face and powerful body. He saw her, too, and came to such an abrupt halt, the nobleman following behind nearly walked into him.
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As she quickly looked at her feet, she heard Sir Kynan mutter, "I beg your pardon." Holding her breath, she risked a glance in his direction — and wanted to sink right through the chapel floor or dissipate into the thin air like smoke, because Sir Kynan was walking directly toward her. Judging by his expression, there was no doubt that he recognized her. Now he would discover that the woman who'd so brazenly kissed him was no village wench, but the noble bride whose wedding he'd come to attend.
Chapter Three "Greetings, my lord," Sir Kynan Morgan said to Lord Beauclaire. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I haven't yet had the pleasure of being introduced to this lovely young lady." As her smiling father turned toward her, Rose tried not to blush or otherwise reveal that she'd met the Welsh knight before, and even shared a passionate kiss with him while she was under the guise of a peasant maid. "Sir Kynan Morgan of Wales, may I present my daughter, Lady Rosamond, and her betrothed, Sir Dominick de Verly." "Ah, the happy couple." Sir Kynan's voice betrayed nothing as he reached out and took Rose's hand in his. She stiffened when he bent to press a kiss lightly on the back of it, then snatched it away — but not before he raised his brown eyes and gave her a look that seemed to pierce her very heart and seek a truth she wasn't willing to share. Yet when he straightened, he smiled with cool politeness, as if they had only just met. "Tales of your beauty haven't done you justice, my lady," he said before addressing her betrothed. "My felicitations, Sir Dominick. You are the most fortunate of men." Dominick acknowledged the compliment with a haughty nod. Not pleased herself by his rudeness, Rose also saw a flash of annoyance in the Welshman's eyes, although his expression remained serene. "Lord Beauclaire, I wonder if I might have a word with you," Sir Kynan said. "I have some cause to fear the field for the melee is going to be too muddy at one end." "Oh, yes, yes, of course," her father agreed and together they walked a short distance away to continue their discussion. "As if he's an authority," Dominick sneered. "Your father is an excellent host, my sweet, and I fear some men take advantage of that." Rose regarded her betrothed with a raised brow. "How is Sir Kynan taking advantage of my father?" "By having the effrontery to come here at all. That Welshman's father was nothing but a shepherd before he achieved a knighthood. I don't approve of allowing anyone of such low birth to participate in tournaments and neither should your father. I suggest you have as little to do with Sir Kynan Morgan as possible." Angered by his implied criticism of her father, and the commanding tone of her betrothed's voice, Rose fixed him with a cool stare. "Is that an order, Dominick?" Blind to her displeasure, he gave her a patronizing smile. "Of course not, my sweet. Merely a suggestion." "Good, for you aren't yet my husband, or my master," she said before she swept away to join some other guests standing by the altar.
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*** Two days later, Kynan strolled through the village on his way from the smithy to the castle. His helmet required some minor repairs, and while the armorer at the castle could tend to it, he preferred to take his custom to a man who needed it more. He was also anxious to be out of the castle for a little while. Lady Rosamund's bright, vivacious presence seemed to fairly pervade the place, and that was becoming unbearable. The morning after their kiss, when he'd encountered her in the chapel, he'd wondered what she'd do, only to discover she did…nothing. She didn't ignore him, as he'd half expected she might, but she spoke to him as she would to any other guest. Unsure of what to say or do next, he'd come up with an excuse to get away from her. Unfortunately, he'd never had another opportunity to speak to her, for she'd deftly managed to avoid him ever since. He wanted to know why she'd kissed him. Maybe it was her idea of a jest. If so, he didn't find it amusing in the least. Maybe it was the impulsive act of a woman about to wed — a last taste of freedom. He could understand that, especially when the groom was that haughty, arrogant Dominick. What had prompted a woman like her to accept de Verly? She was polite, kind and generous to all. He'd overheard her telling the garrison commander that he was to ensure that all the paupers had a chance to take some of the food left over from the castle meals, and the castle servants treated her with respect, and often affection. To be sure, de Verly was rich and from a powerful family with lots of influence at court, and not bad looking in a pale, washed out sort of way, but Lady Rosamund seemed far too intelligent to be swayed by looks, and not the least bit greedy or ambitious — A woman's panicked cry rent the silence. Kynan looked around. He was alone in a muddy lane and, to his frustration, couldn't tell where the cry had come from. "Help!" The woman was in the building on his left. Although he was unarmed, Kynan ran to the door of the building and threw it open. Years of training told him to be cautious when he entered a dim room, but his concern for the woman urged him to make haste. He spotted a staircase just as he heard a man's voice bark a harsh epithet, followed by the sound of a blow and a woman's whimper of pain. Taking the stairs two at a time, Kynan crashed into the room at the top of the stairs, to see a half-dressed Sir Dominick strike a frowzy blond woman with a backhanded blow. The woman, clad only in a shift, fell onto the disheveled bed, where she cowered like a trapped and terrified animal. Charging forward, Kynan grabbed Sir Dominick's arm and spun him around. "Stop!" With a sneer, Dominick wrenched himself free from Kynan's grasp. "Leave us, Welshman. This is no concern of yours." Kynan glared at Dominick. "Oh yes, it is. I'm a knight sworn to protect women — all women, as are you. Is this how you honor that oath?"
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Attempting to regain his dignity, Dominick straightened his shoulders. "You have no right to question me or anything I do. You're nothing but the son of a shepherd, while my family has been noble for generations. Now get out of here, Welshman, and leave me to punish this whore as she deserves for trying to rob me." "Nay, I didn't!" the woman cried, scrambling off the bed to kneel at Kynan's feet, her eyes pleading, her hands clasped in supplication. "I swear to God, I didn't. I just asked for my money like he promised." Kynan's lip curled as he addressed Dominick. "You'd cheat a harlot?" "She didn't satisfy me, so why should I pay?" "I done everything I could," the woman said, sniveling. "It's not my fault he couldn't —" She fell silent when she saw Dominick's wrathful expression. Kynan looked at the Norman and raised a questioning brow. "Punishing her for your lack, are you?" Dominick grabbed his tunic from the stool near the bed. "You're going to rue this, Welshman," he snarled as he crossed to the stairs. "Wait until the melee." "It'll be my pleasure to meet you in battle, Sir Dominick, even if it's not a real one," Kynan retorted. "Let's see how well you do against a man." Muttering a particularly disgusting curse, Dominick clambered down the stairs. "Thank you, sir," the harlot said as she got to her feet. "You're a real gentleman, unlike some as claims to be." She adjusted her shift so that her cleavage was more visible. "If you stay, I'll show you just how grateful I can be." Kynan turned to go. "I have other business to attend to." And so he did. He had to warn Lady Rosamond that Dominick was a vicious, cruel man who likely wouldn't hesitate to beat any woman who angered him, including his wife. If he didn't, he would be as guilty of putting her in harm's way as if he raised his own hand against her.
Chapter Four "My lady, may I have a word with you?" Rose started and turned to find Sir Kynan Morgan right behind her, a very serious look on his darkly handsome face. She hadn't been so close to him since the night they'd kissed…and she shouldn't be close to him now, especially in the hall where servants and guests could see them. "Perhaps later, sir knight. I have to finish directing the servants in the preparations for this evening's meal." Instead of acquiescing to her wishes, Sir Kynan glanced at the servants nearby who were setting up the trestle tables. "My lady, what I have to say is very important," he said softly, his deep brown eyes full of sincere concern — and his tone telling her he wouldn't take no for an answer. She crossed her arms and commanded herself to remain calm. "What thing of importance have you to say to me?"
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He slid another glance at the servants, who quickly stopped staring at them to turn their attention — or at least their eyes — to their tasks. "My lady, is there somewhere more secluded where we might speak?" How dare he even suggest…? "It wouldn't be seemly for me to be alone with you." He frowned. "As you wish, my lady. How well do you know your betrothed?" "Well enough, and I fail to see how that's any business of yours." "Because my oath as a knight demands it." She regarded him skeptically. "Your oath as a knight requires you to interrogate brides?" "My oath as knight means I cannot leave a woman in danger." "I'm in no danger." His gaze grew even more serious and intense. "I ask you again, my lady, how well do you know Sir Dominick?" A maidservant nearby dropped the basket of herbs she was sprinkling over the rushes on the floor, startling them both. If she wanted to know why Sir Kynan thought she was in danger from Dominick — and she did — perhaps they should continue this conversation in private. "Of course you may see my father's armor," she said, raising her voice so that she was easily heard. "It's in his solar." Sir Kynan's eyes gleamed with understanding. "Thank you, my lady." "If you'll follow me, Sir Kynan," she said as she led the way. "The helmet alone took six months to make." To her relief, a swift glance confirmed that the servants were paying more attention to their work than their mistress and her guest. She opened the door to the solar, a finely appointed room with silken cushions on the seats of the ornately carved and high-backed chair. There was even a carpet on the floor. Yet when they entered, they might as well have been in a barren cell for all the attention the Welshman paid to his surroundings. He didn't so much as glance at the fine suit of costly armor on its stand behind the wide table. Instead, he kept his gaze on Rose as he closed the door and came toward her. Disturbed by the intensity of his expression, and the knowledge that no one else was with them, she backed away. "If this was just a trick to get me alone — " she warned, ready to call for help if she must. "It's no trick," he said as he halted. "And if there's anyone in this chamber who should fear for their virtue, it's me. You kissed me that night in the village, my lady." "That was a mistake." His lips jerked up in a little smile. "I found it quite delightful." "I've been regretting it ever since." "I've been regretting that you didn't tell me who you were. I might have been better able to resist your charms. However, we needn't speak of that. It's Dominick I want to talk about. You must not marry him."
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Trying to ignore Sir Kynan's proximity — and its effect on her heartbeat — Rose regarded him warily. "Why not?" "Because he's a mean and vicious man who'll probably beat you. At the very least he'll make your life a misery." "Dominick has never been anything but a perfect gentleman when he's with me." Sir Kynan slowly crossed his arms. "Perhaps because he hasn't married you yet. Once you wed, I fear that will change. I stopped him from beating a woman today — very badly." Her throat dried. "What woman?" "Does it matter? Once you're married, you'll be his chattel, to do with as he will, and if he'll strike a woman as I saw him hit one today, I doubt he'll hesitate to beat his wife. Have you ever seen him when he's angry or been denied something he wants? What do you think Dominick will do if you ever upset or contradict him?" The Welshman took a deep, shuddering breath, yet when he spoke his voice was steady. "I can't bear to think of you wed to such a brute." Although she was deeply affected by Kynan's words, Rose fought the dread rising within her. Why should this man, this stranger, care about her fate? Maybe her impetuous kiss had caused him to think she was immoral, and so easily seduced, especially if he cast aspersions on her betrothed. "If you think lying about Dominick is going to get you into my bed --" "God, no!" Kynan retorted. He ran his hand through his long hair. "If I wanted to seduce you, my lady, I wouldn't criticize your betrothed. I'd praise your beauty and your spirit. I'd tell you how I admire the way you treat your guests and your aged father, who is obviously not well." His attitude softened and his tone gentled. "I would tell you that thinking about you robs me of sleep and the memory of the kiss we shared haunts my dreams." He came closer, and she was powerless to move, trapped — yet welcomely, warmly so — by his dark-eyed gaze. His voice fell to a low murmur that set her heart aglow. "I would tell you that I fell in love with you as I watched you by the bonfire in the village." She should tell him to go. To leave her alone. Aye, and to quit Beauclaire Castle, too, taking with him his disturbing words and soft lips and deep voice and seductive eyes that seemed to promise more than his words. She shouldn't be craving his embrace and his kiss, or struggling to resist the urge to press her body against his. "If you hadn't run from me that night," he whispered, reaching out and taking her hands in his firm, yet gentle, grasp, "I would have been sorely tempted to do all I could to persuade you to come to my bed and ensure that you weren't sorry if you had." His touch made her resolve waver, then disappear. She made no resistance as he pulled her into his embrace. Or when he kissed her not with fervent passion like the first time, but tenderly, like the gentle lover she'd always craved. Yet even so, she sensed, beneath the gentleness, that same powerful passion waiting to be unleashed and knew, without doubt, that he would keep it caged and controlled until she gave the word. He would never try to hurt her or take more than she was willing to offer. Which was…? Nothing. She was promised to another, and she couldn't dishonor herself and her family by giving into temptation. She broke the kiss. "This is wrong." The hurt, yet hopeful, look in his eyes tortured her. "You're right. Forgive me. But please, don't ignore what I've said because I find myself helpless to resist the desire I feel for you. Heed my words, and for your own safety and happiness, break the betrothal."
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Agitated by what she'd heard about Dominick, believing Kynan spoke out of genuine concern for her, she paced like a trapped animal. "If I break the betrothal now, what do you think Dominick will do? If he's the kind of man you say he is, he won't willingly accept my change of heart." She halted and regarded Kynan with a hopeful yearning she didn't truly feel. "Perhaps he's not so terrible as you fear. Maybe, once we're married, I can soften his nature." Sir Kynan's expression showed all too clearly how likely he believed that to be. The door to the solar crashed open. And a furiously angry Dominick strode into the room.
Chapter Five "God's blood, what's going on here?" Dominick demanded. He sneered at Kynan, then eyed Rose. "Why are you here with this Welshman — alone?" "Lady Rosamund was kind enough to allow me to see her father's armor," Kynan calmly replied, while Rose's pride and anger rose like the flare of a kindled torch in the darkness. "What are you implying, Dominick?" she asked coldly. Her betrothed's eyes narrowed and his gaze darted between them. "You must admit, Rosamund, my sweet, that it's unseemly for you to be alone with a man other than a relative." Kynan stepped forward. "Have you so little faith in your betrothed's honor? Or are you no better than an old gossip, seeking fault where there be none?" As Dominick's hand went to the hilt of the jeweled dagger in his belt, Rose stepped between them. "Sir Kynan, would you leave us, please?" she asked, not addressing him directly, but looking steadily at Dominick. "My lady, I don't think — " "I do," she interrupted, still keeping her eyes on her betrothed, who stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. Perhaps, in a way, he hadn't. "I wish to speak to Dominick alone, so please have the goodness to go." Kynan reluctantly bowed, then headed for the door. "Leave the door open, Sir Kynan, if you please," she said. "I may require your assistance." "I'll be within call, my lady," the Welshman grimly replied before he walked out of the room. Knowing he would be close by strengthened Rose's resolve. "Is it true you struck a woman today, Dominick?" A momentary look of guilt flashed across her betrothed's face before his brows lowered and his face flushed. "That's a lie." He crossed the room toward her and took hold of her shoulders, his grip painful. "That Welshman's been filling your head with falsehoods because he wants to bed you. He's been watching you like a starving dog eyeing a haunch of venison." Rose wrenched herself free of Dominick's grasp. "You have no right to hurt me." Dominick's expression changed, grew conciliatory. He smiled and spread his hands. "Rosamund, my dearest love, forgive me for losing my temper. I was overcome by jealousy and I don't trust that Welshman."
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She was not the least bit mollified. "Don't you trust me?" "Of course! And I love you with all my heart." What a base liar! She could see cold calculation in his eyes, not love or affection or concern. He didn't love her any more than he trusted her. Sir Kynan cared more for her than he did. "Although the betrothal agreement has already been signed, I've changed my mind," she declared. "I'm not going to marry you, Dominick." Anger appeared in Dominick's blue eyes. He crossed the floor between them and glared down at her, his hands balling into fists at his side — but he didn't touch her. "Oh, yes, you will," he snarled. "If you don't marry me, I'll do everything in my power to see your family humbled, ruined and destroyed. I'll denounce your father as a traitor and have him imprisoned and executed. You know I can do that, my sweet Rosamond. I've got power and influence enough that other nobles, including the king, will believe whatever I choose to say. "And as for touching you — " He tugged her into his arms and forced his unwelcome, wet kiss upon her. She struggled to escape, to no avail. He was too strong. When he finally let go of her, he laughed with malicious pleasure. "Fight me if you like, Rosamund. I don't mind. Indeed, it brings a certain — how shall I put it? — spice, to our embrace. But one way or another, my sweet, we'll be married, and you'll come to my bed. Whether you enjoy yourself there will be up to you. Willing or not, I know I shall." Then he cast her aside and left her.
*** Dread and anguish gnawed at Kynan as he prepared for bed in the small chamber he'd been assigned in the castle. After the confrontation with Dominick in the solar, he'd waited with bated breath for Rose to tell him that there would be no wedding. Instead, Dominick had sauntered into the hall as if he already ruled it while Rosamund, coming after him, had swept past Kynan as if he didn't exist. Yet he was sure she'd believed him, that she knew exactly the sort of man to whom she was betrothed. How could she possibly marry Dominick now? What hold did he have over her? Or had he been wrong about her all along? Perhaps she was just as greedy and ambitious as Sir Dominick. In the flickering light of a rush dipped in wax, he yanked off his woolen tunic as if it had personally offended him and threw it onto the plain wooden chest holding his chainmail. He should leave this place. He didn't have to stay for the melee. He wasn't as rich as Dominick, but he was hardly poor. Yes, he should go — but where? Home to stay awhile with his parents? Or visit his older and happily married brother? In either place he'd witness a sincere love and devotion between husband and wife of the sort he'd hoped to find someday. The sort he'd begun to think he could share with Rose, but if she preferred Dominick — The door to his chamber opened and Rose slipped into his chamber, closing the door behind her.
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Kynan couldn't believe his eyes — or her boldness. This was far more dangerous to her reputation than being alone in the solar with him. "What do you want?" he demanded as he reached for his shirt. "To be with you," she answered quietly as she walked toward him. Suspicious, uncertain, he warded her off with an outstretched hand. "I don't know why you've come here, my lady, but — " "I told you, I want to be with you. I want to make love with you." He stared, dumbfounded, as she pushed his hand aside. She placed her warm palms on his naked chest and slowly moved them upward as she raised her lovely eyes to look at him. In their depths, he saw a longing, a need, that made his heart soar and his pulse race. "I've come to share your bed, Kynan. Please, let me stay the night."
Chapter Six "I may yet marry Dominick, but until I do, my body is mine to do with as I please," Rose whispered, "and I please to share it with you. Take me to your bed, Kynan. Accept what I offer with no remorse or regrets, for whatever happens, I shall have none." Sir Kynan Morgan was an honorable man, and he couldn't be sure of Rose's reasons for coming to him this way, but when she looked up at him and asked him to love her, it took every ounce of his inner strength not to take her in his arms without question or hesitation. "Rose, I don't — " "Love me, Kynan, please," she pleaded as she drew his head lower for a kiss. The moment their lips touched, Kynan's inner battle was lost. Fierce, fiery passion ignited within him, and he pulled her close, capturing her mouth with his. She responded that same fervent passion. She wanted this man to be her lover, for this one night. If she had to marry Dominick, she would have this one time for her pleasure and she would reward the man who had opened her eyes to the true nature of her betrothed. With no regret. How glorious his skin felt against her palms! As she stroked and caressed him, she could feel his powerful muscles shifting and moving beneath her fingertips. His hands were moving, too, gliding over her silken gown, skimming her body like the whisper of a breeze on a hot summer's day. Her knees softened as he continued the sensual onslaught of touch and kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth and awakening a whole host of new sensations. He cupped her breast, and his thumb brushed against her pebbled nipple straining against the fabric, driving her nearly to the brink of ecstasy with only that. But she was sure there was more. Much more. Stepping back, she kept her gaze on Kynan's desire-darkened eyes as she undid the knot in the lacing of her gown. He stood motionless while she pulled the laces loose. Watching him, she wiggled free of her gown until she stood before him clad only in her thin, almost transparent silk shift. With a low growl of desire, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to his bed, setting her upon it as if she were a delicate flower.
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She wasn't a delicate flower. She was a woman filled with burning, tempestuous need, and when he lay beside her, she threw her leg over him and thrust her hips against him. She could feel his arousal, hard and ready, and that enflamed her more. Her kisses grew more heated, and so did his while his hand slid up her leg until her shift was bunched about her hips. With anxious urgency, her fingers worked quickly to untie the drawstring of his breeches, so he could be free. He continued to move his hand upward over her hip and waist, then gently kneaded her breast, making her squirm with delicious anticipation. She reached down, instinctively seeking him, and inched closer to meet him. He rolled so that she was beneath him. His hands splayed beside her, he raised his head and paused to ask, "Are you certain of this, Rose?" "Without doubt. Without question," she whispered as she grabbed his hips and pressed him closer. His shaft was against her now. One thrust, and he would be inside. She raised her hips. "Take me, Kynan. Please." With another low growl, he closed his eyes and did. There was a moment's pain, a confirmation that she was no longer a virgin, but she swiftly pulled him down to kiss, that pleasure easing her distress. He thrust again. He was fully inside her, loving her with his powerful warrior's body. They were united now, as she and Dominick would never, ever be, even if she became his wife. She banished Dominick from her thoughts. Only Kynan mattered here. She would think and kiss and touch and caress only Kynan like this. Only he would ever have her heart. Aroused, loving him with more than merely her body, she bent her knees and found purchase on the bed to meet him, thrust for thrust. How she reveled in the strength of him! How free he made her feel, wild and untamed, like a creature of Eden before the fall of man. He bent to pleasure her breasts, licking and kissing, finally sucking her nipple into his mouth to tease it with his tongue. She wrapped her legs about him, pulling him closer, holding him tighter, as the tension built and built. Toward what end she didn't know, until a primitive growl rose from his throat and he pushed harder, more powerfully. He was larger than before, stronger. The tension reached its peak, until her whole body stiffened and even her toes curled. Then it snapped and she cried out with the glorious release, the sound filling the stonewalled chamber. Throbbing, bucking, she grabbed his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin. When the incredible feeling subsided, she nestled against him, wanting to savor these moments as best she could, knowing they might never be together like this again. "I've never felt anything like that in my life," she admitted in a whisper. "Neither have I." She looked at him with disbelief. "Surely a man like you isn't a virgin." "No, but there's making love to sate your lust and then there's making love with you." He kissed her sweatslicked forehead, and now she saw sorrow in his eyes. "God forgive me, I should have been stronger."
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"If you had been any stronger, you probably would have killed me," she replied, trying to ease his remorse. "I have no regrets, Kynan. I'll never be sorry that I came to you tonight." "I'll be sorry for the rest of my life — sorry that I didn't meet you before you were betrothed," Kynan replied, holding her close. "Oh, my lady, how I would have wooed and tried to win you then!" The thought of betraying Dominick hadn't troubled her; the notion that she had to marry for her father's safety she could cope with, but when she heard that, and considered what might have been had Kynan ridden through the gates of Beauclaire Castle six months ago, the tears filled her eyes. She got out of the bed and reached for her discarded gown. She couldn't stay here any longer, or she'd never find the strength to leave. "I must go," she said, not risking even a glance at Kynan, lest she be tempted to remain. "You should rest. You shouldn't be tired for the melee in the morning." "You're right," he agreed as he raised himself on his elbow to watch her dress. "I want to win." And so he did. He wanted more than anything to defeat Dominick and be able to demand a ransom from the arrogant Norman. But it wouldn't be a payment of gold or silver or jewels, or horses, armor or weapons he'd be seeking. He would win Lady Rosamond of Beauclaire her freedom. Or die trying.
Chapter Seven As Sir Kynan Morgan sat on his prancing mount, Nestor, awaiting the start of the melee, he raised his visor and looked toward the battlements of Beauclaire Castle, where the ladies and men too old to fight were watching. Some noblemen believed a mock battle was too violent for ladies to see. Kynan could understand that sentiment, for although the ends of the lances were blunted with coronels to diffuse the impact of a blow, and the swords likewise blunted, serious injury and death could, and did, occur during a melee. Apparently Lord Beauclaire didn't share those reservations, however, for Rose was among the spectators. She wore a white gown with a gilded leather girdle about her slender hips and her hair gleamed like molten gold in the morning sun. Determined to free her from her betrothal by defeating Sir Dominick de Verly, Kynan lowered his visor and eyed the mounted knights lined up across the meadow, their helmets and chainmail glinting. Dominick was easy to spot in his costly armor, and Kynan was sure the Norman was marking his position, too. Hatred for the vicious lout fairly seethed within Kynan, generating a far different heat from that he'd felt with Rose last night when he held her in his arms and made love with her. But he felt much more than lust when he was with Rose. He cared for her and wanted her to be happy, always. He respected and admired her. Norman or not, he thought her the most wonderful woman he'd ever met, and if what he felt for her was not love, he had no name to give it. Mounted on a snow white horse with accouterments of bright scarlet and gold, Lord Beauclaire rode into the center of the field, accompanied by two men carrying bronze horns.
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"The tent for the wounded is inside the main gate," Lord Beauclaire called out, his thin voice wavering. "I pray God we don't need it and that there are no deaths among you. When the horns sound once, prepare for battle. When they sound again, the melee will begin. Good luck to you all." As Lord Beauclaire left the field, Kynan's grip tightened on his lance. In his head he could hear his former teacher's voice as if Sir Urien Fitzroy was standing right beside him. "Balance, boy, that's the key. That and gripping with your knees." How many times had the old warrior tried to drill those lessons into Kynan's head? Fifty? A hundred? Yet never had he needed to remember them more. From the edge of the field, the horns sounded a harsh blast. The knights lowered their lances in unison, like a forest of trees falling slowly. Another blast of the horns, and Kynan kicked his heels into Nestor's side. As they thundered across the field, Kynan grit his teeth and held tight with his knees, his lance against his body, his shield protecting his left side. Closer they came, and closer still — and then Kynan saw with anger and loathing and disgust that Dominick was using a battle lance. The weapon had a pointed metal tip that, with the speed and weight of a destrier behind it, could run a man through in spite of shield and chainmail as easily as a knife slid through butter. He should have guessed Dominick would cheat. Yet Kynan gave no thought to stopping Nestor. For Rose's sake he was going to defeat the Norman, no matter what despicable measures Dominick used. Leaning to the left away from his opponent, Kynan held his lance at the same height and angle as if he were upright, even though the effort made the muscles of his shoulder and arm ache in protest. When Dominick's lance harmlessly passed his head, Kynan felt the jarring crunch of his lance striking Dominick in the chest. The force of the collision sent the Norman tumbling backward, right over the cantle of his saddle. Keeping his eye on his fallen adversary, Kynan dismounted and, with a slap on his rump, sent Nester from the field. Around him, other knights had fallen or dismounted and many were fighting hand to hand with sword or mace and shield. A few lay motionless, while squires and servants rushed out of the main gate of the castle to carry them to the tent for the wounded. Kynan paid them no heed. Disregarding his own aching muscles, he drew his sword and watched his enemy struggle to his feet. Holding onto his shield for support, Dominick straightened, his drawn sword in his right hand. Kynan doubted it was a blunted one. More likely it could slice through a helmet. "You've lost your chance, Welshman," Dominick declared, the words muffled by his helmet. "The only way you could have beaten me was to strike while I was down." "Being an honorable knight, I'll strike no man while he's down, not even you," Kynan replied. He crouched slightly, sword ready, waiting for Dominick to strike first. That was another lesson Sir Urien had drilled into him. "Patience, boy, till you see a weakness. Don't let him distract you with words. Make him take the first swing. That will be your chance to see what he does wrong." Dominick began to circle Kynan. "What's the matter, Welshman? Not sure what to do? Have you finally realized you're outmatched?"
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He raised his arm and swung his sword in a blow Kynan easily avoided. In doing so, Dominick revealed that he lifted his sword arm too high, exposing his right side. Even a rebated sword could break a rib if it was swung with sufficient force. It didn't need to penetrate the mail to send a man to his knees. "I thought all you Welshman were singers, but you're a mighty pretty dancer, too," Dominick jeered. "Too afraid to meet me blow for blow, is that it?" "Love to hear yourself talk, don't you?" Kynan remarked, awaiting his chance. "That's another reason Rose should be free of you." Dominick struck again. This time, though, Kynan was ready, and as Dominick's sword was at the peak of its arc, Kynan swung his sword with all his might, hitting Dominick below his armpit. The Norman's sword fell to the ground while he, with a grunt, fell to his knees. Kynan put the tip of his own on the Norman's chest, just below his helmet. "Yield, Sir Dominick and pay the ransom I demand." He wondered if the Norman would refuse, but he didn't. "I yield and I will pay," Dominick muttered. He tossed aside his shield and pulled off his helmet, revealing a face as sweaty as Kynan felt his own to be. There was pain and disgust in his cold blue eyes as he glared at Kynan. "How much do you want?" Before he answered, Kynan lifted his visor, the better to breathe, and lowered his sword — a little. "It is your word as a knight I seek, and a promise. I want you to swear to me on your honor, and that of your family, that you'll release Lady Rosamond from your betrothal, and that you'll seek no payment of a penalty from her father for doing so." Dominick's lip curled. "Is it not enough that you've taken her virginity?" Kynan's throat went dry. How could Dominick know that? "You didn't think I'd find out?" Dominick demanded as he got to his feet. "That I haven't set a watch on her? Or will you lie and tell me you — who claim to be so honorable and noble and so much better than I — didn't take her maidenhead last night?" "I will not lie." And Dominick was right, Kynan realized with shame and remorse. He hadn't been honorable. Dominick's eyes gleamed with malicious triumph. "I have every right to challenge you to single combat for dishonoring her." "Yes, you do — so why did you not? Why meet me in the melee?" "Because I would keep my bride's immorality private. It's not her body I want most anyway — although I intend to enjoy it — but her father's wealth and the power that goes with it." "You're already wealthy and powerful." The Norman regarded Kynan with sneering condescension. "That shows how ignorant you are, Welshman. To be safe in this world, a man can never have too much money or power." "To be safe from what, for what?" Kynan returned. "To live in fear? To be hated?" He shook his head. "You have much more than most and you could have had even more. If your fear and greed hadn't made you vicious, selfish and cruel, you might have been able to win Rose's love. But you've lost her instead."
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"Have I?" Dominick charged. "I'll believe that when she says so, and not before. I think you'd better name another ransom, Welshman." "I want nothing else from you." Kynan turned on his heel and reached for Dominick's lance, determined to give Lord Beauclaire the evidence of his potential son-in-law's dishonor. Then he heard the soft jingle of moving chainmail. Instinctively he spun around, swinging his sword. While Dominick's came slashing down.
Chapter Eight Years of practice came to Kynan's aid as he instinctively deflected Dominick's shameful attack. Even angrier and more disgusted, Kynan glared at his enemy. "Have you no honor at all, that you'd strike a man while his back was turned?" "You're such a fool," Dominick sneered as he raised his sword. "Dying for honor and chivalry over Rosamond. There are plenty of women, and if I'm willing to marry her still, you should count your blessings and be gone." "I'm not fighting for honor and chivalry. I'm fighting for Rose's freedom," Kynan answered, preparing to defend himself. "Whatever you're fighting for, you're going to die, Welshman," Dominick cried as he attacked. Kynan twisted away and Dominick's blow missed its target. "Why don't you fight me, Welshman? Are you tired — or afraid?" Dominick jeered. He swung again, but this time, as his sword swished through the air, Kynan dodged out of the way, then lunged and, with all his considerable strength, shoved his sword up and under the Norman's arm. The chain mail gave way as Kynan's blunted sword pierced it, and Dominick's side. With a scream of anguish the Norman fell writhing to the ground. "I can't… I can't breath," Dominick gasped as blood poured from the wound in his side. Still gripping his sword, Kynan kicked Dominick's weapon far from his reach. Pain convulsed Dominick's face. "So now you'll take Rosamund." Kynan shook his head. "Now Rosamund is free." Dominick scowled, then his eyes widened a little as if seeing something shocking. And he moved no more. Letting out his breath in a long slow sigh, Kynan's anger and hate melted away, to be replaced by relief. Now Rose was no longer bound to this man. Then he realized that he was surrounded by several grim-faced Norman knights. He'd just killed a wealthy and powerful Norman nobleman. Perhaps he'd be accused of murder. Mindful of that possibility, he again reached for Dominick's lance, proof that he'd acted in self-defense against a dishonorable foe.
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Before anyone spoke, Lord Beauclaire, pale to the lips, rode up. Two servants carrying a litter came with him. As the nobleman brought his mount to a halt, they quickly and silently lifted Dominick's body and bore him away. "This was not to be to the death," Lord Beauclaire cried with dismay. "Sir Dominick de Verly made it so," Kynan declared, his voice loud enough to be heard across the field. He held up the lethally pointed battle lance. "He cheated, first by using this lance, then by attacking me when my back was turned." "Can this be true?" Lord Beauclaire wondered aloud. "Aye, it is," said another knight, stepping forward. Kynan recognized him as Sir Nicholas, a mighty Norman knight who'd been rewarded with an estate in Scotland. "In spite of that lance, the Welshman defeated de Verly and wanted only a promise in ransom. Sir Dominick refused. Then, after Sir Kynan had turned away, Sir Dominick struck at his back. Sir Kynan had no choice but to defend himself. I'm not pleased to see any man killed in a melee, but there has been no wrongdoing by the Welshman." "It is as Sir Nicholas says," another knight agreed, and several more nodded. Thank God there were some honest Normans here, Kynan thought as some of his anxiety fled. He hoped that Rose would understand that he'd had no choice but to kill if he was to save his life, even if it cost another man his. Lord Beauclaire sighed. "I would never have guessed Dominick could be dishonorable, but it seems he was." The older man shook his head. "Still, it is a terrible thing to see a young man killed in a melee. Any young man. And my poor daughter… " Lord Beauclaire suddenly fixed Kynan with a searching gaze. "What was this promise?" Kynan saw no reason to prevaricate. "That he release your daughter from her betrothal." "Because he wanted to spare me a life of misery," Rose called out from nearby, her voice as clear and steady as the sound of the horns. She came hurrying toward them, her full skirts swinging about her ankles with her purposeful strides. Her bright, vibrant eyes shone with gratitude as her steadfast gaze met Kynan's. Between her freedom and that look, he could ask for no better reward save one — one he didn't dare to seek. Not now, not yet, although in time…. "Rosamond, what are you saying?" her father asked when she reached them. "Was Sir Dominick not a kind and generous man and devoted to you?" "No, he was not," she answered firmly. "He was cruel, deceitful and greedy, and he said that if I tried to break the betrothal, you would suffer." She turned toward Kynan. "If Sir Kynan hadn't come to my aid, if he'd died instead — " She threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. "Rosamond!" her father gasped. "What are you — ?" "He risked his life for me, Father," she said, drawing back and looking at Kynan with eyes full of love. "I owe him more than I can ever repay."
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"No, you don't," Kynan whispered, his love for her filling his heart as he took hold of her hands. "I would have no debts or even the idea of a debt between us. I would have us equals, and I would hope that some day, perhaps…." His gaze wavered and he fell silent, too overcome by his longing to say more. "As I hope," she replied, taking his chin in her hands so that he was looking into her bright hazel eyes. "And I hope you'll stay in Beauclaire for a long time." "If you truly feel that way, my lady," he murmured as he took her in his arms, "I may never leave."
*** Several years later, Sir Urien Fitzroy, still hale and hearty in his fiftieth year, greeted some new pupils — the sons of Sir Kynan Morgan and his beloved wife, Rose.
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Hope in a Handbag by Annie Jones Finola Barrett is a head-in-the-clouds, miracles-still-happen, Christmas-has-not-gotten-too-commercial-ifyou-have-the-spirit-in-your-heart believer. She is also a woman on a mission — to achieve the resolutions she made for herself at New Year's, almost exactly one year ago: Finding Mr. Right, owning a home, starting her own business and lastly…to find the perfect handbag. She thinks she may be able to complete them in time, if only the man who manages her trust fund — her own personal Scrooge — would approve her business proposal. Will she be able to overcome the banker who stands in her way? Will she ever find Mr. Right? And will she have a great handbag when she does?
Chapter One My name is Finola Barrett and I'm a head-in-the-clouds, miracles-still-happen, Christmas-has-NOT-gottentoo-commercial-if-you-have-the-spirit-in-your-heart believer. I believe in God and try to put my personal faith into action everyday. I believe that people who set goals and work toward them can still realize their dreams. This is my story. It was getting close to that time of year again…the holiday season. I believed that while the first-round draft choices of men where I lived were slim pickings, there was somebody out there for me and I would find him. And lastly, undoubtedly, unashamedly, and to spite every evidence to the contrary, I unwaveringly believed that somewhere out there was the perfect handbag. And when I found it, it would change my life. I lived in Wileyville, Kentucky. It wasn't New York. It wasn't L.A. It wasn't even Indianapolis on Memorial Day Weekend. But Wileyville was my village — as in it takes a village to raise a child. Trust me, raising me from my arrival — as the unplanned baby of a couple of teenagers — to my life as a part-time baker and the town's most used substitute teacher took a communal effort. Even with my grandfather at the helm. When my parents realized they couldn't care for an infant, my grandfather took me in. My mother moved away, eventually to Europe, and started a life that didn't include me. My father, well, because his dad was the one I lived with, I grew up knowing him — and his "real" kids. He sent checks for birthdays and holidays. I never went to his home but I heard it was nice. The house I grew up in is gone now — sold as part of the estate when my grandfather died a few years back. Any other real estate he owned, he gave to his son. Me, I got his money — every last cent. I supposed that meant he had a soft spot in his heart for me. But just to prove that soft spot was in his heart and not his head, he threw up provisions keeping me from my trust fund — which is an awful funny term for something that no one actually trusted me to manage and that left me constantly in need of funds — until I reached the age of thirty. Or until I got married or started my own business and kept it solvent for a year. I guess Granddad thought if I hadn't done any of those things by thirty, there was no hope and I might as well squander his money in the same way I had my life. Countdown to being considered a total failure: Five years. With all that in mind, it's no wonder that the year before I had made four resolutions: to start my own business; to have a home of my own (I rented — above the place where I worked part-time, no less!); to
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meet Mr. Right (meet, not marry. My head may be in the clouds but I still get enough oxygen to my brain to know you don't rush into some things); and lastly…to find the perfect handbag. It exists. I know it does. I'm just hoping it hasn't already been snapped up by my Mr. Right's lovely wife. Those four resolutions I completely and totally intended to see accomplished before the bells rang in the next New Year. The problem was…that was eleven months, five days, seven hours, forty-two minutes and a handful of seconds ago. I had woken up to the unavoidable truth — time was running out! So I decided to do something about it. Really…with two part-time jobs (full-time work is not easy to come by around here in Wileyville), it was time for me to discover my place in the world. "Miss Barrett, I have no room in my schedule today for another one of your…creative business proposals." He was dressed in gray — a suit, of course. And a white shirt that contrasted with his inherited Italian skin tone and thick, black hair. He didn't actually have the words "banker" emblazoned across his back — and believe me, with those broad shoulders, he could have had that and his bank officer/financial counselor title on there to boot. But he didn't have to. Everything about him screamed: This man means business! Which is exactly why I sought him out. Well, that's one reason, at least. Did I mention how broad his shoulders were? His olive skin? Black hair? The way he wore his position of power like a billboard? Hmm, yes, I believe I did. And one more thing — the man owned me. Okay, owned is a bit ominous sounding. Let's just say he was the man who held the purse strings of my financial future. Tight. Think death grip. In the year since he had taken over that job from another banker, our relationship had been adversarial. I thought I would change all that. "Clear your calendar! Make room for me, Mr. Christopher, because I'm not leaving until you hear me out!"
Chapter Two Charles Christopher III was not a believer. At least, not in the same sense that I was. Church-going man of faith? Yep. Advocate of hard work reaping results? Oh, yeah. Enamored of hope in a handbag? Not so much. Okay, not at all. And that went the same for Christmas spirit and New Year's resolutions, I was sure. What I did know of him I had gathered from our "working" together over the year. Strictly business. Oh, and the fact that it was a small town. People talked, especially over breakfast at the bakery. Really, if Wileyville had a hot spot, between the hours of 6:30 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. the Not by Bread Alone Bakery was it. Not to mention what I heard around the schools while subbing. Teachers love to talk. I knew the town and I knew I could make a business work here. I just didn't know how to convince a certain money manager of it. The man had no room in his life for anything that couldn't be collated, cash-valued or crunched. As in number crunching. Which is why he had sent me away and told me not to come back until I had a business plan on paper. Instead, I returned the next day with my plan wrapped in paper. I took a deep breath and clutched my black leather attaché-style handbag to my chest like a life raft. If James Bond had been a woman, this is the handbag Q would have designed for her. Cool, sleek and bought for a song at an off-season shop. It screamed I have power and I know how to use it.
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I had muffins in it. "Miss Barrett?" He looked surprised to see me. "I'm back." I tried to sound cheerful, but not so cheerful that it went around the bend to psychotic. Men like this hardly ever want to do business with the cheerfully psychotic. I held up my purse. "And I brought muffins." "Muffins?" The fact that he did not immediately signal security after that strange little pronouncement gave me hope. But then again, what didn't give me hope? "For you." I started to open my bag. "To show you what I have in mind. I thought you might have more enthusiasm for my wanting to buy and run the Not by Bread Alone Bakery if you had a sample of the kinds of things I plan to serve there." "Miss Barrett, please. Keep your muffins in your handbag." He blinked, shook his head and then — and I could tell he didn't really plan on doing this — he laughed. "Now there is a sentence I never thought I'd hear myself say." "'Til you met me." I smiled. He smiled back, all the way to his dark, deep-set eyes. "'Til I met you," he echoed softly. "You just have to give me a chance, Mr. Christopher. I know I can prove to you that I can make this work. I've watched how that bakery has been run for the last three years — noted every mistake and every opportunity they have had to really make the place a money-maker." "No business that only stays open a few hours a day, that operates the same way it did 30 years ago when the original owners opened it, can be a money-maker, Miss Barrett." "Exactly! That's why I plan to do just that!" "What?" I stuck the muffin practically under his nose. "Change!" He took a deep breath, glanced around the bank lobby and motioned for me to follow him into his office. "Okay, let's get this over with." "You won't regret this," I told him as I brushed past him so close that his silk tie rasped against my Christmas sequined sweater. "Regret spending time with you? Never. Regret that even after I give you as much time as I can spare this morning — which isn't much — I'll still have to tell you no? Always." "Why?" I turned and had to tip my head back to meet his gaze, he was that close. Kissably close. "Why do you always have to tell me no? I think you must enjoy it."
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"Believe me, Miss Barrett…" He raised his hand to almost touch my cheek, then changed direction and, stepping back, rubbed his own temple. "Saying no to you is one of the last things I want to do, but I will do it. I have to. It's my job."
Chapter Three Carried the old standby the next day. The strap was about to go. There was a hole in the lining that ate change and the zipper stuck so bad that I knew one day I would have to take scissors to it to get to my car keys. It was a frayed, frumpy, frustrating fiasco waiting to happen. Which suited my mood perfectly. I mean, really! Sugar-Plum Fairy Fruitcake Muffins. How could the man not immediately see the brilliance in that? The facts: Wileyville needed a bakery. The owners couldn't afford to keep the doors open unless they changed the way they ran the place. They preferred to retire and sell the place off than take a chance. I lived above said bakery and had worked there for three years. There I was, a woman with the motivation and the oven mitts to make it happen. All I needed was… The door swung open, bringing in a blast of cold air. I turned from the knickknacks I had been looking at, startled to see who was shuffling in. "Mr. Christopher! What a surprise to see you here." Here. Gifts'N'Garb. In a town the size of Wileyville, everything did double duty. Barber and beauty salon shared space, the garden shop sold books and the hardware store dispensed legal advice — okay, not legit legal advice but that's where the old men who thought they had all the answers hung out. The women, young and old, didn't seem to slow down long enough to hang out anywhere — not that there was a place for them that would stay open past 5:00 p.m. Which brought me back to the man who was standing awkwardly among the quilted bags, snowflake angels and brightly colored teapots. He took my breath away. I could have just kicked him for that. "Finnie, uh, that is Miss Barrett. I saw you come in here and I wondered…" He made a quick check to see if anyone heard him. Secrecy. It's not just for Santa, anymore. "Call me Finnie." I held my hand out to put him at ease. Yes, and because I liked the way my hand felt in his. "And I can call you, what? Charlie?" He winced. "Chris." Again with the looking around, then that fab smile of his. "Like I said, I saw you come in here and…" "And you chased me down to say you changed your mind about the bakery?" Hey, season of miracles, hope and all…why not? "And unleash those muffins on the unsuspecting people of Wileyville?" He shook his head, kindness in his unyielding eyes. "Actually, I have this sister. Half sister, actually, long story but…she's 13. I need to get her a Christmas gift. When I saw you come in here I thought you might help me pick something out." "Here? For a 13-year-old?" The poor man. I glanced around us. And his poor sister. "Not likely. You want to buy a gift for a girl that age, you're going to have to go to Lexington."
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"Lexington?" He nodded slowly then smiled. Big. Like I'd just solved all his problems. I smiled back, probably looking like a crush-drunk 13-year-old myself. "Great. I can do that tomorrow after work." He started to leave without so much as a thank you. I opened my mouth to remind him of his manners — look, the guy didn't mind being a total pain in my behind, why shouldn't I return the favor? Before I got a word out, he turned, nailed me with that power gaze of his and said, like we were the best of old buds or something, "Thanks, Finnie. When should I pick you up?"
Chapter Four Cute. Cute. Cute. I would usually put function ahead of fashion — really — but for that night I chose a darling little red velvet drawstring bag with a vintage Christmas pin stuck on it for fun. Outfit? Who knew? Chris had rushed out of the store so fast I didn't get a chance to find out if I needed to dress casual or classy. I mean, I always dressed classy, but…you know. So when the knock came at the door, I had nothing but a plush robe, a worn T-shirt, flannel pants and a flimsy story about running behind to cover me. "Am I early?" Mr. Perpetually Punctual checked his wristwatch. "No, I'm…" I was standing a few feet away from this gorgeous guy basically in my pajamas! I folded myself more tightly into my robe. He didn't come inside my apartment and I didn't do the little swing-the-door-open-and-motion-him-in thing that I'd planned when I had played it all out in my head earlier. In fact, I leaned in and narrowed the gap, using the door to shield my body. Did I mention that when I was around this guy I acted like a real dork? He was still waiting for me to speak. "I didn't know how to dress," I said, sort of shrugging. He cocked his head and half smiled. "You forgot how to dress?" "Contrary to the way my grandfather treated me regarding money, I am not a total child." Instead of going for the flirty thing, I figured why not exert a little independence? Then I totally negated it by confessing, "I didn't know what to wear." "Wear?" He frowned and this pleat formed between his brows and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "What would you normally wear to go Christmas shopping?" "Shopping?" I tugged at my robe lapels. "For Ashley?" "Ashley?" "My sister?" "Oh, shopping. For Ashley." What had I thought? That Mr. I'm-always-going-to-tell-you-no had actually asked me out on a date?
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Yes. That's exactly what I had thought. I thought he'd felt what I'd felt that day he stood so close to me and he had decided against his better judgment — no, he had been unable to deny the attraction — and wanted to take me off to a wonderful, romantic retreat to a town 50 miles away where no one would bother us. That he wanted to walk through streets lined with twinkling lights, hear church bells playing carols, hold hands, gaze into my eyes and say… "I've been giving a lot of thought to savings bonds."
Chapter Five We never made it to the mall, to the romantic date or anywhere. Chris had suddenly decided to give his sister the gift of financial responsibility and I had decided to give myself the gift of my special recipe double fudge pecan caramel brownies. As usual, baking inspired me. I wasn't ready to give up on the resolution to open my own business. My most important accessory for the following day would be confidence. Confidence and a briefcase. No purse. Clearly the only way to impress Chris — business-wise, what else? — was to actually present him with a business proposal. So I stayed up all night frantically feeding my computer all my hopes and dreams and ideas about the significance of the small-town business and how much people relied on the bakery at the most important moments of their lives. Weddings. Graduations. Breakfast. "Hey, Finnie!" A teller, someone I'd known roughly since birth, waved as my boot heels clicked across the cold, gleaming floor. "Here to see Mr. Christopher? Did he invite you to the open house?" I eyed her suspiciously. "Umm…" "Well, either way, help yourself to some cake and cookies. We were all supposed to invite customers. Mr. C. invited you, right?" "Open house?" I whipped my head around to see a long table draped in gold cloth and loaded with all kinds of holiday treats. "Cake? Cookies?" "Help yourself." Chris stood in the doorway to his office, leaning one shoulder against the door frame. "Grab what you want and come on in." "Grab something? Oh, don't tempt me, mister. Because right now I'd like to grab you by the scruff of the neck and…and…and…throw you out into the snow!" "What? Why?" "Where did all this come from?" I pointed to the table. "Certainly not the bakery. I live above the bakery. I work in the bakery. If this had come from the bakery I'd have known about it." "We, uh, got it all at the grocery store in the city. Is there a problem?" "Oh yeah. There's a problem. You knew I was coming in here today." "Actually, I didn't." "I've come in here every day this week, so you could have made an educated guess." He laughed and conceded my point with a nod.
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"You knew I'd be here, and you knew I would be coming to plead my case for why I can make the Not by Bread Alone Bakery profitable again. And you staged an open house with baked goods from the grocery store —" "I didn't do it to hurt you or your plans, Finnie. But doesn't it show you something?" "Yes." It showed me that I was never going to accomplish my resolutions if I depended on him for help. "It shows me who is on my side — and who's not." "It's not a matter of sides, it's a matter of space. There is no room in this town for a business that doesn't meet multiple needs." I took my cue to storm out, but not without calling over my shoulder: "Then maybe there's no room in this town for me."
Chapter Six Church purse. Small and sedate. Just like I felt after my baked-goods-induced bout of false bravado at the bank. How I had ever gotten up the nerve to show my face at the church's children's Christmas pageant, I didn't know. Yes, I did. The previous week, I'd been called in to sub and teach first grade and I had promised the kids. It was technically an obligation. I had so few of those around the holidays that I didn't want to miss out. That's not sarcasm. People with tons of friends and family don't realize how empty the calendar seems this time of year to those of us who don't have a lot of either. So I went. Because, though the town might not have room for a bakery, or for a girl who just wants a few simple things in life (four things, if you go by my resolutions), my holiday season had plenty of room for everyone and everything in town. Except maybe…you know who I was thinking about. Chris. There he was in my head again. I couldn't seem to shake him loose. All weekend while I trimmed my tree, mailed my Christmas cards and wrapped presents, he had been right there with me in my stubborn, stupid mind. I should have been totally sick of him by then. "Hi." But I wasn't. I looked up and gave the man a weak smile. "Hi." "Room for me in that pew?" I should have told him no. But, you know, I brought the extra small purse so neither it nor I took up much space. I slid over. "What are you doing here?" "My sister is singing in the choir." He settled in like he belonged there. Not that he belonged in the pew, but that he belonged beside me. So I had to warn him. "Lollie Mulldoon goes to this church." "So?"
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"So?" Sports arenas had jumbotrons to give instant replays and stats. Round-the-clock news shows had constant crawls to keep up with the ever-changing status of the world around us. Wileyville had Lollie. The woman saw all, knew all and, most importantly, told all. "So, you get too comfy in that seat beside me and she'll have half the town thinking we're planning a winter wedding." I always wanted a winter wedding. I blinked, unsure where that thought had come from, and cleared my throat. "Just watch yourself, okay?" He leaned over, his shoulder pressed to mine. I held my breath. "Finnie?" His breath made the feathery curls by my ear flutter. My heart, too. "What?" "Rest assured that everything between us will be just as it should be." Ouch. That put me in my place. "Now hand me a hymnal, please," he said, placing his hand oh-so-gently on my back as we stood, then slipping his arm around my waist as he bent low enough to whisper. "Oh, and don't forget to wave to Lollie Mulldoon." I couldn't say for sure, because just then the music started up and the choir marched in singing Gl-o-o-o-ria, but I think he chuckled under his breath.
Chapter Seven "Sorry. We're closed," I said through the crack of the door. Sigh. That felt waaaay too good to say to the man who had put the kibosh on me buying the very bakery I was standing in and changing a few things — like closing-time policy. "Closed? At eleven —" he glanced at his watch " —twenty-four in the morning?" I opened the bakery's front door the rest of the way to where he stood on the other side. "That's the current owner's policy. We bake in the morning, put everything out and when it's gone, we close." "So if somebody promised to pick up cupcakes for his little sister and then let his schedule get so crowded that he forgot to stop in earlier and only has his lunch hour to —" "Stop. Stop. Okay. This is for Ashley?" "Yeah," he said sheepishly. I motioned him inside, and he slid past me. "When does she need them?" "Uh… I have to get them to the school office no later than 1:30." "Why didn't you go to the grocery store?"
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"Because…the baker there doesn't have your smile." "You play dirty." And I smiled. He did the same. "Go back to work." I flipped a towel over my shoulder. "I'll get the cupcakes to her." "Thanks. I owe you." "Go." Before I turn entirely to gush, I added to myself. Or worse, decide to try to cash in on that debt and start making demands about letting go of some of my money. He nodded and turned, then halfway to the door, he turned back again to say to me, "It wasn't an entirely rotten idea, you know." "Waiting to buy cupcakes?" He shook his head and put his hands in his coat pockets. "You buying the bakery." "What? But…" "It just wasn't…enough, you know?" "No." I mean, really, if I'd known wouldn't I have done something differently? "What did you have in mind?" His shoulders rose and fell, making the hem of his coat swing for a moment, then he cocked his head. "Let's go fishing." "Fishing?" "Yeah, a fishing expedition. Casting around for new ideas, that kind of thing. Go and see what works in places outside of Wileyville. Take what you can use and throw the rest back. Let's take that trip to Lexington that we didn't make before and…" "Fish?" "You fish. I'll hunt. I'll look for a different, more kid-friendly gift for Ash and you go after the thing you need most." The perfect purse? Or maybe some other thing on my resolution list: Mr. Right. "Um, what would that be?" "A good idea," he said with quiet authority. "Oh, ideas I got, pal." Plenty of them, and not all about business. "But okay. If you're asking, I'm accepting. We'll go to Lexington — shopping." "Fishing," he corrected, and swept on out the door.
Chapter Eight I chose a bag to take to work the next day — my last sub day until January unless something unexpected came up — a big bright satchel type which I stuffed with smaller clutches and bags for makeup and so on. And I actually thought to myself, it's like having my own little purse family. Ugh. How sad is that?
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I really needed to make good on those resolutions — and fast! Sub work was ususally slow around the holidays. The regular teachers made every effort to be in class, and not just because the kids brought gifts. In fact, looking at some of the gifts piled up on the table at the back of the room, I couldn't help thinking those might be a good reason to take the whole season off. There they sat: cookies and candies, two rolled cakes (one jelly, one chocolate/marshmallow with holly stuck on top) and a tin marked "Not for Children." Rum balls, I reckoned. Believe me — if I had been a drinking woman…or is that a snacking woman? Either way, the whole collection only served to mock me. Chris was right, they said. This town didn't need a bakery. It needed… What? Maybe the trip to Lexington would help me figure it out, I thought. Lexington. With Chris. "Miss Barrett?" A little girl with red hair and a sweater she had tugged and pulled out of shape at the hem and sleeves stood by my chair. "I made you a card." "Well, isn't that sweet?" I took the crude construction paper offering and admired it like the child had created something worthy of the great masters. And to my mind, she had. "And look! You've got Rudolph at the manger." "I didn't want to get in trouble by making it too relitious… I mean reledge… churchy," she whispered. I patted her hair (subs don't hug — it's a new rule; one I can't stand but that's the way of the world today) and said, "You did just fine. We still live in America and if you want to make a churchy card, you should go right ahead and do it." "I wanted —" she said, twisting her sweater in her hands "— to get you something because you're my favorite sub-sta-tude teacher, but Mrs. Welks didn't say you'd be here until the end of school. I asked…my mom if we could get you something last night, but all the stores in town were closed." Which was why so many people drove up to an hour to spend their money someplace where they could shop, eat…even just meet after work. "It's okay, honey. I like this card better than anything you could buy." She smiled. I sighed. The rest of the day dragged on and all I could think about was how I could use this nothing-staying-open situation to my advantage. Other than how it had already come in handy giving me a reason to go off alone with Chris the next day…
Chapter Nine Purse the next day: backpack. Great for shopping and fending off smart remarks from Chris about my tendency toward the impractical.
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"I had no idea," he had said as I got in his car. "What?" "That you planned on such an extensive trip that we'd need hiking gear." "Not funny." No, but pretty adorable. I hadn't counted on how I'd feel sharing an hour-long car ride with the man. And that was just one way. Then there was the traffic. "Maybe we'd have made better time if we had hiked. Nicholasville Road at Christmastime! What was I thinking?" "You said Fayette Mall. We could have bypassed it all and hit Hamburg Place but…" "Ashley is 13. You want to buy a gift for a 13-year-old you have to hit the mall. It's like a law or something." "Well, I wouldn't want to break the law." "Besides, now that we're here…we can go there." I pointed to the sign proclaiming Joseph Beth Booksellers. "Honestly, I wouldn't consider my Christmas tradition complete without a trip there." "Your Christmas tradition is a trip to a bookstore?" "Well, in my defense, it's not just any bookstore. And…well…it's not like I have a family or anything. Friends try to include me in their traditions but, you know, it only makes me feel more like an outsider than anything." Stop. Stop now, I told myself, shutting my mouth before I blurted out that being in a mall or a huge bookstore filled with holiday shoppers was as close as I got to a warm holiday moment. Except the other night at church with Chris. And, to some degree, the bank's open house — with Chris. Funny. For so long I had dreamed of having someone in my life for just those kinds of things, and then I did — but I didn't. And given our situation, I was thinking I never would — not Chris. Hmm, careful what you pray for, indeed. "Maybe we should skip the bookstore," he said, driving through the lot. "There's no room in the trunk for another bag." "No room is a big thing with you, isn't it?" "It's just simple mathematics." "Mathematics?" "You know, square feet, what goes into what, how it all adds up. What's wrong with that?" "Nothing. At your work. But as a way of life? I have to tell you…" "Tell me over dinner." "Dinner? I thought this wasn't a date." Okay, I was flirting. I liked the guy. He was cute. He was mature. He was honest. "It's not a date." Too honest.
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"But we're in an area where you can get a bite to eat in a place that's not along the highway and has more than just fast food — that's definitely a plus." Plus. I should have known there would have been math involved in his decision. Math was safe. While dinner on the other hand… "Great. It'll give us a chance to talk," I said. "Yeah. I have some thoughts on your business plans." Just business. He said it with a tightness in his shoulders, a grim set of his mouth. He was all about business as he sharply turned the wheel to pull into a parking space. He was all about business with his actions, but not with his words. "Seafood okay?" "Like clams? Lobster?" The only shell I was interested in was the one this man had just crawled into. What was up with him and the numbers and the no room for things that didn't add up? It wasn't just spreadsheets and business plans, I knew it. "Whatever you want." He got out of the car. "Whatever I want? Even if what I want is to have an honest to goodness discussion with you?" I met his gaze over the top of the car. "Like this whole 'no room' deal and how it came to be the watchword for your life?" "Leave it, Finnie." "But…" He got out of the car and the door swung shut, hard. He depressed a button on his remote and the locks clicked into place. Leave it? He had not just closed the door on the subject, he had bolted it down! It seemed there was no room in that man's life for someone who wanted to know him better.
Chapter Ten A doggie bag. Seemed only fitting for a girl consigned to the doghouse, huh? Well, I couldn't just leave it, could I? "Why does everything have to add up?" "What?" He'd asked over his shoulder. "Name?" the host had asked us. It seemed there was going to be a short wait for a table. "Christopher," Chris barked. "Last name?" "That's it."
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I let him alone as we waited for our table. A few short moments later a new hostess motioned to us. "This way, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher." Mr. and Mrs. Christopher. Chris and Finnie Christopher. My heartbeat did a jingle. Sounded good. Too good. Even twenty-four hours later, it still had a sweet, sweet ring to it. "Oh, we're not…" I had held my hand up. Chris intercepted. "She doesn't care about our marital status. Let it go." Let it go. I tried to make it my mantra for the whole evening. I repeated it in my mind so often it began to sound like a holiday song — "Let it go, let it go, let it go!" "So, did you get any good ideas today?" "Ideas?" "You came along to look at successful businesses and to get some ideas, right?" "Actually, I came along to find a purse." Mental note — check to find short in the wiring between brain and mouth. "A gift?" "Not really. Sort of. To myself. I mean, you know my situation, I don't really have family to exchange gifts with and with money the way it is, my friends agreed to just send cards. So —" I can't be sure. I've gone over it in my mind a dozen times since then, but I think, maybe his expression betrayed a little something behind the big bad banker man facade. If I had to describe it, I think I might say it was like he was looking at a kindred spirit. And then it was gone. For him. For me? I couldn't get it off my mind. What had made Chris the way he was? Why was he so set against taking chances? Even when it wasn't his money at risk? And the most important thing I had to ask myself — how was any of this my business? How did knowing that move me closer to my goals? It wasn't selfishness but self-preservation that kicked in that next day when I called and made an appointment for the following Monday to see Chris — on business.
Chapter Eleven "Prequalify me." I smacked my sleek black vintage envelope bag down on the desk right next to the nameplate of a certain Charles Christopher III. "For what?" He glanced up from the paper in his hand.
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For a torrid romance, I wanted to say. I sank into my chair like his very gaze melted the steel right out of me. And despite my no-nonsense bag right out of a black and white big-shouldered gal moviedom, I demurred. "For a house, silly." "A…a house?" Eye batting. "Isn't that the way one is supposed to do things? Prequalify before they go out and start house hunting, Mr. No Room for Risky Business?" "I never said…" "So, do it." I tossed my hair back. "Prequalify me so I can get out there and start looking. I'd like to have a contract as soon as possible." "Finnie, this is all so sudden. Wouldn't it be wise to —" Oh, no. The man had come between me and my resolutions — me and my dreams — one too many times already. I didn't care how cute he was (and he was cute), or how strong and capable (maximum strength of both), or how much I believed there was a wounded soul beneath his hard exterior (yeah, I could see it even now), I had arrived with a plan and I would see it through. "I'll tell you what wouldn't be wise. It wouldn't be wise to tell a person with just —" I snatched up the small calendar on his desk and did the math. " —just twelve days, and two of those days Sundays, not to mention Christmas, left to make good on the promises she made herself last year. Resolutions that she made after quite a bit of thought and deliberation about what she wanted in life, what she found lacking in her life. To tell that person that she should put her life on hold until after the first of the year. That doesn't sound very wise, now does it?" "I have to admit, I admire your optimism." "Thank you." "Don't thank me until I finish that thought. I admire your optimism that you could qualify for a home. I was going to suggest you wait until you had a steady, reliable source of income." "Until I…but you're the reason I don't have those things!" "I'm the reason you're a substitute teacher and part-time baker?" "Yes." He blinked. Some people are so dense. "I'm subbing because a year ago I decided to do what my grandfather said I had to do to be worthy of managing my own money — start my own business. I needed work that was flexible and wouldn't leave my employer in the lurch when I left to start my own business." "Actually, that makes sense." "And I'm a part-time baker because, well, again, because I don't own a home I live above the bakery and it was close and it gave me the chance to learn about business firsthand and…" "A lot of sense," he said softly. "You say that like you didn't think I had any sense at all."
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"If that's the way I've made you feel, I'm sorry." He reached across the table, not to caress my hand but to shake it. Coming from him, the gesture of respect, equal to equal, it meant a lot. "Prequalify me," I urged again. "I'll see what I can do," he murmured, his hand still clasping mine. "But I'm not making any promises."
Chapter Twelve The next day's handbag of choice — a toolbox. That's right! So sure was I of Chris coming through with the loan approval that I'd begun patching up my apartment so I could get my damage deposit back when I moved out. Hey, I wasn't a nut. I understood money and the need for not wasting it. By the same time next year I'd have my own home and I'd have a real tree — a big tree, one that would fill an entire room. I reached down and picked up the Baby Jesus from the manger. And no one could say there was no room for it. In fact, there would be room for all my dreams, for all the people who don't have any place to go — and hopefully for a man. In a few days, Santa Claus would slide down my nonexistent chimney and hand me the remainder of my resolution list in a neat, pretty package. I laid the holy infant down again. Who was I kidding? At the same time the following year I'd probably be in the same apartment doing exactly what I was doing at that moment and hoping for… A knock at the door cut off my train of thought. "Who is it?" "Chris." Chris? "What do you want?" "I brought a surprise." "A prequalified loan?" "Better." "Better?" "Don't you want to see?" "If it's not a loan then, no." I lied. "Aw, c'mon, how can you say that? I bet you were the kind of kid who shook every present under the tree." "When I was a kid the only thing I had to shake at Christmas was the card from my father and that just to get out the picture of him with his 'real' family and the obligatory check he sent. My mother didn't even send that
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much and made it clear she did not want me infringing on her new life. My grandfather, as you should have figured out by your very presence in my life, was not a man who liked surprises." "Finnie?" "What?" "I just work for the bank that's following your grandfather's directives. That doesn't mean I agree with them." Wow. Was that an honest to goodness confession of emotion? Of empathy? Of… "Open the door, Finnie. If you do, I promise to make you smile." Chris promised to make me smile. The possibilities sent a shiver down my spine. And just that fast I was at the door and had flung it open to find — "A dog? You brought me a dog?" "Actually, no, Flyboy is my dog. I brought you a job."
Chapter Thirteen "Dog sitting." I tossed my makeup bag onto the kitchen counter. When Chris had asked this favor he had said to make myself at home. I decided I'd just make myself presentable. Home. The man had no idea what a powerful word that was for me. My home. His home as my home. Even more so. Holding my breath, I looked around me for hints of the man and found…not much. Marble countertops. Trendy and probably standard in this neighborhood. Perfectly matched appliances — ditto. Uncluttered. Of course, uncluttered. I wasn't going to find what I wanted most here — Chris. Big sigh. "Life goes on, huh, Flyboy?" A low, growly woof. "Even if you have to push, drag and kick it along," I added under my breath. "And that's exactly what I have in mind." Once I'd done this favor and finished at the bakery, I'd slip over to the bank before Chris got back from picking his aunt up at the airport in Louisville. As usual, I had a plan. A plan that involved a third-party loan officer, a budget and three-years worth of work history. Such as it was. "Pardon me, Flyboy, if this dog-sitting gig doesn't show up on that." I grabbed the can on the counter and began sliding open and slamming shut drawers, looking for the can opener. "But this is hardly the kind of job that's going to get me a mortgage." Still, how could I have said no? And not because Chris held my finances in his hands. But because when he asked me to do it, he said it was because he trusted me.
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"Amazing, huh? The kind of things that would mean the world to me — his home, shopping, his loved ones." I looked down into the dog's huge brown eyes. The dog wagged his tail but I can't say if it was out of adoration or hunger. "The things that matter he drops into my hands, no problem. But with my own money?" Cutlery rattled. Pay dirt. More rattling to pull the handheld opener free from a tangle of serving spoons. Can opener aloft like Liberty's torch, I proclaimed for all present dogkind to hear, "With my own money, the man trusts me not at all. So I am going to go around the man." "Well, it's about time." Heartbeat flailing, I spun around to confront the very man in question. "You're in Louisville." "Flight cancelled." He frowned and scrubbed his blunt fingers through his sleep-ruffled hair. At least, I assumed it was sleep that ruffled it. "And in your pajamas!" I added, again mouth totally unrelated to brain activity. "And you're in my house. At four in the morning." "You said to come by as soon as I got up." "It's four in the morning." "I'm a baker. This is when I get up." "Every day?" "Three years. Without fail." He smiled. Leaned down to pick up the can of dog food I'd dropped and handed it to me. "Be sure and tell the loan officer that when you go to the bank today."
Chapter Fourteen "The last of the packages." I pressed a ribbon on top of the brightly wrapped box and slid it under the tree with the rest of the things I'd gotten myself. It was hokey, but Christmas is a season of surprises and hope. You can't blame a girl for wanting a few surprises! So I'd spent the last few weeks before Christmas ordering things online and through catalogs. Handbags and purses mostly, of course. And every time the opportunity presented itself for me not to know exactly what I was ordering — size, color, trim — I told the order taker, "Surprise me." Then I wrapped each box as soon as it arrived and – voila! Instant dork! Would it help if I said it had seemed like a good idea at the time? I had thought that I would at least have some kind of surprise to look back on come mid-February. Of course, the real surprise that would get me through the bleak winter days was the image of Charles Christopher III standing barefoot and pajama-bottomed in his kitchen. Sigh. Great image. Not hot enough to melt a polar ice cap but definitely a day warmer. Him, all rumpled and relaxed, his eyes dark with sleep, hair soft and ruffled. I'd gone over the sight in my mind time and again and wished more than once that he might have felt the same way as me.
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I glanced down at the gift I'd gotten him and made a mental note to set it aside so it wouldn't get mixed in with my — "Finnie?" Chris called out even as he knocked on the door. I pushed his gift into the pile, hopped up and hurried to the door singing loudly, to cover the sound of my startled heart pounding in my ears, "God rest ye, merry gentlemen…" I swung the door open. He seemed to give me a once-over with that sweet gaze of his. Or was it my imagination? "I thought the person on the outside was supposed to do the caroling." "I was just —' thinking about you ';— starting a new trend. Reverse caroling. You like it?" "I do." I do. I took a moment to memorize the way that sounded coming out of his mouth. "Come in, I'm glad you came by." "I can't. I just stopped by because I can't stop thinking about…" He squared his shoulders, giving his big black wool coat a shake. He looked at his hands. "Finnie, I have to ask you something very important."
Chapter Fifteen It was one of the easiest questions I'd ever answered. No, not "Will you marry me?" Not even, "Will you be my date this New Year's Eve?" The question Chris had come by to ask was, "What are your goals?" He'd come by to talk about the concept of goal setting, like a grown-up homework assignment. He even asked me to come by to discuss it after the holiday. When I'd dropped the concise version — in the form of my four resolutions — on him, he had definitely been impressed. Yeah. All four. Included the quest for the perfect purse. I don't think he honestly "got" that one, but the rest… Canvas tote the next day. Red, with sequined Christmas appliqué. Made it myself to carry baked goods to…well, to everyone who didn't have time to go to the grocery store and buy them there this year. By late morning it was empty, save a lone gift. I gulped in some air. Aware of the long line of people trying to get their banking done before the doors closed in 20 minutes, I whispered to the teller, "Would you know if, um, Mr. Christopher is busy?" "I just saw him go…" Her gaze flickered up from the check and deposit slip I had handed her and she broke into a wide grin. "He's in the conference room, but if you'll just go stand in that doorway over there, I'll tell him you're here." Somehow, she managed to point with her elbow, pick up the phone and tuck it under her chin and slide my finished paperwork back to me. I tried to smack as few people as possible with the nearly empty bag and reached the doorway just as Chris walked up.
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"I thought we weren't meeting until Tuesday." "I'm not here on business. That is, banking…oh…" I dove into the bag up to my shoulder and grabbed the silver and white wrapped gift. I shoved it at him, as I felt a red burn creep up my neck and face. "Here." "Finnie, you shouldn't have." He grinned like a kid on Santa's lap as he said it, telling me I definitely should have. "Open it," I urged. He lifted his head and swept his gaze over the crowded lobby beyond us. Was it my imagination? It seemed like a soft wave of conversation was moving our way down the line from my teller. Maybe not. "Go ahead," I urged him. "It won't embarrass you." "Hmm." He tore off the paper. "It's nothing big. But I noticed you didn't have one and I thought it might be a nice reminder of the season and…" He flipped open the lid. "You are so right about that." I gasped. Burgundy brown, sleek but roomy. Straps just the right length and a brass plate with my own personal monogram engraved. The man had in his hands… "The perfect purse!" "Perfect for you, maybe, but I don't think I have a thing to wear with it." "I must have picked up the wrong box. I only had one under the tree that wasn't…" For me. Too pathetic, even on Christmas Eve. Especially on Christmas Eve. I blinked up at him, wondering if it was more or less pathetic to ask him to come and get his real present over the weekend as I had absolutely no plans. He was looking over the crowded bank, a funny look on his face. I opened my mouth to say…something. "Excuse me." A little boy with a candy cane sticking out of his mouth tugged on Chris's pant leg. "My mom told me to come over here and do this." The kid removed the candy cane and pointed it up to a spot just above our heads. Mistletoe. Guessing the same thing I had, Chris shot the teller who had put it all into action a you-just-made-mynaughty-list look, grabbed my arm, reached up to snatch down the offending fungus, and pulled me into the seclusion of the hallway beyond the lobby. "Sorry about that, Finnie." "Yeah. I know. No room for that kind of holiday frivolity in your…" His mouth covered mine, softly at first, then harder, fuller. He pulled me close, as close as he could with bags and boxes between us. But I didn't care. All I cared about was Chris and the moment and…
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He pulled away, closed his eyes and whispered, "Spend Christmas with me." "Oh, Chris." I lay my hand on his warm, smooth cheek, my heart full and my head swimming as I murmured, "I don't know whether to kiss you again or slap your face."
Chapter Sixteen The perfect purse, the perfect kiss, the perfect holiday, the perfect… Oh, grow up, nothing is that perfect! But as holidays go, it wasn't bad at all. I mean, how could you fault a celebration that mixed faith, fun, hope and joy? And cold weather ripe for cuddling and food. Tons and tons of food. And mistletoe. I had no idea — until the holiday weekend — how much mistletoe there is in the world! It didn't hurt that Chris gave me the sprig from the bank and I pinned it to a velvet headband. I wore it for our Christmas Eve dinner after church, along with the gift he'd given me. Earrings. Gold with pearls and diamonds. Fake diamonds — or rather, faux, according to the place where he saw me admiring them on our Lexington trip. Big points for observation. Bigger points still for the remark he made after he gave them to me. "I was going to get you that glass piece you liked in the shop in the mall, but I thought maybe it wouldn't fit in your new home." New home. The man believed. He believed in my goals. He believed in my ability to achieve them. It was the best present I could have gotten from him. That and the kiss. Kisses. And the not being left to myself for Christmas. And the weekend of hoping. Hope. It's what the whole season is about, isn't it? It's why I like purses, too. A new purse is like the total girly package. Hope in a handbag. A promise of going places, doing things, getting yourself together — money, makeup and style. Of getting out there to work toward your dreams — and looking fab doing it. I decided to carry one of my new purses to my meeting with Chris the next day. After all, I still had a couple more resolutions to tie up before the New Year.
Chapter Seventeen The next day was cold. Cloudy, with a 70 percent chance of snow. On omen? Nah. It was December. All was as it should be. Which is exactly what Chris had said to me at the Christmas pageant. Rest assured that everything between us will be just as it should be. And now it was. Well, okay, on track to be as it should be. As I longed for it to be between us. Ack! I was starting to sound like a Shakespearian heroine! Or worse, I sounded dangerously close to a woman in love. Meet Mr. Right. It was on my list.
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I ran my hand over my new bag, took a deep breath of bank draft — you know, the way a bank smells like metal and money — and looked around Chris's office. "I'll just be a minute, Ms. Barrett," he had said as he led me in and motioned for me to sit. Ms. Barrett. So formal. So Mr. Business. So not like the man I had kissed goodnight just after the stroke of midnight on Christmas morning. "Do you think your family missed you tonight?" I'd asked, standing close to him on the doorstep to the Not by Bread Alone Bakery's back entrance. "Step family," he'd corrected. "Don't forget the step. Believe me, they never do." In that one sentence he had explained to me everything I needed to know about his compulsion to never take on more than he could fit into his life. With the exception of his mother and little sister, Chris had been an outsider even in the hearts of his own family. That's why I had known the gift I had gotten him was perfect. I fiddled with the bow on my lap, only feeling a little guilty that I hadn't had the chance to give it to him before now. But I would, and then all would be as it should be. "Thank you for coming in today, Ms. Barrett." The door fell shut and for a second — but only a second — his somber expression dropped. "Finnie." His broad shoulders rose and fell. He walked around my seat without making eye contact and plopped a big file onto his desk before sinking into his chair. The leather sighed. He folded his hands against his chin. "Look! I found your present — your real present." I sounded uneasy and very un-businesslike. He looked at the box I'd slid toward him. "I'll…I'll open it later, if you don't mind." He put his hand on the box. His fingers brushed mine. His jaw tightened. He pulled away and opened the file. "There are some things we need to talk about now that can't wait." And that's when I knew. Things were not as they should be at all. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Eighteen Exactly one day shy of one year earlier, I had written in my journal: Next year I resolve to start my own business, own my own home, meet Mr. Right and find the perfect handbag. Back then it had sounded so hopeful. So possible. All I had to do was work hard, keep my mind focused, my eyes and heart open and believe. Easier resolved than done. I sniffed and laid my head on my folded arms on top of the table at the back of the Not by Bread Alone Bakery. Or, as it would be called as of January first, This Building for Sale.
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"Dear Lord," I prayed. "After a lifetime of being dependent on the mercy of others for housing, work and even love, all I wanted was…" I shut my eyes. A tear fell onto my soft pink sweater sleeve. "I mean, my grandfather was a good man but he wasn't…" I took a deep breath. Even though I'd closed the shop door twenty minutes earlier, the aroma of rolls and coffee still hung moist in the air. "Nobody ever loved me unconditionally but You, Lord. Nobody ever trusted me to think and work and create my own life, to learn as much from my failures as I did from my successes." And Chris was no different. "The bank isn't going to approve a home loan for you, Finnie," Chris had said. "I thought, given our history, it would be best if you heard from me. I know you have a lot of money in this bank but since you can't touch any of it for five more years, that doesn't really come into play." I started to correct him. To explain about the stipulations in my grandfather's will regarding the trust fund for if I married or started my own business but what was the point, really? The man managed the account, numbers and bottom lines, period. He'd said it once before: it was his job to tell me "no" — to keep me from frittering away my grandfather's estate. If I doubted it, he made it perfectly clear when he cleared his throat, closed the file and added, "On a personal note, I —" "You don't have to say it." He'd already said it, hadn't he? With his coolness. With his demeanor. "You and I have a business relationship. No room in that for anything…more." I held it together even after l rushed out of the bank. In fact, I thought I had been handling everything pretty well until I got the word from the bakery owners that they were throwing in the towel. "I'm going to leave this all in your hands, Lord. But I can't help asking, is it so wrong to want a little love and security?" I sighed and looked up. "And a cute purse?"
Chapter Nineteen It was the eve of New Year's Eve. I popped a tray of cream puffs into the oven. I was only filling prepaid orders at the bakery that day. Wasn't even going through the pretense of opening up for business. Much to the dismay of whoever was banging on the front door. "We're closed today! And tomorrow…and every day after that," I called out. The knocking persisted. I wiped my hands on my apron and hit the swinging doors from the kitchen. They creaked then fell closed behind me with a thump. I whisked off my baker's cap and wadded it into a ball, which I threw into the glass display case by the cash register. Despite the sweet aroma in the air, I was ready to bite the head off of the would-be customer who couldn't take no for an ans— "No," I whispered. Not just one customer. A dozen, easily. Hard to tell just who with their thick coats and winter hats and scarves that hid their mouths and noses — but a crowd nonetheless. And at the head of the pack?
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Lollie Mulldoon pressed her plump, wrinkled face to the glass. "We heard a rumor, Finola." Heard one, Lollie? Or started one? I held my tongue and my ground, staying put in the dim dining area of my soon-to-be former place of employment. "Is it true they're going to close the bakery?" Lollie spoke loud and slow like she wasn't sure I could hear her — or perhaps that I wouldn't understand her. I opened the door and poked out my head. "No. They are not going to close the bakery." Her big round shoulders relaxed. A murmur rippled through the knot of onlookers. "They already have closed it," I all but shouted. That's when everybody started talking at once. "They can't…" "This place is a landmark!" "Where will I get my…" "Can't we do something?" "Calm down, everyone. We can do something. And we will." I heard him before I saw him. Then there he was, pushing his way to the front of the crowd, his eyes kind but wary and his black hair wind-whipped. It was Chris. "Hey, Finnie," he said softly. "Think there's enough room in there for a few good friends who want to see what they can do to help?" He had a box under one arm — the gift I had given him, now unwrapped — and his briefcase in one hand. His wool coat hung open to reveal a rumpled dress shirt and tie loosened at the neck, as if he'd been up all night and gone to work in the clothes he'd worn the day before. I don't think I'd ever seen a man look more worn down — or more gorgeous — in my entire life.
Chapter Twenty It was New Year's Eve. My deadline. And there I stood, in the bakery surrounded by the warmth and moisture of the last of the preorders, waiting. Not for midnight, but for closing hour at the bank when Chris would be free to come over and tell me the rest of his plan. "I came to thank you for the gift," he had said. "Did you get it — the meaning behind it?" "Let's see, it was a manger set, so aside from the obvious Christmas connection, I'm guessing…no room in the inn?"
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"Yeah. No room in the inn, but always room for love," I softly added the little speech I had practiced but had never had the chance to give him. "Love?" He searched my gaze. I held my breath and nodded. "No pressure, though. No expectations." He had brushed back my hair. The crowd had given a collective "Aww." "Why doesn't one of you make some coffee?" Chris had suggested, never taking his eyes from mine. "And we'll get down to our meeting about how we can save this shop." Brainstorming. A lot of great ideas but nothing concrete. Nothing you could take to the bank, literally. At one point I'd made a speech about how we had to grow and change. I even likened a business to a handbag — grabbing up old slouchy, which I'd already reverted to from the sleek new one — and made a pronouncement worthy of fife music in the background. "It's like what I look for in a purse. You have to give me what I always like — the functional and familiar. And you've got to give me something I can't get with something else — I have a wallet. I don't need slots in my purse for credit cards, you know? That's the way it has to be with this business. You can't quit doing what made it stay in business for 30 years, but you have to give people something that no place else in town does. Like a place to get a bite to eat after 6:00 p.m. To make a go of it, this place needs to take some advice from its own name — people don't live by bread alone." People clapped and cheered, but when it came time to solicited investors only Lollie Mulldoon volunteered. Yikes! Lollie as a business partner? The hot spot where people came to start their mornings with a cup of coffee and a shared confidence? Then Chris said he had gotten an idea, but that he couldn't share with me until we met the following day. I thanked Lollie and decided to wait for Chris.
*** "Come in." I unlatched the bakery's door lock and let him in. "And…" He kissed me. Nothing hot and passionate — just a quick, sweet kiss that warmed me to the center of my being. "I hope that means you have good news?" I asked, shutting the door and taking his hand in mine. "Depends on your definition of good news." He took my free hand in his. "Did you find an investor? Convince the bank to make a business loan?" "Not exactly." "Then what, exactly, did you do?"
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"I quit." "You quit your job?' "No, I quit as the manager of your trust fund." "Why? You're the best at what you do. Why can't you manage my trust?" "Can't." He shook his head. "Conflict of interest." Huh? I frowned a minute — then the lightbulb went off. "Because you're going to be my business partner and invest in the bakery?" "Partner, yes. Business?" He glanced down at our clasped hands, then into my eyes. "Marry me, Finnie." "What?" "I've been crazy about you since the first day you walked into my office pushing a harebrained business scheme to open a vintage-purse store." Okay, I should have been insulted. At least a little. But the man — the man I had dreamed of since that same harebrained day — had just proposed. I threw my arms around him. "Yes! Yes, I'll marry you, Chris!" I kissed him so long and so passionately that only the oven timer's untimely "ding" to warn me that my buns were burning (like I didn't already know that!) could pull us apart. And as I dashed into the kitchen I called out, "Can you believe it? I did it. I made good on all my resolutions and with almost ten hours to spare!" "All?" He followed behind me, his hand up to count on his fingers. "The purse; Mr. Right; a home — presuming you plan to move into mine after the wedding." "Yep. Yep. And yep." "But we still don't have the funding for the business ironed out." I looked at the man who was going to be my husband and decided to wait for another day to tell him about the provision that said getting married would hand me my trust fund. Maybe the next day when we made our new resolutions — the ones we'd work toward as husband and wife.
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Midnight Reunion by Anna DePalo At her employer's annual New Year's Eve party, Chloe Davenport is more concerned with her dismal love life than with patriarch and CEO Patrick Elliott's important announcement. After all, her parent's annual postholiday party is just weeks away, and there isn't a frog — um, prospective date — in sight. But at the stroke of midnight, Chloe has a chance meeting with her old high school nemesis, Ryder McPhee, and learns how quickly last year's old acquaintance can become this year's sexy stranger!
Chapter One New Year's Eve and Chloe wondered whether she'd be kissing another frog this year. Or any frog at all, for that matter. Holding on to her wineglass, she looked around at the mingling guests inside the impressive turn-of-thecentury Hamptons mansion belonging to Patrick and Maeve Elliott. She and other guests, including assorted employees, had been invited to join the Elliotts after an earlier gathering for family members only. It was nearly midnight now, and there wasn't even a likely frog — um, prospect — in sight. All the Elliott men were off-limits. Romantic entanglements between employees were frowned upon at EPH. She sighed. There was time left. Her parents' annual post-holiday party wasn't for another two weeks. She could still come up with an impressive date, even if it looked as if tonight would be a bust. She took another sip of wine as Patrick Elliott, the seventy-something-year-old patriarch of the Elliott clan and founder of the Elliott Publication Holdings empire, tapped his wineglass and cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. The room fell silent. Patrick Elliott, after all, was a commanding presence. "Before we say goodbye to another year," Patrick said in his deep, gravelly voice, "I'm going to say a few words." Chloe listened as the CEO of EPH thanked the assembled gathering, which included various Elliott offspring and adult grandchildren, for their efforts on behalf of EPH for the past year. However, as Patrick droned on, Chloe found her mind wandering. She refused to show up dateless — or worse, frogless — to another Davenport family gathering. Her older sister, Maxine, already had the requisite two kids, doctor husband and beautiful home in suburban Westchester, north of New York City. Maxine had long since claimed the title in their parents' eyes of the child who'd come closest to fulfilling all their dearest wishes. But Chloe refused to concede defeat. From the outside, she knew her life seemed perfect. People at work often commented that she must not have a care in the world. The truth was, however, that she'd worked hard to maintain a certain image. She dressed well and lived in a cute little shoebox apartment in the trendy Chelsea section of Manhattan. But though she thought she'd done everything right to attract a man, she hadn't had a date in months. She'd lain awake at night analyzing why. There was, of course, the fact that Chelsea had a large gay community, so right off the bat, a sizeable chunk of the surrounding male population was eliminated.
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Perhaps her problem was that she was just too candid for most men. On the other hand, she liked to think being direct was the reason why she'd thrived in her job as executive assistant to Finola Elliott, the editor in chief of Charisma magazine, which competed hotly with Vogue. She always let Fin know what was what. Chloe looked over at Fin now. Her mother would say Fin was a cautionary tale about what could happen to a woman if she buried her nose in her career and didn't bother to glance up until she was eligible for retirement. At thirty-eight, Fin was married only to her job. Chloe wondered if that was the road she herself was traveling. Weren't too many late nights at work the reason why she'd ended up coming to her employer's New Year's Eve party — alone? And, of course, it didn't help that in a few months she'd be hitting her thirtieth birthday. She heard her mother's voice in her head and silenced it. Her mother had tried to set her up with men in the past, and she shuddered when she thought about who some of those candidates had been. It was somewhat mortifying to think her most likely route to landing a date these days was through her mother. She was only surprised her mother hadn't tried to offer up a New Year's Eve date… Aware of a sudden tension in the room, she yanked her mind away from her thoughts. She looked around at the hushed gathering, her eyes coming to rest on Fin, who wore a taut expression on her face. Moving to her boss's side, Chloe asked, "What is it?" "Didn't you hear?" Fin whispered back distractedly. "My father just announced he's stepping down as CEO of EPH. He told the family a couple of hours ago and swore us to silence, but now he's telling others." "And, so," Patrick Elliott went on at the front of the room, surveying the gathering with shrewd eyes, "I've decided that the fairest way to name my successor is by competitive bidding, so to speak. After all, competition is what EPH was built on and what it continues to thrive on." Chloe thought the publishing empire had been built on family, given how many of the younger Elliotts worked at EPH's midtown Manhattan headquarters, but she mentally shrugged and thought whatever. Patrick went on. "The head of whichever EPH magazine makes the largest profit, adjusted for magazine size, by the end of this coming year will be named my successor." Uh-oh. Chloe had heard rumors at work about an impending announcement — secretaries talked, after all — but she'd never expected this. She peeked at Fin. Everyone knew about Fin's difficult relationship with her father, Patrick. Chloe's already uptight, workaholic boss wasn't going to deal well with this pronouncement. Inevitably, it would mean even more late nights at the office for Fin — and for Chloe as Fin's assistant. Finished with his speech, Patrick walked into the crowd, and some muted conversation struck up again. Chloe sighed again. She'd be lucky if even a frog crossed her path now. She was going to be trapped at the office for the foreseeable future. "Well, well, if it isn't Fab Dav." She turned to look up into mocking green eyes. No one had called her Fab Dav — short for Fabulous Davenport — since high school. Chloe couldn't help but notice he was wearing green in the form of an expensive shirt in a light herringbone pattern. Ralph Lauren Purple Label, if she were betting on it.
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"Ryder?" she asked.
Chapter Two Ryder gave her the lopsided smile she remembered so well. "It's been a while," he said, tacitly acknowledging the surprise and uncertainty in her voice. "Why are you wearing green?" she asked abruptly, his presence transporting her back to another time and another place. A bad place. In short, high school. Sure she'd been called Fab Dav, but more because everyone had had a nickname than because the label fit — a least in her opinion. She'd always thought she had more flaws than she could count. Now here he was, Ryder McPhee, the guy who'd teased her without fail back then. He must have just arrived at the Elliott mansion because she hadn't spotted him earlier. In all likelihood, he'd come over from another fantastic Hamptons party. He looked down at his shirt and then back up at her, arching an eyebrow. "Something wrong with the color green?" "No! Um —" She stalled, then blurted, "It's just that green is for frogs!" Because she felt like an idiot, she added by way of some semblance of rationality, "Green is out this year. All the fashion magazines have said so." He looked at her in amusement, and she could swear he read her mind. "Relax. The Elliotts are Irish by heritage, and so am I. It's a nod to tradition." How had this happened? Chloe wondered, perturbed. Ryder appeared to be the reasonable one while she seemed like a lunatic. At least in high school she'd reacted to his behavior by giving as good as she got and then marching away with her head held high — though his laugh had usually followed her down the hall. He'd been ahead of her at their Westchester high school, but that hadn't stopped them from running into each other all too often in the hallways and, of course, in the couple of elective courses they'd shared. Though he'd had a few good buddies, she'd always considered him to be a lone wolf at heart. She'd heard him called brilliant but it hadn't been until he'd graduated, when Mrs. McPhee had told her mother that Ryder was heading off to the prestigious Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania, that Chloe had paid any attention. She looked at him now. He'd always been tall, but now it was impossible to ignore the hard, muscular build beneath his open-collar shirt and black pants. He'd developed impressive biceps to match his impressive brain, and she felt diminutive and feminine next to him. An involuntary shiver of awareness went through her. Disconcerted, and in an attempt to change the subject, she demanded, "What are you doing here?" Again she was rewarded with the lopsided smile that reminded her of the Ryder she used to know. "Cullen Elliott and I know each other through business associates, so I got an invitation to drop by his grandparents' party tonight." The teasing light came back into his eyes. "How about you?" "I work at EPH," she said shortly. "Right," he said, nodding. "I recall my mother mentioning you're a secretary at Charisma."
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"I'm the executive assistant to the editor in chief," she corrected, adding somewhat defensively, "I like my job." She really was not much more than a glorified secretary, despite her lofty-sounding title, but Ryder brought out the contrarian in her. "You don't say," he said casually. "Glad to hear it." "Does it surprise you when people turn out well?" she countered. Mischief sparked in his eyes. She watched as he gave her a once-over, causing her blood pressure to rise. She knew what he'd see. She had slender curves, but nothing that qualified her as bombshell material. She wore her dark brown hair long and straight, and if pressed, she'd say her clear blue eyes were her best feature. His eyes came back to hers. "No, it doesn't surprise me," he murmured. "I'm not disappointed, either." She felt a flash of heat. Was Ryder flirting with her?
*** He was flirting with her. Ryder watched as Chloe's big baby-blue eyes widened, and he realized he'd unsettled her. Good. After all, she was why he was here tonight, and if he couldn't do better than the ridiculous plan that had been in the process of being hatched, he deserved to be thrown out on his rear end. Not that that was something he was accustomed to. He'd ridden the Internet boom years to the top — starting a lucrative online business with a classmate from college — and his significant net worth was a testament both to his business acumen and to his financial success. When he stopped to think about it, it amused him to think he would now be considered a catch on the dating scene, despite the fact that he tended to keep quiet about the details of his work life. Still, looking down at Chloe tonight, he'd been transported back to high school and the urge to bait her had been irresistible. Chloe. He remembered she'd regularly had to explain to people that her name was Chloe — spelled cloEE — without the French accent aigu or a double dot over the e. But then, Ryder mused, there was never anything about Chloe that needed accenting. Back in high school, lots of guys had gone for her. She'd been Shannen Doherty of Beverly Hills, 90210 but without the attitude — though these days, he supposed, she'd be compared instead to Jennifer Garner of Alias. He ought to know. He'd heard the locker room talk. At the time, the competition from his classmates had irritated him, so he'd used the one fail-proof method of getting Chloe's attention: teasing her. Thanks to his baiting tonight, however, things hadn't initially gone according to plan. But they were back on track. She was off balance. From somewhere, Ryder heard a television begin to blare. Glancing around, he spotted the television screen. The announcer was broadcasting from Times Square in Manhattan, where a huge crowd had gathered to ring in the New Year. "One minute to midnight!" someone in the room announced.
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Ryder glanced back down at Chloe, who was looking around distractedly. "Are you here with somebody?" She looked up at him in confusion. "What? Um, no." Her baby blues were so damn cute. "Looks as if it'll have to be me then." "It'll have to be you, what?" He gave an exaggerated sigh of resignation. "Kissing you at midnight. I guess I'll have to do the dirty deed." From the television, a chorus could be heard starting the countdown to midnight. "Ten. Nine…"
Chapter Three Kiss him? Chloe stared up at Ryder as the inexorable countdown to midnight continued around them. "Seven." Dimly, she was aware of the crowd in the room. Couples sidled closer to each other in anticipation of a kiss at the appointed hour. "Six." Help. "Five." Ryder wore an amused expression on his face. "Four." Her gaze lowered to his lips. He really did have a nice mouth. It was curved and inviting and looked just soft enough to be exciting. She pushed down a flutter. These days that mouth was attached to an equally delectable body. "Three." He leaned toward her, and her focus moved up from his mouth to his green eyes, where she was caught by his intent look. "Come on, Chloe," he taunted gently. "I dare you." "Two." Well, she thought, she might as well kiss someone at midnight, right? At least this way, she'd confirm Ryder wasn't the prince she was waiting for. "Why not?" she said, struggling for a nonchalance she didn't feel in the face of Ryder's intensity. She strove to keep her breath even. "One."
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She lifted her face as Ryder leaned in farther, closing the space between them to a hair's breath. Her eyes fluttered closed. "Happy New Year!" Ryder's lips touched hers. A brief pressure, a sense of warmth and softness joined by a little jolt of electricity, and Chloe started to back away. Her retreat was arrested, however, as Ryder's hands came up to cup her upper arms. He parted her lips with his own and deepened the kiss. The sound of horns blared around them — the crowd in the Elliott mansion adding to the cacophony coming from the television set. The notes of "Auld Lang Syne" began, and people started singing about old forgotten acquaintances. For Chloe, however, the surrounding world retreated as she was swamped by the waves of interesting and exciting sensations evoked by Ryder's intimate embrace. She sighed as she sank deeper into the kiss, which was fierce and warm, then gentle by turns. The kiss built slowly until Ryder seemed to want to devour her. Someone moaned, and Chloe realized it was her. A loud cough sounded nearby, then a voice Chloe recognized as belonging to Cullen Elliott broke through the haze that surrounded her. "And here I thought I was the babe magnet for the evening," Cullen said, his voice laced with amusement. With a gasp, Chloe pulled away from Ryder. Touching two fingers to her lips, she looked around and realized their passionate kiss had attracted the attention of several party-goers. As Cullen sauntered away, holding a drink and shaking his head with a smile, Chloe looked up at Ryder and saw bemusement stamped on his face. There was no way she could forget this old acquaintance after that. She didn't know what to say. She felt hot and turned on. Sometime during the kiss, she'd discovered she was confronting a man she hardly knew. He was a powerful, sexy stranger who had the ability to turn her insides to mush. As if drugged, she watched his lips move — the same lips that had just seconds ago tasted and savored her. "I'll drive you back," he said. "Where are you staying?" She named a bed and breakfast in the closest town. His lips curved. "Happy coincidence. I'm staying down the street at the Barston Cove." In another mood, Chloe would have raised her eyebrows. The Barston Cove was the priciest, most exclusive hotel in town. Instead, she merely nodded and said, "Hmm." He took her elbow and guided her through the crowd. Chloe heard herself murmur polite thank-yous and good nights to their hosts and the various guests they encountered on their path to the front door. Beside her, Ryder's sexy voice sounded, adding his own words of desultory conversation. Then, before she knew it, they were in a black Jaguar zipping along the dark road to town, and Chloe wondered how Ryder had come to own a car that cost more than she earned in a year. That is, she wondered until she noticed his pricey Baume & Mercier watch, and then got distracted by the sight of his hand on the steering wheel.
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It was a capable hand, large and masculine with a strong wrist. She thought about that hand touching and stroking and caressing her, and another strong wave of awareness washed over her. Within minutes, Ryder pulled into a parking space halfway between his hotel and her bed and breakfast. He came around the car and helped her out, his hand holding her fingers loosely. "Nightcap?" he murmured. "All right," she said. The sexual heat between them was so thick she felt as if she were enveloped in a luxurious blanket against the cold night air. And then, just as seemed inevitable since they'd left the party together, they were inside his hotel room. A bedside lamp cast its dim light across the room, and a chilled bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket — one of the little courtesies of a luxury hotel, she supposed. The minute Ryder's hands settled on her shoulders, though, all thoughts of toasting the new year flew out of her mind. Ryder ducked his head, seeking her gaze. "Chloe?" "Yes." The word came out as a whisper, and Chloe knew she was saying more than just yes to his questioning. And that, she supposed, as Ryder's lips closed over hers, was how last year's old acquaintance could become the new year's sexy new stranger.
Chapter Four He guided her backward until the wall was at her back. Not breaking their kiss, they tore at each other's clothes. Her black cocktail dress with its sheer lace sleeves and upper bodice slid down and caught at her elbows. "This is crazy," Chloe said breathlessly. "Just feel," Ryder said in between kisses. Maybe he was right, she thought, as he moved down and kissed her neck. If she was going to be working long hours as Fin's assistant for the foreseeable future, she might as well live it up now. Besides, she was doomed to show up dateless at another Davenport gathering, and the thought was more than depressing. Chloe watched as Ryder nuzzled her breasts. Thank God she'd decided on the black satin bra, she thought, as he unsnapped her undergarment. At least she felt dressed to entice. Her eyelids lowered as his lips closed over her bare breast and sparks of pleasure shot through her. After giving the same attention to her other breast, he moved down farther, his lips trailing over her bare midriff and then lower, divesting her of clothes as he went. He nuzzled the curls at the apex of her thighs, then kissed her intimately. Liquid fire pored through her, and she opened her eyes and watched him. A feeling of unreality settled over her. This was Ryder. Her former high school classmate. Her former neighbor's son. Mrs. McPhee's boy.
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Her knees weakened and bent. He stood quickly then and picked her up, sliding one arm below her knees. Striding to the bed, he laid her out on it and came down beside her. He smiled into her eyes — a wicked, intimate smile — as he stroked her bent leg, which was still encased in a thigh-high black stocking. "I used to wonder what was beneath the layers you wore." "Now you know," she said, and couldn't prevent a tinge of uncertainty from coloring her voice. She tried to keep in shape with exercise, but she knew her willowy frame had more to do with good genes than with any real effort on her part. His gaze traveled over her before he gave her a wolfish look. "Yeah. Now I do." "You like?" "Yeah, I like," he drawled. The look he gave her then was so hot, it obliterated the last of her uncertainty. She raked a hand through his hair and pulled him down for a full-bodied kiss. When she finally pulled away, she whispered against his lips, "You're still wearing too many clothes." "Easily corrected." She raised herself up on her elbows and watched as he stood up. He reached over to a shaving kit on the bedside table and pulled out a small foil packet that he placed beside the bed. Then, his gaze locked on hers, he unbuckled his belt and began to undress. When he was naked, she said throatily, "I like." He flashed her a smile. "I aim to please." "Now that remains to be seen." He quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?" His hand closed over her ankle and he pulled her toward the foot of the bed. "Let's see how much you like this…" She squealed as he came down beside her again, nuzzling her neck with his mouth, his hands moving over her. He stroked her everywhere, arousing her and bringing her to a fever pitch. In return, she caressed the lean muscles of his chest and back, then moved lower, stroking his sculpted thighs and the evidence of his arousal. Eventually, he gave a helpless half laugh and moved himself away from her. "I want this to last," he said, his voice not quite steady. Chloe watched as he sat up and donned protection, then turned back to her. Gathering her close, he said, "Now where were we?" She nibbled at his lips. "Mmm…somewhere between wonderful and fantastic?" "Yeah, that's what I remember, too."
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He cupped her face and kissed her deeply, and she gave herself up to the gathering passion between them. When he positioned her, settling himself in the cradle of her thighs and arranging her silkily clad legs around him, she welcomed him into her embrace. It seemed the most natural thing in the world when he finally entered her. "Oh, Ryder," she gasped, her hands fisting into the bedcover below her. "So good," he said, his eyes closed, his expression rapt. "So tight, so hot, so sweet…" She followed his rhythm, knowing intuitively how to match him and fuel the gathering storm. Eventually, he moved to her side and pumped into her, their bodies facing each other. The tightness within her grew more and more taut…until all at once it snapped, and she went spiraling free. He swallowed her gasp as he took her up, following her so they went over the precipice together. Afterward, he loosened his hold, and she lay relaxed and replete. He smoothed the hair away from her forehead, and she turned her face into the palm of his hand. Their eyes caught and held. "What just happened?" she asked. He gave her his lopsided smile, and she grasped at that piece of the familiar because it gave her comfort in a world that was suddenly topsy-turvy. She'd had sex with Ryder! "What happened?" he repeated musingly. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then joked, "If you have to ask, I must be losing my touch." No, you're not, she almost said. She searched his gaze and found it unfathomable. "What are you thinking?" "I'm thinking that if I'd known we'd be this good together, I'd have had an even bigger crush on you in high school." "You had a crush on me? You were obnoxious!" "Yeah to both," he confirmed solemnly. His head was propped up by the hand of one bent arm, and he was using his other hand to trace circles on her bare upper breast. "Until tonight, though, I thought I was cured of at least one of those two afflictions." "Which one?"
Chapter Five Ryder arched an eyebrow. He had to play this right. Now that reality had intruded, she looked as if she was contemplating bolting from his hotel room. But it was important she know tonight was the culmination of a long history — at least for him. "Which one do you think?" She looked coy for a moment. "I don't know. You were rather obnoxious tonight…" He pretended to wince. "You still don't pull any punches, do you? So, the crush, it is." He kept his hand moving on her bare flesh, soothing her even as he strove to keep his voice light. "I had a whopper of a crush on you in high school."
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"You had a funny way of showing it." "What? You didn't like my obnoxious-gets-the-girl technique? Should I have pulled your pigtails?" "In the first place, I didn't have pigtails. In the second, pardon me for not thinking more of your technique, but since it didn't get you the girl —" She stopped in midsentence as he surveyed her naked body. His eyes came back to hers. "Didn't get me the girl, huh? Are you sure about that? Seems to me I've had you in the best way possible." She flushed. "The question is," he said slowly, "where do we go from here?" She stiffened under his hand. "Does it have to go anywhere, Ryder? Don't worry that I expect anything from you, or that you have some sort of obligation just because our families sort of know each other." He never imagined he'd be the one offended at being dismissed as a one-night stand after glorious sex. Judging from Chloe's matter-of-fact reaction, though, he wasn't the first guy she'd attempted to dispatch this way. It looked as if Fab Dav's man-killer skills had only grown since high school. She seemed guarded with him, and he supposed he shouldn't be surprised if she was. After all, most of her memories of him were from high school…when he'd teased her mercilessly and in general been an allaround jerk toward her. During one memorable Saturday night party, they'd both landed in the pool after she'd tried to shove past him and he'd grabbed her as he was thrown off balance. She'd been angry and upset, not least because she'd been trying to make an impression on a buddy of his that she had a not-sosecret crush on — a guy that Ryder had therefore wanted to take apart. But he was only at the beginning of his campaign to get her to see him in a new light. Tonight had been spectacular, better even than he'd imagined — and he'd imagined for a long time.
*** When Chloe returned to work, she was still trying to grasp what had happened on New Year's Eve. Making copies in the photocopy room, she thought again, I slept with Ryder. She still couldn't believe it. Had she become so desperate she'd just fall into bed with an old high school classmate? The answer apparently was yes. And yet, Ryder — the present day Ryder — was nothing like what she remembered. He had the power to turn her insides to mush with just a look, to leave her weak-kneed with a touch and to slay her with a kiss. That's what scared her. That more than anything was what had sent her scurrying for cover after she'd floated back down to ground after hot-and-heavy sex in his hotel room. Sure she'd been bemoaning her lack of a date. But she hadn't expected Ryder. Hadn't expected someone who left her feeling fragile and shaky. Sleeping with Ryder was further proof that her navigational compass was off when it came to men. Way off. She'd been looking around for a prospective date, but she couldn't bring Ryder to her parents' post-holiday party. What if things didn't work out between them? News would get back to his mother. To her mother. There'd be complications. Ryder was someone her family already knew and about whom they'd make a whole host of assumptions — particularly about the long-term prospects of his relationship with her.
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If she was honest with herself, she'd also admit Ryder unsettled her for other reasons, too. These days the cloak of sophistication and worldliness clung to him like a second skin. He was obviously doing well. She only had to look at the car he drove to determine that. She, on the other hand, was basically a secretary who'd been inching her way up the corporate ladder since college. If the corporate world were an old luxury liner, she'd be steerage and he'd be first class. He had no reason to be interested in her for other than casual sex and maybe to satisfy some lingering curiosity about a girl he remembered from high school. Consequently, she'd decided to inform him on Saturday night that she didn't expect great sex to lead to anything more. After all, he'd admitted he'd gotten over his crush on her a long time ago, and then he'd gone on to adopt a teasing attitude when they'd been lying in bed together. When he'd asked her about where they'd "go from here," she'd seen all the signs of a man waiting to be let off the hook. Let him think she was blasé and sophisticated. Better that than knowing she'd never had a one-night stand in her life — that is, until he'd come along again. Which all went to show just how much Ryder had disconcerted her. Sighing, she picked up her photocopies and headed back to her desk, bumping into one of the Elliott twins on the way. "Oops! Careful!" "Sorry, Summer. I didn't see you." "That much was obvious," Summer said easily. "You seemed lost in space." "You could say that," she hedged, then added, "Here to see Scarlet?" The twenty-five-year-old Elliott twins both worked at EPH, Summer as a copy editor for The Buzz and Scarlet as an assistant fashion editor at Charisma. When Chloe had started working at EPH, she'd had some trouble telling the twins apart, but she'd eventually learned to distinguish them by their different styles. Scarlet was the flamboyant one who often dressed in bright colors, while Summer was positively retro, sometimes wearing 1950s-style sweater sets and pearls. "I'm meeting Scarlet for lunch," Summer said. "Want to join us?" Chloe shook her head. "Sorry, too much to do. I'll probably just eat at my desk." "It's started already with Aunt Finny, huh?" "Don't ask," Chloe advised lightly. Usually, she enjoyed socializing with the Elliott twins, but today work served as a convenient excuse. If she had lunch with Summer and Scarlet, she'd be tempted to spill the beans about Ryder, and the last thing she wanted to do was expose how much she'd thrown her nonexistent social life into upheaval in the past few days. She had no doubt Summer would be sympathetic, but in contrast to her own present state, everything in Summer's life was neat and tidy. Summer had a steady relationship with her advertising executive boyfriend, and Chloe wouldn't be surprised if the two of them became engaged soon. "Okay, your call," Summer said, "but you're showing all the signs of someone who's come back to work on Monday morning shell-shocked by the events of the weekend. I promise I'd make a good listener if you need one." "Thanks."
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After they'd parted, Chloe sighed inwardly. Summer wasn't dense, nor were any of the other Elliotts, for that matter. She wondered how many of them had seen her leave the Elliott mansion with Ryder and drawn their own conclusions. As Chloe approached her desk, she heard the phone ringing. She reached for the receiver and said automatically, "Charisma. This is Chloe Davenport." "Hello, Chloe."
Chapter Six Chloe's stomach did a flip-flop at the sound of the rich male voice at the other end of the phone. "Ryder, hi." She sat down. "How are you?" "Good, but I'd be better if I saw you." Well, that was direct, she thought. It appeared she wasn't the only one who could be forthright. Out loud, she tried for lighthearted flirtation. "Well, that's what I like. A man who knows what he wants." His laugh sounded from the receiver. "Honey, if I really told you what I wanted, we'd be breaking the decency code for a corporate phone line." A thrill ran through her. He was calling her — pursuing her. "Why don't you tell me what you're thinking?" "I'm thinking," he said, his voice dipping, "that we shouldn't have waited more than ten years to sleep together." His words sent a shiver through her — and that was just the beginning. The flowers arrived later that day. A large arrangement of pink and red roses. Chloe found herself having to peek around them to address people who approached her desk at work. And there were plenty who did stop by. The curious, the inquisitive and the frankly nosy. The steady procession of people finally led Jessie Clayton, one of Charisma's young interns, to tease, "Wow, Chloe, you really have people talking today." Chloe playfully rolled her eyes at the pretty auburn-haired intern. "Believe me, I'd prefer not to be the number one topic of conversation." Jessie nodded understandingly, and Chloe thought that if anyone could sympathize with her situation at the moment, it was Charisma's intern. Jessie's sweet country girl attitude made it impossible not to like her, but Chloe had immediately been struck by the fact that the intern seemed to like her privacy —which put her in the minority at the fashion magazine. At Charisma — where people breathed a rarified air of high fashion married to sophisticated society — guessing how someone had spent the weekend was an office pastime. The magazine staff was littered with fashionistas whose social lives were so hectic, they were like second full-time jobs. Chloe supposed she'd be considered a fashionista, too, but then she made a conscious effort to fit in. She loved to shop, and she tried never to repeat an outfit at work. It also helped that Charisma was inundated with free samples from designers hoping to get a glowing mention in the magazine about their clothes and newest products. It helped even more that Chloe was the editor in chief's executive assistant, and Fin got more free stuff than any woman could expect to use in a lifetime. The next two weeks passed quickly. After Ryder's phone call and flowers, Chloe found herself caving in to the urge to see him again — aided by Ryder's persistent pursuit of her.
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She and Ryder had dinner, attended a Broadway show, went ice skating in Central Park, and caught an invitation-only showing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Ryder made no pretense of being cool and detached. He wanted her and he was pursuing her. Chloe found it a refreshing change from many of the men she came into contact with. There was no elaborate ritual to follow, no waiting by the phone until Wednesday for a Saturday night date, no guessing whether he'd call at all. Instead, Ryder made her feel feminine, pursued and desired. If she had lingering concerns about where their involvement was heading, Ryder's constant attention drowned them out. Inevitably, their evenings would end at her apartment or Ryder's, which, Chloe soon discovered, was a huge and airy penthouse loft in the trendy TriBeCa section of Manhattan. If she'd had any doubts about how successful Ryder had become since high school, they were erased the first time she stepped into his apartment. Yet, when she questioned him about his career, he would only say, "I got involved with an Internet company, like a lot of people did in the late 90s, except mine didn't go bust along with the dot-com boom and I was able to do well as one of the higher-ups." As they walked along West Broadway near his apartment one wintry evening, she reflected on his words…until he suggested they take a ski trip together during the upcoming weekend. "Actually," she confessed, "I'm expected at a family gathering on Saturday." He arched a brow. "What sort of family gathering?" "The annual Davenport family post-holiday bash at my parents' house," she said quickly, making sure her tone didn't attach any special importance to the event. Then because she knew her mother and Ryder's kept in occasional contact, mostly through the chance encounter while out and about, and she remembered seeing Mrs. McPhee at her parents' party a couple of times over the years, she added, "Your parents might have received an invitation." "My parents have gone to Florida to visit friends and relatives, so they won't be making it." Chloe felt a wave of relief. At least she wouldn't have to face Ryder's parents and determine whether or not they were aware of her recent involvement with their son — or decide whether or not she should mention it herself. She couldn't very well blurt I've started sleeping with Ryder. Even for her, that would be a little too candid. Ryder looked at her squarely. "Invite me." He didn't mince words, and she found herself agreeing with a simple "Okay." As they continued walking toward his apartment, she convinced herself that bringing him home to the Davenport gathering wasn't such a big deal. Yes, there'd be questions, but Ryder — if he hadn't been a known quantity to her family and someone from her past — was exactly what she'd been looking for in a date: successful and handsome, and someone she was wildly attracted to. Ryder put an end to her thoughts as they stepped off the elevator and directly into his penthouse apartment, and once again, Chloe gave herself up to his embrace and the burning attraction between them.
Chapter Seven
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The party was in full swing when Chloe showed up with Ryder for the annual Davenport family gathering at her parents' house in suburban Westchester. The sounds of noisy laughter and people speaking over one another could be heard reverberating throughout the first floor of the house as they stepped inside the front door. The Davenports post-holiday tradition had started years before when Chloe's parents had realized there was no way to gather together all — or even most —of their extended family and friends during the hectic December holiday season. It had taken on added significance when Chloe's sister, Maxine, had gotten married and begun alternating her holidays between the Davenports and her in-laws. The January gathering had become an opportunity for Chloe's parents to see the grandkids. "Chloe, you're finally here!" Chloe nearly groaned as her sister moved toward her, holding eighteen-month-old Emma. Somehow, Maxine always managed to invest her comments with an element of reproach. Chloe sighed over the fact that she and Ryder had barely had a chance to shed their coats and already she was faced with what was bound to be one of the more challenging introductions of the afternoon. Maxine leaned forward and air-kissed her, and Chloe dutifully reciprocated. Chloe knew that, in her sister's opinion, there was no use ruining a perfectly made-up face with greetings that were bound to be rougeeffacing. As Maxine moved back, she pulled Emma's hand from the collar of Chloe's wool sweater. "No — no — no!" she said in a singsong voice to her daughter even as her eyes wandered to Ryder, open curiosity evident on her face. With resignation, Chloe realized there was no putting off the inevitable any longer. She adored her niece and four-year-old nephew, Andrew, but she had trouble dealing with her perfectly polished sister and brother-inlaw. "Maxine, you remember Ryder McPhee, don't you?" "Ryder, of course!" Her sister extended her hand. "No wonder you looked so familiar! It's wonderful to see you again. How long has it been?" Chloe watched as Ryder took the proffered hand. "Since high school, I'd say. You haven't changed a bit, Maxine." Was it just her imagination, Chloe wondered, or was there a double edge to Ryder's words? She was distracted from considering the answer to that question by the appearance of her brother-in-law, Gavin. Spotting her husband, Maxine held out the baby in her arms and said, "Darling, could you take her, please?" After Gavin had taken Emma in his arms, Chloe introduced Ryder to him and some casual chitchat ensued. Eventually, however, Chloe caught Maxine eyeing her and Ryder speculatively. "So," Maxine asked, "did you two arrive together?" Chloe felt Ryder slide an arm over her shoulders. "Yes. Let me know if anyone needs me to move my car; it's the black Jag at the end of the driveway." Chloe could almost see her sister's mind churning as she seemed to take in Ryder's attire, from his custommade jacket to his Tod's shoes. If anything, Maxine was more adept than she was at spotting the telltale signs of discreet wealth, though her sister wasn't the one who worked for a fashion magazine. Chloe supposed, however, that being a full-time housewife in an upscale suburb was credential enough.
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Maxine glanced from her to Ryder, a cute little frown marring her otherwise smooth brow. "It's so rare Chloe brings a date to these events. I hope it's not because she's embarrassed by her family!" Gavin chuckled. "Honey, I'm sure that's not the case." Before Chloe could reply, Maxine leaned toward her and said in a stage whisper, "It's so cute you brought one of our old high school classmates. I'd never have thought of going that route. Good thinking!" Gavin spoke up. "So what are you doing these days, Ryder?" Chloe thought it was the type of question her brother-in-law might ask a newcomer while playing a round of golf at his exclusive country club. Ryder's hand tightened on her shoulder as he directed a level look at the shorter man. "You could say I've been an investment manager since I sold some of my stock in Gizmo during the Internet boom." Chloe watched as her brother-in-law's eyebrows moved up, and even Maxine looked impressed. Heck, she herself was impressed. Gizmo was one of the more successful Internet companies to date. Even Chloe had heard of it. When stock had been sold to the public a few years ago, the company's founders and executives had become instant multimillionaires. She glanced up at Ryder. He'd remained so vague about his career. Why hadn't he told her about Gizmo? The company was only one of the most successful information retrieval portals around! If Ryder had sold his stock in the company after it had gone public, then his net worth was certainly in the tens of millions of dollars! No wonder he called himself an investment manager — investing all his money must be a full-time job! When Maxine and Gavin had moved off — ostensibly in Maxine's case to deal with a fussy Emma — Chloe confronted Ryder. "Why didn't you tell me you were involved with Gizmo? Were you one of the founders?" Ryder shrugged. "A cofounder. I went in with a buddy from business school." He nodded in the general direction in which her sister and brother-in-law had just departed. "Why didn't you tell me about Barbie and Ken, Mr. and Mrs. Perfect?" This time it was her turn to shrug. "What's to tell? They're family." She held his gaze. "That's not the same thing as forgetting to mention you're a dot-com gazillionaire!" "Honey, I'm so glad you're here!" Chloe turned in time to see her mother bearing down on them. At sixty-six, her mother was an older version of Maxine, though in personality she tended to have a more distracted air. For her mother's benefit, Chloe nodded at the man next to her — did she really know him? "Mom, you remember Ryder McPhee? I think you still keep in touch with his mother occasionally." "Hello, Mrs. Davenport," Ryder said. Her mother's face reflected surprise and then delight. "Oh — yes, of course! Ryder! It's wonderful to see you again. I'm so glad you could join us." Chloe watched as her mother glanced at her, then back at Ryder. "I'm just surprised — surprised and pleased. That is, I told Helen… What I mean is, I didn't realize Helen had told you…" Next to her, Chloe noted that Ryder seemed to stiffen.
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"Mrs. McPhee told Ryder what, Mom?" Her mother looked back at her, a smile touching her lips. "That Helen and I wanted to fix the two of you up! I didn't realize Helen had said anything to Ryder about our conversation the last time we ran into each other in town, but, well, here the two of you are!" Here they were, all right, Chloe thought, feeling her blood pressure rise. Putting two and two together, she realized it hadn't been a coincidence that Ryder had run into her at the Elliotts' New Year's Eve party. He'd planned it! She'd thought she was finally showing up at a Davenport family gathering with a date she was proud of — one that, yes, she'd fallen for, and one that, yes, she'd found on her own. Instead, the joke was on her because she'd shown up with her mother's set-up date. She couldn't think of anything more humiliating. Her eyes connected with those of Maxine, who stood a few feet away and had obviously taken in the whole scene. On second thought, Chloe reflected, perhaps there was something more humiliating. Maxine clapped her hands together. "I love it! Mom to the rescue!"
Chapter Eight Ryder took in Chloe's turbulent expression and realized he was a man going down for the count. He had to act fast. Damn it. He hadn't expected Chloe's mother to blurt out that she and his own mother had tried to arrange a date between their offspring. He'd deliberately exhibited a lack of interest when his mother had brought up the idea, but admittedly that's how his own plan to approach Chloe had started to form. Obviously, his mother had thought it better to let Mrs. Davenport believe she'd never brought up the subject with him than to confess Ryder had shown zero interest in dating Chloe. Equally obvious, however, was that Mrs. Davenport thought his mother must have eventually persuaded him to ask Chloe out, after all — how else to explain his presence at the party today? He should have anticipated this, but then again, how could he have guessed Chloe's mother would draw the wrong conclusion? And what's more, judging from the smirk on Maxine's face, that her conclusion would be drawn in front of everyone. Taking Chloe's arm, he said, "Excuse us." As they walked away, she remained stiff under the pressure of his hand. "Look," he muttered, "I know you're mad at me —" "Really?" she interrupted sarcastically. "How can you tell?" "— but right now I need you to tell me where we can find a private place to talk." He started to think she wouldn't answer, but finally she said, "Upstairs. My old bedroom." When they got upstairs, he shut the door to her bedroom behind them and took a look around. The furniture was white wicker, the color scheme purple and pink.
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Ten years ago, he mused, he'd have given his right arm for a glimpse of Fab Dav's bedroom. Turning back to Chloe, he lifted an eyebrow. "Looks as if things haven't changed much since high school." She looked at him coolly. "In more ways than one, apparently. My mother hasn't redecorated, and you're as obnoxious as ever." He smiled, though he knew it would incense her. Given her current mood, he doubted finding her adorable when angry would be welcome news. "I'm glad you find this funny," she said acerbically. Deliberately, he moved toward her. "The other thing that's remained the same is that I'm living out a fantasy by being in your bedroom." His arms snaked around her before she could protest, and he kissed her. Deeply, thoroughly, satisfyingly. When he finally loosened his hold, she braced her hands on his chest and said, "That's it? That's your response? To try to resolve this with sex? You intentionally didn't tell me about our mothers' plotting —" "And you didn't tell me your motive for showing up with me today was to have a date to show off to Maxine and Gavin. So I guess we're even." He waited, and it became obvious she didn't have a quick comeback.
*** Chloe didn't have a quick comeback. Except for the truth. Sure, she'd been worried about finding a date to bring to the party today, but things had changed over the past two weeks. Gradually, it had become less important she bring a date today and more important she bring Ryder. Because she wanted him. Because she'd fallen for him. Ryder bent and trailed warm, feathery kisses across her brow, along the side of her face and to the corners of her lips — soothing her, lulling her. After a couple of minutes, her eyes fluttered shut seemingly of their own accord. He was seducing her, the sneak, and she couldn't seem to summon the willpower to do anything about it. "Chloe." "Hmm?" "I didn't show up at the Elliotts' New Year's Eve party because of our mothers' attempt at matchmaking." She blinked slowly. "What? Of course, you did." He nibbled at her lips some more before pulling back and shaking his head. "I admit, Mom told me she'd run into your mother recently and they thought it would be a great idea if I got in touch with you —" "So, you admit it." "— but I told my mother, no. I arranged to run into you at the Elliotts' bash because I wanted to, not to please my mother." "What?" she asked, now more alert.
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He gazed down at her, his face thoughtful. "I also knew you'd never go for a date arranged by our mothers acting as the go-betweens. For one thing, you probably wouldn't appreciate the meddling, particularly from your mother. For another, your last memories of me were from high school, when I was deliberately obnoxious in order to get your attention." Her heart began to lift at his confession. He truly understood her, and why wasn't she surprised? "But my mother's attempt at matchmaking got me thinking," he went on. "I knew you were single and available and working at Charisma, so I finagled an invitation to the Elliotts' New Year's Eve party from Cullen." "You went to a lot of trouble," she said carefully. He gave her the lopsided grin she'd come to know and love so well. "I knew Cullen through some business associates, so getting an invitation wasn't too hard. The hard part is never getting over a high school crush." A giddy joy filled her at his admission. "I never understood how I got the name Fab Dav. I certainly didn't feel fabulous in high school. " "Remind me to fill you in one day," he joked, then sobered and searched her face. "I've gotten used to being closemouthed about my career, but I figured that through your mother, you knew something about what I'd been doing these past few years." She shook her head. "Mom is clueless about the Internet. She's older than my friends' parents — Maxine and I didn't come along until her mid-thirties. If you said Google to her, she'd think it was a noise that babies make." She now remembered her mother mentioning once or twice over the years that Mrs. McPhee had said Ryder had become successful in his business career, but she'd dismissed the comments as nothing more than the boasting of a proud parent. The word successful had conjured thoughts of Ryder as a middle manager with a nice paycheck, not of a member of the multimillionaires' club. She watched now as Ryder grinned. "It's good to know you were attracted to my body and not my stock portfolio." "Actually, when you showed up on New Year's Eve, I thought I was destined to kiss another, ah, frog at midnight." He gave a half laugh. "No wonder you seemed to dwell on the fact I was wearing green." "Remember that, do you?" she teased, then added more seriously, "By the way, two weeks ago I may have been looking for a date for this party, but I asked you to come today because of you. Not because of Maxine or Gavin." She couldn't care less about her sister and brother-in-law's reactions. She'd wanted Ryder to come today because she'd fallen for him. "Chloe, I know it's been only two weeks —" "Yes." "But that crush I mentioned earlier?" "Yes?" "It's only gotten worse since high school."
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She pressed two fingers to his lips. "I know. I feel the same way." Her heart filled with happiness as she realized she'd guessed wrong that night in his hotel room: it was his obnoxious behavior, not his crush on her that he'd thought he'd been cured of since high school. He smiled against her fingers. "I'm thinking it's love at this point." "You'd better," she said with pretend severity, trying to hold back the well of emotion, "because I'm crazy in love with you." "Ah, Chloe." And then there was no talking for a very long time, until Chloe reluctantly broke away and said, "We should get back to the party." As they went back downstairs together, Ryder teased, "Think you can live with knowing your mother had a role in your encountering your future husband?" She linked her arm through his, thinking of the little McPhees in their future. "Remind me to thank her."
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False Idols by Jenna Mills The Marian priestesses were destroyed long ago, but their daughters live on. The time has come for the heiresses to learn of their legacy, to unite the pieces of a powerful mosaic and bring light to a secret their ancestors died to protect…. Intelligence has it that the individual responsible for several antiquities thefts in England is targeting an exhibit of Mayan artifacts recently found by a salvage team off the coast of Portugal. MI-6 agent Nadia Bishop has been dispatched to Portugal to catch the thief. Distractions, including a certain sexy Italian, could prove deadly…
Chapter One 3 years ago Tomar, Portugal "So what do you think? Is the world really going to end?" Standing in a seven-hundred-year-old room, surrounded by the remnants of a civilization lost to time and disease and greed, I found myself straightening my shoulders — and wishing I'd brought a heavier wrap. A few modern conveniences had been installed in the old abbey, such as lighting and plumbing, but no central heat. The cool January dampness seeped through the stone and into the exhibit rooms, but any chill I felt vanished the second I turned from the Mayan calendar toward the man who'd come up behind me. The fissure of warmth surprised me — and that surprised me even more. Back at MI-6 headquarters in London, the name Nadia Bishop was synonymous with coolness under fire. Rarely was I taken by surprise. And on those few occasions when I had been, I calmly and efficiently improvised. The man in the black tuxedo was different. I'd not heard him approach. That in itself irritated me. But what irritated me even more was the purely visceral response to the gleam in his slumberous eyes. They were green. Not green like the summer grass or springtime leaves, but deeper and darker, like the olives that grew in abundance throughout southern Europe. Well-practiced at game playing, I found just the right smile. "Someday, I suppose." After six years of fieldwork, it was easy to keep the Brit from my voice. I had East Coast America down pat. "It's rather inevitable, isn't it?" With a slow smile the dark-haired man stepped closer. Tall, I noted. Well over six feet. "Is that what you believe? That some things are inevitable?" The words — or maybe it was his voice, low and slightly hoarse, urbane with a distinct Italian edge — whispered through me. "Some things," I agreed, continuing the game even as I forced myself to glance around the well-lit room. I was there on business, after all. Distractions, I knew well, could be deadly. Intelligence had it that the individual responsible for several antiquities thefts in England was targeting the exhibit of Mayan artifacts recently found by a salvage team off the coast of Portugal. The artifacts had been lost for two hundred and fifty years, since the galleon carrying them from the New World perished in the horrific earthquake and subsequent tsunami of 1755. Well-dressed guests moved about the large room, studying the collection of axes, earthenware and stone statues, the rare Jaguar mask and an intriguing map of what looked to be Europe, as well as an assortment of broken jade tiles. All the while a cultured, aristocratic voice belonging to the philanthropist Max Adriano, I'd been told, echoed through the room to the backdrop of a steady drumbeat. The exhibit's patron had recorded a narrative to accompany the exhibit.
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"The Mayan calendar is a gateway to realms of consciousness that the majority of mankind has been blinded to by the use of false delusory calendars. Idols, they are. And like blind little sheep, we worship them, give them our very lives…" "But I also believe in free will," I said, returning my attention to the Italian — and ignoring the unwanted kick of my heart. It was the way he was looking at me, as if I were as fascinating as the lauded Mayan calendar carved in stone behind me. Something about him screamed money and breeding, but the whiskers shadowing his jaw hinted at rebellion, and the energy radiating from his lean frame promised adventure. "It was inevitable that the galleon went down, but it was free will that brought the men on board to their fate." Finally he looked beyond me to the calendar shrouded in mystery and illuminated by a single spotlight. According to the Maya, the Age of the Jaguar was drawing to a close. "2012 isn't that far away." His voice was oddly quiet. "If it is inevitable that the world shall end," he asked, and suddenly he was looking at me again, smiling a smile so full of suggestion that my blood almost boiled with it, "how will your free will dictate that you spend your final hours?" Clearly, the word subtle did not exist in the man's vocabulary. But then, he was Italian, and they were not known for subtlety. His super-charged question danced through me, touching off a longing I'd not felt in a long time. Not me, Nadia Bishop, super spy. Feeling was not part of my game. "You believe all that? That the earth's magnetic field is going to reverse?" It sounded fantastical, even though I'd spoken to quite a few scholars who believed it was not only possible, but…inevitable. "Anything is possible," he said. "Just as it is possible that a new age awaits us after that of the Jaguar. What is it they say?" he asked, even though it was clear he knew. "That out of every ending comes a new beginning?" "A poet," I quipped. And he smiled. "Maybe just a fan of beginnings." Something inside me shifted. "I am sorry," he said in that yummy Italian-accented voice of his. "Here I talk of new beginnings and how we should best spend our final moments, and I have not even given you my name." Fluidly he took my hand and drew it to his mouth for a soft kiss. "Antonio," he murmured. "Antonio Vastano." I refused to allow myself to indulge in the moist warmth of his fingers, which had closed around my palm. "Zoe." Aliases were part of the game. But for the first time I could remember, I regretted the lie. "Zoe Whitman." He lowered our joined hands, but did not release mine. "You do not look like a Zoe," he said, and something deep inside me started to buzz. His eyes glimmered. "No?" I asked. "Then what do I look like?" "Something glamorous and sophisticated — Sophia or Natasha, Anastasia —" He broke off and tilted his head, lifted his free hand to his left ear and frowned. Then everything changed. The seductive lines of his face tightened, and the gleam in his eyes went hard. It was a murderous look I knew well. "Antonio —" I started, but stopped the second I saw the figure in black cross the doorway. "You'll have to excuse me," I said, pulling away.
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He made no move to stop me. Discreetly, I slipped from the room and made my way down the torch-lit corridor, toward the red rope separating the exhibit from private quarters. Instinctively my hand reached for the 9mm tucked inside my handbag as I skirted the flimsy barricade. A single gold curtain hung in the doorway of a room to my right. I withdrew my gun and moved the curtain aside — and saw the body on the floor.
Chapter Two I was too late. The man lay on the cold stone floor, next to a small table that contained a scattering of notes and photographs. Only two weeks before I would not have recognized him. But from the prep work I'd done for my assignment I now knew him to be Max Adriano, Italian philanthropist and patron of the exhibit — the man whose elegantly ominous voice guided visitors through the exhibit of Mayan artifacts. I rushed forward, acutely aware that the bloom of blood against his white dress shirt was precariously close to his heart. Dropping to my knees, I pressed two fingers against his neck, while I used my other hand to loosen his bow tie. "I need some help in here!" His skin was cool and clammy and parchment thin. I should have found a pulse immediately. I didn't. "Someone's been hurt!" Still kneeling, I yanked my scarf from my satchel and wadded it into a ball, then held it against the chest wound. The shooter must have used a silencer. Otherwise, the shot would have echoed through the old stone abbey, just like Max's voice continued to do from the corridor beyond. "…the past is not dead. The past is not static. Those who have come before us are mankind's greatest teachers. They knew the human condition for what it was, and they tried to warn us…" My heart raced. If I'd ignored the Italian…if I'd arrived only seconds before… Acutely alert, I scanned the small room. There was but one narrow corridor leading to the chamber. The acoustics were such that everything carried, including voices and footsteps. And yet I'd seen no one. Heard nothing. It was as if Max Adriano's assailant had simply vanished into thin air. Or through the narrow passage just barely visible behind a richly decorated silken screen. Adrenaline shot through me. Every drop of training I had demanded that I go after the shooter — The faint rhythm of a pulse finally fluttered beneath my fingertips. Relief came hard and fast, but with it the handcuffs of responsibility. I couldn't just go off and — "Signor Adriano, mi dispiace —" I twisted toward the voice as it broke off, and surged to my feet. "Thank God. He's been hurt." A man I'd seen earlier, dressed in white as a waiter, lifted a submachine gun and curled his finger around the trigger. A Beretta, I would guess. Italian, new, lethal. "Do not move." "Easy," I said, knowing the drill. I dropped my 9mm and lifted my hands. "I'm not the shooter." He barked something in Spanish and an immediate surge of voices sounded down the hall.
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"He's alive," I said. "But the person who did this to him is getting away." I gestured toward the silk curtain. "Back there, through the corridor." His eyes darted toward the escape route, then back to me. "If I did this to him, why would I still be here?" I pointed out. "Why would I linger so you could find me?" I saw the argument register in his gaze, but before he could say anything three more men raced into the room. "Oh, Dio!" one of them shouted. The faux waiter shouted at them, this time in Italian, instructing them to get the old man to the nearest hospital, immediament. Then he bolted for the corridor and vanished into the darkness. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed my gun and took off after him.
*** I've been in caves before, deep beneath the surface of the earth, where the darkness is so pure and absolute I couldn't see my own hand mere centimeters from my face. The tight corridor reminded me of those caves, except for the beam of the penlight I'd retrieved from my satchel, just one of the many accessories a girl in my line of work learned to keep on hand. The passageway wound like a maze beneath the abbey. Small halls led to nowhere. Doors opened to stone walls. Nooks and crannies offered too many places to hide. And yet I wasn't about to turn back. Against the damp chill I kept on, until the small circle of light slammed into yet another stone wall, while to the right and the left, identical sets of steep stairs descended into twin vats of darkness. Upon reaching the fork, I listened for noise from either direction. Hearing none, I gambled and started down to the left. Places carry memories, I've always heard, and as my now-bare feet came down on the cold damp stone of the musty-smelling passage, the chill seeped clear down to my bones. This wasn't a good place. It hadn't been constructed for happy times. It was an escape route. Those who had used it had done so to flee death. And in the cool damp darkness, their horror and desperation lingered. The Moors had not been kind when they conquered Portugal. Thirty-two narrow steps led down to another corridor, this one barely wide enough for me to walk through. A man such as Antonio, with those wide shoulders, would have had to turn to his side to squeeze through. From somewhere farther down, I would have sworn I heard the muffled echo of a door closing. Thrilling to the chase, I pounded down the uneven corridor until the beam of my light fell upon a wooden door at the end of the passage. With my 9mm in one hand, I was reaching for the knob when a noise sounded somewhere behind me. Quickly I extinguished my light and dropped to my knees, doing my best to lose myself in the darkness. Maybe it was the man dressed in white. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, I knew better than to make myself a target. Unless I could open the door, I was trapped — I recognized the hum in the split second before the stream of bullets ricocheted like a jackhammer along the stone walls. Shards of debris slicing down on me, I reached for the knob, turned it and lunged inside what appeared to be a small room. A cloud of stale dust followed me as I slammed the door back into place and lifted my flashlight against the walls of the small stone room. The second I saw the door on the other side, I started to run. The attack came from behind. Before I could so much as breathe, he barreled into me like an American football player and sandwiched me between his big body and the cold stone of the wall.
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My flashlight fell uselessly to the ground. "You are mine now," he growled — and the low tenor of the voice stopped me cold. Antonio.
Chapter Three Agents are trained to expect the unexpected. We're trained to anticipate and adapt, to improvise. After five years of fieldwork, I was very, very good at adapting. Early in my career I'd discovered that people see what they expect to see — and no one expected a fivefoot-eight daughter of a peer of the realm, with long cinnamon hair, I-dare-you eyes and a penchant for haute couture, to be a spy. Quite the opposite, in fact. They expected me to be a party girl or a bubblehead — a fact that had come in brilliantly handy as I'd become more and more talented at improvising. And I was quite certain it was going to help me now. At least, that was, once I got past the shock of feeling the whipcord-lean body pressed to mine. For the second time in less than an hour Antonio had caught me by surprise — and that unnerved me more than I cared to admit. "Antonio?" I let my voice become huskier from when we'd first spoken. "Oh, thank God," I breathed. The darkness gave me cover as I slipped my 9mm back into my satchel before lifting my hands to his arms. The tuxedo jacket was gone, leaving just the damp cotton of his dress shirt. "Is that you?" Against my body, I felt him stiffen. "Zoe?" "We have to get out of here!" I whispered as my mind raced. There had to be another way out; I was almost certain he had not come from the same direction I had. "Hurry!" For effect, I pulled away and attempted to drag him. "He has a gun." Strong hands steadied me. "Who has a gun?" "The man with the scar on his face. He…he's trying to kill me!" The lie rolled easily off my tongue — it was, after all, the only way to explain why a representative of an American art museum was running around in the secret tunnels beneath the abbey, mere minutes after an assassination attempt. Antonio swore softly and lyrically, and stupidly, something inside me responded to the blatant Italian machismo. He put his body between mine and the door. "Do not be afraid," he said, and through the darkness I heard him move. "But I need you to be ready to run on my word." Oh, those Italians. They knew how to make a girl, even a trained agent, feel as fragile as spun glass. "Be careful." Quietly he moved from me. No more than one meter could have separated us, but through the darkness I saw nothing — it surprised me how badly I wanted to see his face. His eyes, I knew. Did they gleam? Or were they hard, like they'd been when he broke off from analyzing my assumed name. If I could see his eyes, I would know whether he believed me — and of equal importance, whether I believed him. But for the moment, it was both wiser and safer to keep him in the dark.
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A faint scraping told me he was opening the door, but the darkness kept bleeding around us, breathing and pulsing with a life of its own, as if those long-ago persecutors hovered near. Antonio's muttered oath brought me closer. Standing behind him, I lifted my hands to his back and looked at what he saw: the pile of stone rubble where the corridor had been moments before, illuminated by the narrow beam of his own flashlight. Clearly we were safe from the shooter — but equally clear was that we would not be leaving the way I'd come. After closing the door, Antonio turned to face me. And I got my wish. With the aid of his flashlight, I could see his eyes. They were greener than before, darker, somehow gleaming and hard at the same time, and in them I saw a struggle I did not understand. "You are safe now." His voice was soft and rough and sure, and as he spoke he lifted a hand to brush the hair from my face. "No one is going to hurt you." They were throwaway words, for a throwaway situation, uttered between two strangers and against one very big lie. But my blood hummed anyway. Because of his accent, I told myself. And the bloody delicious way he was looking at me, as if he wanted to consume me. No one had ever looked at me like that before, except maybe in my dreams. My good friend Lex frequently teased — I broke the thought before it could form. I had no time for reminiscing, or dreams. "Thank you." I lowered my forehead against his chest. Somewhere along the line he'd pulled off his bow tie and his dress shirt hung open, allowing wiry hairs to tickle my face. "Zoe." The way he said my fake name made me shiver, and in some foolhardy corner of my mind I wondered what it would be like to hear him say my real name. Nadia. Recognizing the danger, I clenched my jaw and reminded myself of all that stood at stake. He tilted my face to his. "Did he hurt you?" I let my eyes meet his. "No." "What — I do not — " His frustration was oddly charming. "What happened? How did you end up in the tunnels?" Showtime. "I — I was looking for the facilities and…took a wrong turn." Haltingly I described walking into a room to ask for directions, only to find the body of an old man on the floor. "This old man," Antonio asked. "Was he dead?" I shook my head. "No. Not yet." Something dark and agitated flashed through his eyes. "And what of the other man?" In a practiced move, I hugged my chest and rubbed my hands along my upper arms, disturbed by the fleeting thought of how it would feel to have Antonio's hands do the same. "He found me there. He must have been the shooter. He grabbed me and dragged me through a secret passageway." Antonio frowned. "To use you as a hostage." "Maybe — probably. It was dark and the tunnels were like a maze…. I — I fought him, tripped him and got away and started running."
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A faint smile played at Antonio's lips. "I am glad." Still watching me, he brought his hands to his shirt, and made quick work of the few buttons that remained fastened. Then he slid elegantly out of his shirt and draped it around my shoulders. "For now, it is the best I can do." The veil of warmth was instant. So was the subtle scent of leather and patchouli and man. "You are American, yes?" he asked. Then, oh bloody hell, his hands were on my arms, rubbing slowly down, then equally slowly up. Ignoring the little fissures of pleasure, I nodded. "Maryland." "You are a long way from home." "Yes," I said, then gave him my cover, about working for a Baltimore museum interested in bringing the Mayan relics to the States. "And the man with the scar, you say he attacked you?" The question was soft and quiet and concerned, but my instincts went on full alert. "Yes." A long moment passed before Antonio said anything else, a long moment during which we stood in the stone room lit only by his flashlight, with our shadows playing like a erotic silhouette against the wall, as his hands slid from my arms to my lower back. "Why then," he asked, and before I could rip it away from him, he'd stabbed his hand into my satchel, "do you have a gun?"
Chapter Four There are many ways for eyes to gleam. Earlier, when Antonio first approached me while I studied the Mayan calendar, the dark light in his gaze had been purely sexual. Then later, when I'd first stumbled across him in the small, stone room deep beneath the abbey and given him my story about being pursued by a man with a gun, the light had hardened into something fierce and protective. Both looks had made my blood hum. But all that was gone now, the shadow dancing and the ferocity, replaced by a dark glitter I recognized well: the thrill of the hunt. It gave me a seductive rush that quickened through every cell of my body. The silence of the musty old room deepened, leaving only the erotic intimacy of our breathing. His damp shirt lay draped around my shoulders. He stood so close I could feel the heat of his body — so close he could be on me in less than a heartbeat. Or at least try to be. He was at least six inches and fifty pounds heavier than me, that was true. But I'd been around the block too many times to be afraid. Not only did I know my way around the human body, but the gorgeous blood-red ruby I wore on my right ring finger concealed a few tricks of its own. But Antonio made no move against me, he just watched me with the raw intensity of a predator studying the prey it had just backed into a corner. Of course, I was neither prey nor backed into a corner. Rubbing my hands along my arms, I stared at my 9mm dangling from his index finger like a juicy piece of bait. "It's not mine," I said easily. "The man with the scar…when I kneed him in the groin, he dropped it. I…I picked it up while he was doubled over and ran."
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I loved the way Antonio winced. Men, they could be so predictable… He kept watching me, giving me neither rejection nor acceptance. "Guns are dangerous," he pointed out. And in return, I gave him a beautifully impish smile. "I know," I said. "But I also have brothers." Lie. An adopted child, I had no one. Or at least, that's what I'd always been told. In my heart, I'd never quite believed it. "They taught me all their tricks, how to fight dirty, how to win at cards. How to shoot." His expression gave away nothing. "B-but I hate it," I added with a fleeting look toward the ground. "I can shoot cans, but I — I don't know if I could ever really shoot another person." Finally, something in his eyes relaxed. Just a little. He looked down at the gun and removed the clip, shoved it into his pocket. "You will not have to. At least not tonight." The little rush of satisfaction was immediate. Then, to press my advantage while I had it, I let my eyes flare and took a step back from. "W-what are you doing down here? W-who are you really?" That got him. He'd been so commando and in charge, but the second I turned the tables, he looked as though I'd just struck him. "What do you mean who am I?" I took another step away from him. "You may have the gun, but I swear to God I won't let you hurt me. I'll kick and bite and — " Just like I'd planned, incredulity blazed from his eyes. "You think I am going to hurt you?" "What else am I to think? I found a man lying in his own blood upstairs, and then another man dragged me down here and tried to kill me. And then I just happened to run into you? The same man who approached me only a short time before? Except now you're in some secret passageway — " I saw it all register in his gaze. "Dio," he muttered, and if the moment hadn't been so tense, I might have laughed. But then, for the third time in one evening, this man who could send everything inside of me into lockdown without so much as lifting a hand, surprised me yet again. He pulled the clip from his pocket and tossed it to me. Then he tossed me my 9mm. "I am not going to hurt you." For effect, I fumbled as I slid the clip back into place. "Then what are you doing down here?" His expression hardened. "Lift the gun." Now it was my turn to experience a moment of incredulity. "What?" "Lift the gun," he said again. "And put your finger to the trigger." Puzzled, intrigued, I did exactly as he instructed. And as we stood that way, with the darkness of the musty old room surrounding the small circle of light in which we stood, he put his hand to his back pocket, and I understood. He'd instructed me to hold the gun on him, to prove to me that he meant me no harm. Smoothly, he retrieved a small black leather wallet from his pocket. And in the wavery beam of the penlight, flipped it open. First I saw the shiny bronze badge. Then I saw the small picture on the ID card. And the name.
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Antonio Vastano, SSIMI. Italian intelligence.
*** It was close to nine o'clock the next morning before Antonio and I made our way through the network of caves beneath the old abbey and emerged into the harsh sunlight near a former Jesuit stronghold, an abandoned structure a full two miles from where we'd started. There hadn't exactly been taxis waiting, but we had persuaded a local farmer to drive us back to the abbey. Italian intelligence. I still couldn't get over it. No wonder I'd felt connected to Antonio from the very first. But not even that connection prompted me to relax my cover. I knew better than to allow even the slightest little crack. "Gone?" The word stopped me cold. I turned from the curiously roped-off exhibit area to see Antonio interrogating one of the local officials. The lines of his face were hard. Worried. "What do you mean gone?"
Chapter Five Italians are known for their passion. I knew this, had worked with Italians many times in the past. Even so, nothing prepared me for the intensity of Antonio's reaction to the news that our worst fear had come to pass: the Mayan relics had been stolen. Moving closer, I saw the dark green glitter of his eyes, all the more pronounced by his olive skin and dark hair, and felt something inside me catch. He lifted his hands in that purely Italian way, swearing harshly as the security guard explained. "After Signor Adriano's collapse, we were forced to evacuate the exhibit as a precaution…" Collapse. It was an odd descriptor for what I was certain had been an assassination attempt. I'd seen the blood, after all. And yet, the authorities acted as if the man's heart had simply given out. I didn't need to be a trained agent to smell a cover-up. During the chaos — which I now knew had been a diversion — someone or ones had made off with many of the exhibit's most valuable relics, and a few that didn't appear valuable at all, such as the jade tiles and a random assortment of rusted keys found aboard the galleon. Frowning, Antonio shot me a hard look, muttered something about a Dr. Moon, then strode from the room. A lay person would probably have assumed this Dr. Moon had something to do with Max Adriano's condition. But I knew better. I also knew Antonio was barking up the wrong tree, as my American friend Lex so liked to say. True, the theft had some of the hallmarks of the notorious antiquities thief, Dr. Moon, but MI-6 had already tried to solidify that connection. There was nothing there. The frustration was intense. This was what MI-6 had feared, the reason I was here. To not only thwart another theft, but to apprehend those responsible. Failure was not something I took lightly. "Tragic, is it not?"
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Maybe it was the sophisticated French accent, but I didn't get the impression the woman who'd spoken was distressed, so much as intrigued. I glanced to my right and saw her, a slender woman in a slim-fitting camel suit, with a tidy scarf secured around her neck. She stood only a few feet away, near a stone tablet carved with what looked to be a map of Western Europe, with a crude star etched over what would have been southern France. "I don't believe we've met," I said. "No, we have not." The words weren't exactly rude, but neither were they friendly. She kept her gaze on the hand-carved map and held silent, as if that, were that. But I could play, too, and after a long moment of silence she lifted her chin and looked back at me. "Catrina Dauvergne," she said. "And you're familiar with the exhibit?" I asked. "But of course. The legend of the sabotaged galleon has always intrigued me." "Sabotaged?" It was another odd description. Catrina, who turned out to be a Parisian museum curator, looked at me as if I'd asked an imbecilic question. "What happened last night was inevitable," she said, "but completely preventable if the authorities had paid attention to history. These relics, they do not belong to Portugal. They do not belong to Western man. They belong in situ, to the Maya." Frowning, she glanced at the program in her hand, open to a picture of the calendar. "Holy relics should be left in their natural surroundings, not stolen away as toys to be gawked at by dilettantes out for an afternoon's amusement." The fervor in her voice put me on guard. "What do you mean paid attention to history?" "There are those who believe the galleon did not perish as a result of the earthquake." Pausing, she slipped a few strands of honey-blond hair behind her ear. "There were those with a vested interest to make sure such pagan relics, artifacts of a society that practiced human sacrifice, never reached Catholic Europe." I wanted to discount her story as rubble, but the conspiracy made an odd kind of sense. I'd certainly heard of more elaborate cover-ups, particularly when religion and politics were involved. "You're saying the galleon was sabotaged —" "As was the exhibit," she finished for me. "Time moves forward, but fear remains…" According to Catrina, the Mayan calendar was one of the greatest sources of fear. True, the calendar exists in many other forms around the world — and the mysterious end-date of 2012 is no secret. But allegedly there were those who believed the version of the calendar that sank off the coast in Portugal of 1755 contained an encoded prophecy about the end of times. "It is not so surprising," she'd said. "History is full of such predictions. Plague hits, and the world shall end. The millennia shift, and the world shall end. It was a common motivational strategy for the ignorant." She'd spoken of apocalypse, but her voice had been amused. "The end of times." Everything else that had been stolen, she believed, such as the earthenware, statues, axes and jade tiles, were merely a smokescreen.
***
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After sharing her theories with my superiors, I drove to the hospital where I found the man I'd followed into the tunnels the night before, the attractive Spaniard who'd been dressed in white like a tuxedo, guarding the operating room. Marco was his name, and he'd tensed the second he saw me. Of course, he wasn't really a waiter. He was the old man's bodyguard. Max Adriano lay in intensive care — a piece of information I secured only via professional contacts. Despite the ruse about a heart attack, I knew what I'd seen. What I'd touched. I'd kneeled over the man, wadded my own scarf to press against his wound. Heart attacks did not make one bleed from the chest. I needed to talk to Max Adriano, myself. Ask him what he remembered about those last few moments, what he'd seen. But I might as well have banged my fists against a stone wall. Finally a nurse I'd persuaded told me Signor Adriano was in grave condition. He was in surgery for the second time. The family had been called. They were not sure he would make it through the next few hours. The quick well of emotion surprised me. I did not know the man, but something about heart attacks and hospitals threw me back to the day I lost my own father. I'd been at university, walking to class, when I saw my childhood nanny walking toward me. The second I'd seen the grim expression on her face, I knew something terrible had happened. Fighting the memory, I strode out of the hospital. I was nearing my car when movement to my right caught my attention, and I turned to see Antonio talking into a headset as he slid into a sleek little black car. The engine roared and he tore out of the parking lot. All thoughts of a warm shower perished. On purely blind instinct, (or at least that's what I told myself), I slid into my rental and sped after him.
*** The misshapen monoliths were assembled down the side of a slight hill in the countryside beyond the town, not in a circle like Stonehenge, but staggered, like a restless crowd gathered to hear a prophet speak. The ground was hard and brown and rocky, parched, but the caw of birds from a nearby grove of olive trees muted the sound of my footsteps. I watched Antonio from a safe distance, just as I'd followed him. Some time since I'd last seen him he'd changed clothes and now wore all black. The hair slicked back from his face revealed his prominent cheekbones, but dark sunglasses concealed his eyes. Still, I could tell that he was looking for something — or someone. He moved with stealth and precision, reminding me of a predator. And wedged into the waistband of his dark jeans, I saw the gun. Abruptly he stilled. Then he turned toward the large monolith behind which I stood. "You can come out now," he said, and my heart kicked hard. "Zoe."
Chapter Six A cool breeze whispered through the field of standing stones. I stood in the shadow of one of the large monoliths, with the ancient structure surrounding me and the impossibly blue sky stretching above. With not another soul in sight, save for Antonio, it was as if we'd stepped through a portal back in time. But of course we had not. I'd followed him from the hospital, had quietly observed as he scoured the mystical site as if in search of something — or someone. I could have left without him being aware of my presence, but something had kept me there. Kept me watching. Instinct, I wanted to believe. Curiosity.
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Certainly not fascination. On a steady breath, I stepped into view — and felt something inside me shift. The harsh early afternoon sun poured down around him, casting him in silhouette. Even if he hadn't been wearing all black, he would have appeared more shadow than man. But oddly, he looked…right, as if he belonged in that ancient place, there among the standing stones. Maybe that's why I shivered. Maybe not. The jumble of images flashed fast and hard — a man and a woman, the darkness and the wind and the brilliant streak of light against the night sky, the fear and the certainty, the feel of flesh against flesh — and then they were gone, a fleeting memory that belonged not to me, but to this place. "Antonio," I said with a halting smile. "You caught me." He made no move to come toward me, but even from twenty feet away, I could see the hard line of his shadowed jaw — when he'd changed clothes, he'd not taken the time to shave. And as I looked at him, I realized he looked as much predator as he did prey. Clearly my presence caught him by surprise, not something intelligence agents liked. But I couldn't quite tell if he was disturbed because I had found him, or because he thought he had found me. So I pounced. "Are you okay?" I asked over the cool breeze. "Has something else happened?" He tensed. "You followed me." With as close to a shy smile as I could muster, I ignored the hair blowing into my face. "Guilty," I said, starting toward him as if we were old friends who'd arranged to meet here for a picnic. "After last night —" I let the words dangle between us for a long tense moment "— I didn't get a chance to thank you, and then I saw you leaving the hospital, and you looked like you'd just gotten some bad news…" Feverishly I wished for a white poplin sundress to blow in the breeze. "So on a whim I followed you, thinking you were headed back to your hotel —" He lifted a hand, to halt my progress or my story I did not know. "Why were you at the hospital? Are you hurt?" Inside I smiled. He'd responded precisely as I'd expected him to, giving me the opportunity to parcel out my cover story naturally, rather than dumping it on him in one suspicious swoop. "No, I'm fine. I wanted to check on Signor Adriano, see if he was okay." "And so then you followed me." Clearly he wasn't pleased. "Is there a problem?" I asked quietly. "Am I interrupting something? Would you rather me leave?" His eyes darkened. "Where I come from, following a stranger in a foreign country is not a wise course of action." This time my smile was real. "My brothers would like you," I said. After so many years of fabricating stories, the evasion came easily. "They have always chided me for acting first, thinking later." He finally took a step toward me. "Then perhaps you should have listened to them."
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"Perhaps." I, too, stepped closer. "But I — I…was going to offer to buy you a drink…" I glanced around the forlorn field of stones. "But I'm afraid all I have is a bottle of water in the car." He took another step. "Is that really what you wanted, Zoe? To buy me a drink?" Maybe it was the quiet roughness to his voice, or maybe it was this place, the stark hillside with the oddly shaped standing stones left from a time long before that of any modern religion. But something inside me hummed. No. "No." And then I was moving, too, closing the distance between us and stepping up against him, sliding the sunglasses from his face. "That is not what I really wanted." The green of his eyes glittered with an intensity that made my blood thrum hotter and deeper. "You didn't say goodbye," I pointed out, shaken by how badly I suddenly wanted him to touch me. "This morning, at the abbey." His gaze never wavered as he lifted a hand and feathered the backs of his fingers along my cheekbone. "So that is why you followed me? To say goodbye?" "No." The word was barely more than a whisper. "Then why?" A game, I told myself. A game. My only intent was to preserve my cover, and yet as I pushed up on my toes and felt the warmth of his body flood mine, I realized my cover wasn't the only thing in jeopardy. "Do you really need me to say the words?" The green of his eyes darkened. He muttered something in a language I recognized as Italian, but I could not translate the words. Didn't need to. The tone, the look in his eyes, told me all I needed to know. Against my face his fingers tensed, but before I could so much as breathe, he ripped away from me and strode to a nearby monolith, where he braced his hand and hung his head. "Antonio?" I asked. He spun on me so fast I stepped back. "You do not belong here." His voice was dark and tortured, agitated. "This is not some big adventure, Zoe. Not a game. There are forces at play —" He stared off toward a circle of three small stones with odd carvings on each. "You must go." The concern in his voice did cruel, cruel things to the objectivity I'd always prided myself on. "No," I said. "Let me help you. I can, you know. Whatever you're looking for, let me help you find it." "It is not that simple." "I never said it was." Frowning, I glanced around the jumble of stones and breathed deeply. Ancient places and peoples had long fascinated me. Their stories, their legacies. Time went on, but energies, I'd found, remained. The Atlanteans and the Lemurians, the Mayans. They'd all been advanced civilizations, but in the end they'd simply vanished, leaving little behind to prove their peoples had once laughed and loved and lived. "Zoe —" Antonio said, but a soft trill sounded before he could finish. He turned from me and gave a clipped greeting into his mobile phone, held quiet a full twenty seconds before flipping it shut and pivoting toward me. "The tunnels beneath the abbey," he said. "Are you able to retrace the path your assailant took?" The fuse of adrenaline was automatic. "Yes."
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He reached for my hand at the same moment he started walking. "Then we must hurry."
Chapter Seven A map. He wanted me to draw him a map. It sounded so simple. According to Antonio's contacts, there was chatter that those involved in the theft had been forced to leave the majority of the Mayan relics hidden beneath the abbey until the intense police presence diminished. Then, the artifacts would be transported to France. To prevent that from happening, Antonio needed to find them first. And to find them, he needed me. And what girl didn't love to be needed? I'd done my job well. Antonio did not know the tunnels, and I did. Or so he thought. He'd come to the small stone room where we'd met from the opposite end of the abbey, following a tip that something was about to go down. And as part of my story about being abducted by a man with a scar, I'd led Antonio to believe the tunnels wound like a nasty maze beneath the abbey. Of course, that was somewhat of an overstatement, but I always had the supposed fear of an abducted museum representative and the darkness to fall back on if, later on, he pointed out that the passages weren't that convoluted after all. And I was so not drawing him a map. He wasn't happy, but after pretending to try, I told him the path we'd taken was too jumbled in my mind. The only way I could lead him through the tunnels was to actually be there myself, to see and smell and feel. So he'd agreed. Sort of. I knew he intended to ditch me, an alleged innocent bystander, just as soon as I pointed him on his way. But I also knew I, a trained agent, wasn't about to let him go after the loot on his own. Outside the sun still shone, but in the labyrinth of passageways, darkness bled from the damp stone walls. "This way," I said. No way was I going to risk my cover or forfeit the chance of being in on the find. Holding my flashlight as I longed to hold my 9mm, I led him down the narrow corridor where I'd last seen the man I now knew to be Max Adriano's bodyguard. Soon, we would reach the twin sets of stairs leading deeper into the earth — one to the right, the other to the left. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Positive." Three short minutes later, we arrived at the stairs. "To the left is where I found you." The corridor where someone had tried to kill me, and in doing so had caused the cave-in. "To the right —" He moved so fast I had no chance to prepare. He stepped toward me and crowded me against the cool, damp stone. "This is a mistake." The words touched me in ways I knew better than to trust. "No," I said, pretending not to know what he was talking about. "I'm sure this is the way —" His hand found my face. "I want you to go back — now." That would have been the smart thing to do, at least for a museum representative as I claimed to be. "No," I said, this time softer. But tracking the relics was my mission, too — even if I had to use Antonio to do so. "I…can't."
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"Yes, you can." The argument was pointless, and going nowhere. "Antonio…" I whispered, and then did something I'd never done on any other case. I pushed up on my toes and put my hand to the back of his head, allowing our mouths to meet somewhere in the middle. I'd used my femininity before. All good agents did. It was one of my best tactics. A little harmless flirting could buy a lot. A woman with a coy smile and slumberous eyes could gain access to locales and secrets a male counterpart would have to kill for. Literally. I knew that, had thrilled to the challenge. But I had limits. There were lines I knew better than to cross. A little charged banter, a few fleeting touches, maybe even a dance or two, but that was it. Never anything more. Any game I played was strictly on the surface. Nothing ever went deeper. And intimacy…intimacy was out of the question. I'd never given myself, sold myself, whored myself for the good of a case. I'd never even shared a kiss. Until now. I'd felt passion before, knew that danger was often a potent aphrodisiac. But none of that prepared me for the dark and needy rush moving through me, the hunger to feel Antonio's mouth moving against mine. To feel his body, the heat and the strength and the promise… To feel him kiss me with the same greed that twisted through me. For a long broken moment I allowed myself to indulge and savor, because I knew I had but one option. One assignment. My job was to thwart the thieves. I could not let Antonio get in my way. "I'm sorry," I whispered, then twisted out of his arms and ran. Behind me I heard him growl, but I kept going down the uneven stone steps. He was bigger and faster. I knew I didn't have much time — but I also knew I could not let him force my hand by trying to send me back. When the stairs flattened into another stone corridor, I kept running, using my flashlight to guide me. I could feel him behind me, knew he was furious with me. But he said nothing. He couldn't, I knew. Couldn't risk giving away our presence. That was one of the many variables I'd been counting on. The path led to a large wooden door identical to the one I'd found the night before. I fumbled with a series of locks and pushed inside, just as Antonio charged up behind me. "Are you out of your mind," he started, but then the beams of our flashlights merged in the far corner, forming a neat spotlight on an earthenware statue of the Mayan sun god. "Cristo," he murmured, and together we moved forward, running our flashlights over the stash of abandoned relics. "It is all here." So it appeared. My pulse and mind raced in unison. I did a quick inspection, counted at least thirty different pieces, including serving bowls, several statues and three axes. But not the ancient astrological calendar. "My God," I breathed. "Catrina was right…" Antonio turned the beam of his flashlight onto me. "Catrina?" I shoved the hair from my face. "A museum curator from Paris. She speculated that the calendar was the target, had always been the target." My throat burned with possibility. "Allegedly there are those who believe the calendar has secrets, something about a prophecy about the end of times." Antonio's expression closed up. "And you believed her?"
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I turned the beam of my flashlight back to the scattered relics, tried to assess what else was missing. The jade tiles, I noted. I didn't see them… "It does not matter what I believe," I said. Only what the radicals who'd been sabotaging displays of religious artifacts for close to five years believed. "Come — " Antonio reached for me. "It is not safe for you to be here. We must let others know — " The groan of the door hinges was the only warning we got.
Chapter Eight There was no time to turn our flashlights off. No time to take cover. We spun around, Antonio dragging me behind him just as the old wooden door opened and the tall man strode into the room hidden beneath the abbey. And for one fractured moment, the jolt of recognition stunned me. I'd had my man all along. The criminal, after all, always returned to the scene of the crime. It was he who'd found me kneeling over old man Adriano's body — the supposed waiter in all-white who'd barked out commands and taken off into the tunnels, allegedly after the assassin. It was he whom I'd followed — but instead of pursuing him down the staircase to the right, I'd gone left. It was he, who'd no doubt, circled back to try to cover his tracks by taking me out. It was he whom I'd seen at the hospital — Marco, the Adriano patriarch's trusted bodyguard. And now it was he whom Antonio and I faced in the cool stone room, where the cache of Mayan relics lay scattered, some broken, against the ground. "Do not move," Antonio ordered as I slipped my hand inside my satchel. After flipping on a small recorder, I curved my fingers around the butt of my 9mm. "One step," Antonio warned, "and I will shoot." The man's eyes, so dark and oily, went wild. "Signor — " "Silence." Antonio's voice was chillingly quiet. "Lower your weapon." Marco shifted uneasily. "But… what… I do not understand…" "Not another word," Antonio said. Marco stepped back, but before he could say or do anything else, footsteps sounded from the corridor behind him. "Amigo, we must hurry. The plane will leave — " Desperation contorted Marco's face as he reached for the gun wedged into his waistband. But I was faster, pulling my gun and firing in a singular motion, not directly at him, but the wall to his side. Shards of rock rained down on him as Antonio lunged across the room and drove the traitor to the ground. No time to waste, I grabbed one of the old Mayan axes as the men wrestled and ran to the door, pressing my body against the wall as the unidentified man ran into the room, gun drawn. I swung the handle toward the small of his back, driving him down and causing his semi-automatic to fly from his hands. Roaring, he rolled over and got to his knees, but before he could stand, I swung once again with precise accuracy, this time connecting with his skull.
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I scooped up his dropped gun before he even hit the ground. "Zoe!" Through the play of shadows and light, I saw Antonio rushing for me. Behind him, the other man lay unmoving. "I'm okay," I said, as Antonio pulled me against him with one arm, using his free hand to hold Marco's semiautomatic on the groaning second man, someone I'd seen the night before wearing a Portuguese police uniform. "It is over," he whispered against my hair. "It is over." The hoarse words feathered through me, bringing with them a rush of denial. No. It was not over. It was just beginning.
*** Some secrets are not meant to be shared. Some prophecies are best left forgotten… That's what Max Adriano's bodyguard said after he regained consciousness, over and over and over. Fanaticism had glowed from his eyes like a fever, chilling even me. Two hours after his apprehension, Portuguese authorities entered Marco's hotel room and found the calendar, along with the odd assortment of jade tiles and old keys. With their recovery, the collection of Mayan artifacts was once again complete. The exhibit, however, had been indefinitely postponed. Two hours after that, I sat with Antonio in a sleek private jet, preparing to taxi down a runway at the Lisbon airport. I knew there had to be a reason why I should not have accepted his invitation to spend the evening together under more normal circumstances than we had the night before. But when he'd asked, when he'd lifted a hand to my face and looked at me with those slumberous green eyes of his, any logic I'd possessed had crumbled like nothing more than a flimsy, false idol. "Any word on Max Adriano?" I asked. He frowned. There was a sorrow in his eyes that touched me in a way I understood too well. Agents are trained not to get involved, but sometimes the lines blurred. Especially when we held ourselves responsible for something that had gone wrong. "It is too early to tell," he said. "He was airlifted from the hospital a short while ago and — " The words broke off as his eyes hardened. "His son refused to disclose where he was taking him." "Was he told about Marco?" "No." Antonio picked up a glass of ice water and sipped deeply. "He is too weak. Simon, the son, fears news of Marco's betrayal would be too much for him." I nodded, understood completely. "Are you comfortable?" Antonio asked. "May I get you something?" I leaned back in the thick leather chair and smiled. "Not right now." With a slow smile of his own, he reached for my hand and drew it to his mouth. "Then later," he said.
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And I couldn't help but feel the thrill of a different kind of chase. "Yes," I agreed as the plane took off into the brilliant afternoon sky. In less than an hour, we would reach St. Tropez. "Definitely later."
*** He watched her sleep. Rich auburn hair fell against her face, making her look soft and sweet and innocent in ways he'd forgotten even existed. There was nothing soft or sweet or innocent in his world. He never should have asked her to come away with him. He knew that. But something about her had drawn him, and he hadn't wanted to say good-bye. And as the plane descended into the red-wash of a Riviera sunset, he wanted only to watch her a little longer. It had been a long time since he'd lived in such a simple moment. There was much he needed to tell her, starting with who he was, and who he was not. And when the time was right, he would. Soon they would land. Soon he would have to wake her. And soon the end would begin. But not yet.
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The Hunt Begins by Dana Marton Colonel Cameron Murphy has dedicated his life to the Special Forces…until a bombing turns his world upside down. Mia Russel is a bounty hunter who works alone…until someone shows up at her door, needing her help. Determined to track down the militia group leader responsible for the bombing, Cameron must come to terms with his pain…and with Mia being the boss. Can these two tough-as-nails hunters overcome their issues and track their prey?
Chapter One Colonel Cameron Murphy wasn’t afraid of dying. The thought of dying without accomplishing his mission, however, really burned his ass. “On my mark,” he whispered into his mouthpiece as he looked at his men, six of the best Special Forces soldiers he’d ever known. They nodded, one after the other, wound tight and ready for action. He motioned to Martin and Bullseye to start spreading out to the right. The small group was too close together, too easy a target if the enemy picked up on their location. They were surrounded. The noose was tightening. Two-hundred feet ahead. Blackhaw signaled to his left and pointed. Cameron stared into the lush African jungle. Nothing but the odd leaf bobbing, likely disturbed by some giant insect. The birds and the rest of the wildlife had left or hid as soon as the gun battle had begun. But if there was anything to see, Blackhaw would be the one to pick it up. His Cherokee blood made him a hunter to be reckoned with. There. The straight line of a rifle, a contrast to the curvy air roots among which the enemy hid. “Now!” Cameron tossed his grenade and charged forward, spraying the jungle with bullets as he went. “Tangos to the left!” Bullseye covered him from behind, keeping up. More and more fire came at them from the terrorists who guarded the hidden fields in the jungle — the source of drug money used to finance attacks around the world. Stopping the money flow would cut off the legs of the terrorist group — catching the leader would cut off its head. Cameron was determined to accomplish his dual mission, even if his team was outnumbered twenty to one. “Watch the back,” Blackhaw shouted over the incessant gunfire as he rushed by. Then they were through, broken out of the noose. “Hold your fire,” Cameron spoke into his headset. The men melted into the woods like shadows, running forward with the easy grace of panthers. Before they could make plans for a final attack, they had to rendezvous with the rest of their team. They’d gone off a few days ago in search of the jungle fortress the terrorist leaders used for central command. “Anyone injured?” Instead of an answer, his earpiece carried a more distant communication. “Platoon Commander to Colonel Murphy. Return to base. Over.”
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Had the man gone crazy? Cameron swore, but slowed. If whatever was going down was more important than this, it had to be as serious as shrapnel in the eye. “Team returning. Over.” He lifted his hand to signal to his men. “Return requested for the Colonel only. Over.” He stopped. Something in the other man’s voice made a shiver run down his back in all that jungle heat.
Chapter Two “Over two hundred people are confirmed dead, so far,” the Platoon Commander was saying and went on with details. Cameron stared at his feet. His brain had stopped back at the beginning of the briefing: Domestic terrorists blew up the city hall in Great Falls, Montana. Great Falls. City Hall. Vicky. “I’m sorry, Colonel. We’ll keep you posted on all developments related to your sister’s condition.” “Who is investigating?” He looked up. It felt as if ice were spreading through his chest, frosting the edges of the hole where his heart used to be. “Local law enforcement is working with the FBI,” the Commander said with sympathy. “Can I be assigned to the investigation?” A couple of fragmented thoughts formed into a semi-coherent plan in his head. “In any capacity?” “Not at this stage. Our mission here is too important.” “It will have to wait. I need a leave of absence effective immediately.” He didn’t word it as a question. Even if he couldn’t work on bringing the bastards who’d done this to justice, no way was he going to wait to hear his sister’s fate from strangers. “Until she gets off the machines.” “Impossible.” “My sister is on a ventilator.” His anger bubbled over. Not the Commander, not the whole bloody U.S. army could stand in his way. “I’m going to her.” A moment of silence passed between them before the other man spoke. “I have to advise you, Colonel. If you leave now, you will lose your command.” Cameron nodded. He’d been ready to lose his life on mission after mission for his country. He sure as hell wasn’t worried about losing his command now, when his sister hung between life and death in a hospital bed thousands of miles from him, alone. “I’d like to recommend Campbell for my place, sir. He’s the most suited for the job.”
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The Commander watched his face, noting the unbendable will there. “I see.” “I’d prefer not to have to go AWOL, sir.” But he would, if needed. He’d do anything. “That won’t be necessary, Colonel. I’ll take care of it. Immediate honorable discharge.” “Thank you, sir.” “We are sorry to lose you, Colonel,” the man said and hesitated as if considering trying to talk him out of it. In the end, he finished with, “Good luck. Get those sons of bitches. I have a sister, too.” Cameron thanked him and left, heading straight for the air field. First, Vicky — he would make sure she had everything she needed, that she would recover. Then once she was safe, he would see to the men responsible. And he would send them straight back to where they’d come from — the darkest burrow of hell.
Chapter Three “Hang on, honey. I’m here.” Cameron held his sister’s hand as pain spread through him. She couldn’t hear him. She was too broken, too far gone for recovery, according to the doctors. He raged against their diagnosis, though he could see the truth in her pale cheeks, in the eyes that had fluttered open only once since he’d arrived. He’d been at her bedside for three days, holding her hand for as long as the nurses would let him stay. In the moments he wasn’t with her, he was hounding the cops and the FBI investigators for answers. The official number of victims had risen to nearly three hundred. The perpetrators were identified as some backwoods militia group that had cleared out of the state right after the bombing. While local law enforcement was powerless, the FBI was overwhelmed with interviewing the hundreds of potential witnesses and following the countless leads. The door opened behind Cameron and he glanced back, expecting the nurse to tell him visiting hours were over. “Jack.” He was surprised to see his old FBI buddy, instead. “Found anything out?” “A million little things that might or might not go anywhere. We got a name, though.” “Who?” The man was dead; he just didn’t know it yet. “Fowler. Boone Fowler from the MMFA — Montana Militia for a Free America.” He let go of Vicky’s hand and stood, his head clearing as he processed the news. He had a name. A purpose. “Don’t even think about it.” Jack shook his head. “You’re no good to your sister if you’re in jail. Fowler is a son-of-a-bitch, but killing him would be still murder.” He almost laughed at that. What the hell did he care? He was no good to Vicky, anyway. She didn’t even know he was here with her. Nobody could help her. “Don’t worry about me.” “I do. Listen —” Jack blocked his path to the door. “There might be a way.” He stopped. “Can you deputize me?” He’d already tried that with the cops, to no result.
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“That’s not how it works, but…a bounty has been put on Fowler’s head.” “I don’t give a rat’s ass about money.” “Bounty hunters can use almost any tool at their disposal to find and capture their man. Regulations are pretty loose, especially in Montana.” Jack’s eyes held a world of meaning. “Do I need a permit to become one?” Possibilities opened up all of a sudden. “Talk to somebody in the business.” He would do a hell of a lot more than talk. He wanted Fowler dead. Now. It didn’t seem fair for him to outlive Vicky, and Vicky didn’t have long. “I want the best,” he said. “That would be Russel.” Jack took a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled an address on it. Cameron thanked him, and while he half listened to Jack’s warnings about not crossing the line, he planned his revenge.
Chapter Four Mia Russel read over the printout on her desk and considered the bounty listed at half-a-million dollars. Acquisitions of this magnitude didn’t come by every day. It’d take care of her for a good long time, if she could figure out — She looked up as her office door banged open. “Knocking would be good,” she said as dryly as she could — the man who strode in scared her a little. Showing fear now could be a deadly mistake. Danger rolled off him in waves. Anger, the deadly kind, nested deep in his eyes, the darkest she’d ever seen. “I want Russel,” he said, his deep voice booming, bouncing off the walls. She put down her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, positioned her right hand so she could reach the Beretta in the top drawer in seconds, and put on her best smile. “Can I help you, sir?” She really had to get into the habit of locking the door when she stayed after hours. They were probably the only two people in the whole office building. “I’m not here for a tea party.” He measured her up and dismissed her. “Where’s Mr. Russel? I need to talk to the man.” He wasn’t the first to make the wrong assumption based on her last name. “Mia Russel.” She stood, keeping her hand where it was, near the gun. Watching his jaw drop was entertaining. Now came the part where he would underestimate her, an opportunity she would use if he was here to cause trouble. “And you would be?” A second passed before he recovered, still eyeing her with suspicion. “Cameron Murphy.” He stepped closer. “You’re the bounty hunter?”
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“That’s what the sign says on the door.” He was overly self-assured, a man in his forties who was used to command. She guessed military and took in his faded jeans and the well-washed black T-shirt he wore. He was powerfully built, with jet black hair and a face that looked like he had lived a hard life, a lot of it outdoors. His skin was tanned like old cowboys she’d known in her childhood, men who slept and worked the open range. “Jack Crow sent me,” he said. She relaxed and sat back down. No friend of Jack would come here to hurt her. From the way he was looking at her, however, she pitied whoever he was after. “You need someone found?” “I need someone dead.” He shot her a level look. “But don’t worry, I’ll take care of that myself. I’m just here for advice on how to do it legally.”
Chapter Five “No,” Mia said. “No self-respecting bounty hunter goes after an acquisition with the intent to kill.” “I’m not asking you to do that.” “Just to help you do it? Produce someone for execution? Jack used to pick his friends more carefully.” “Make sure you tell him how disappointed you are in him the next time you two meet,” he said with a blank face. She watched him, measured him. He was no criminal, but there was definitely murder in those eyes. And pain? No, she had to be mistaken about that. He looked like the kind nothing could get to. “I’m sorry, Mr. Murphy. You came to the wrong place.” He kept those eyes on her until she thought their darkness would swallow her. Then he turned and left without a word.
*** Official tally of city hall bombing: 296. Final victim, Victoria Murphy, died at Mercy Hospital late last night. Mia stared at the picture in the morning paper that showed the young woman smiling into the camera at an office function. She bore a strong resemblance to the man who had visited her the night before. Cameron Murphy. Mia put the paper down. She didn’t believe in coincidences. She tossed aside the paper and picked up the printout for the bounty on Boone Fowler’s head. She’d been toying with the idea since it’d been posted. He was a monster, no doubt about it. She wanted to be the one who took him down. Montana was her state; Great Falls was her city, damn it. She took the bombing personal. But Fowler was too much to tackle alone. She considered her options, her gaze dropping to the paper again. Victoria Murphy. The image of the young woman haunted her all morning, as the TV images of the explosion had haunted her dreams. Those victims deserved someone to stand for them. Someone to make sure this didn’t happen again.
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She thought of Cameron Murphy — of the pain she saw in him. She reached for the phone and dialed. “Jack? I met a friend of yours yesterday. What can you tell me about him?” She listened for a while. “Do you know where he’s staying?” She wrote down the address. Within twenty minutes she was at the door of the third-floor condo, ringing the bell. Murphy opened the door, undressed save his blue jeans, unshaved, eyes red-rimmed. He shaded them against the glare of the hallway light. “I’ll help you,” she told him. “On one condition. We catch the bastard, we bring him in. I want him to spend a good long time rotting in prison before they put him out of his misery. I want to make sure he has time to regret what he’s done. And one more thing,” she said after a brief pause. “As long as we’re working together, I’m the boss.”
Chapter Six Cameron eyed the woman in the hallway, stood aside, motioned for her to come in, and followed her to the living room. The place looked as if things had been tossed about. A couple of small things were broken. A hole gaped in the wall next to Vicky’s entertainment center. He didn’t apologize for the mess. Let her think what she wanted. He could think of nothing but getting his hands on the man who’d killed Vicky. “We start now?” he asked as he pulled on a clean shirt from his bag next to the pullout couch. “I’m ready when you are. Montana doesn’t require a permit. I’ll list you as an agent for my business. That should be enough. You have a gun?” He nodded and stepped into his shoes. “I’m sorry about your sister, Mr. Murphy —” He cut her off with a motion of his hand. “Just help me find the man.” “That’s the idea.” She remained standing. “We find him, we bring him in. This is a high-profile case; the media will be all over every little development. You cross the line — I’ll lose my business. That won’t make me happy.” He hadn’t thought someone as small and feminine could sound that ominous. He simply grunted in response as he tucked his gun behind his back and walked out the door. In the parking lot, there was a small argument over whose car they would take. She won. “So where do we start?” he asked once he was in the passenger seat, hating it. “I already put the word out. Somebody somewhere knows something. We go back to my office and see what came in so far, split up the work.” She burst out of the parking lot with a speed that had him reaching for the dashboard, cutting into traffic in front of a tour bus with fearless precision. He was used to military vehicles and off-roading. She wasn’t half bad in city traffic.
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Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the display, handing it to him. “It’s Jack. You talk to him. See if he has something new to say,” she said and proceeded to turn the two-lane road into three. He pushed the speaker button for her benefit. “Murphy. What have you got?” “Another name. Jenny Peltier. No address, though — the boys are still working on that.” “How close a link is this to Fowler?” “Very.” “Anything we can do with just a name?” he asked after he hung up. Mia smiled. “As soon as we get to my laptop,” she said, “prepare to be amazed.”
Chapter Seven “I hate stakeouts.” Mia bit back a grin at the way Cameron’s voice dripped with disgust. “Embrace it. It brings results.” Not that the last three days hadn’t gotten to her, too. Cameron Murphy was…a man with a strong presence. “I say we go in there and find a way to make her tell us where the bastard is.” He was vibrating with impatience. At least he was talking more. In the beginning, his dark silence had filled the car, heavy with the weight of his grief and anger. “No. We wait.” “This is a waste of time. As long as you’re working for —” “I don’t work for you.” She said the words slowly and with emphasis. “I’m letting you help me. You have a vested interest in catching Fowler, just like I do. You have a military background that might come in handy if your hotheaded impatience doesn’t ruin everything first. And you’re one of Jack’s friends.” His bottomless dark eyes were steady on her face. “You agreed to work with me because you need help with Fowler and you wouldn’t admit it to any of your bounty hunter buddies.” She shrugged and didn’t deny his words. Fowler was a big catch. She didn’t want to owe that big a favor to anyone. Once Fowler was in jail, Cameron Murphy would be gone, their business with each other finished. Not that she believed he meant it when he’d agreed to the whole “capture alive” plan. At some point she’d need to work on that. The small electric device on the console came to life with a hiss of static. “She’s getting a call.” Cameron put on his earpiece. Mia followed his example and listened to a familiar exchange. “Neighbor.” Jenny Peltier’s neighbor was out of state, but called to check on his cats twice a day. “You didn’t forget Chaucer’s on a diet, did you?”
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“He’s doing good, Bobby. I’m talking care of them.” “Okay. Sorry. You know how I worry. I hope they haven’t been fighting.” They went on like that for a while. “Doesn’t sound like they’re planning a conspiracy.” Mia pulled her earpiece once Bobby had finished worrying and finally hung up. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I say we go in and talk to her.” She took in the look in Cameron’s eyes. He was definitely ready for action. Kind of sexy, God help her. What had she been thinking? There had to be a million other men out there she could have chosen as a partner. “We wait,” she said. “According to my sources, Jenny and Fowler are tight. Budding affair or something. Sooner or later, he’ll come to her, or she’ll go to him. We go in now, we ruin everything.” “Urhm.” He grunted, tried to stretch his long legs in her small car, then gave up after a few seconds. “Fine. We’ll try your way again today. But if it doesn’t work, tomorrow we do it my way.”
Chapter Eight As boring as daytime stakeout seemed, nighttime surveillance was the pits. The world slept while you stared at a black window for hours on end. Still, Mia wasn’t going to whine about it like some rookie. Speaking of which, Cameron was slumbering in his seat next to her. She didn’t have the heart to wake him. He’d seen a couple of sleepless nights lately. His sister’s death had been hard on him. He hadn’t grieved yet, at least not that she’d seen. Instead, he bottled up all that rage inside to fuel his revenge. She knew too well how dangerous that was, the mistakes people made when acting out of emotional pain. And it wasn’t just his life at stake but hers, too — as long as they worked together on the acquisition. She couldn’t let her guard down. Not for a moment. He grunted in his sleep and tried to adjust his body into a more comfortable position. Whoever had said that men looked as innocent as little boys when they slept, hadn’t met Cameron Murphy. He reminded her of a giant black panther. His powerful body radiated strength that she could appreciate — one hunter admiring another. The light in Jenny Peltier’s apartment came on. Mia put the binoculars to her eyes, but couldn’t see anything. The light went out. Maybe the woman had just gone to the bathroom. Then the light came on again. Maybe she was signaling to someone. “Cameron.” Mia reached over to touch his shoulder. In the next second she was halfway across his lap, her hands pinned to the dashboard behind her. “Cameron.” Instinct had her say his name again instead of fighting back. With the position they were in, it would have taken him little effort to snap her neck if she forced him into action before he was fully awake and realized she wasn’t the enemy. A harsh breath exploded from his lungs as his hands gentled, ran down the side of her arms. “Vicky,” he said into the darkness and crushed her to him. “I had…bad dream.”
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His chest was wide and hard with muscle, the heat of sleep radiating through his clothes. The sensation jolted her, brought out a response that was as untimely as it was inappropriate. She pulled away. “Cameron, it’s —” She didn’t have to finish the sentence. He’d finally awaken fully. “Sorry. I thought…” He let his head drop back and let her go. “It’s okay.” She looked away, unsure how to respond to the glimpse of vulnerability he allowed her. They didn’t know each other well enough to offer any meaningful comfort even though her heart went out to him. A small movement caught her eye by the buildings across the parking lot. “There she goes.” She refocused immediately and turned the key in the ignition. After three days of waiting, Jenny Peltier was finally on the move.
Chapter Nine “Sorry about that, earlier,” Cameron said as they followed Peltier’s white Chevy down the boulevard at a comfortable pace. “No big deal.” Mia let another car come between them, but didn’t fall too far back. Truth be told, if she had to get crushed against someone’s chest, she didn’t mind it being Cameron’s. For a wounded bear, he wasn’t half bad to work with. “You were asleep. I’m sure you don’t normally grope the members of your team.” “You should see my team,” he said with a flat smile, then his face darkened again. “Ex-team.” “You quit?” “I needed time. They couldn’t give it to me.” She knew a little of his background from Jack, and decided not to pry further. It had to be hard to lose everything: the last of his family, his career, his friends on the team. And he seemed to be replacing what he’d lost with such a consuming hate for Fowler…if he wasn’t careful, he would lose himself, too. “Killing Fowler won’t bring your sister back,” she said. “It might not even make you feel all that much better.” “I’ll live with the disappointment.” He looked straight ahead. “Why do you want to spare the bastard? You can’t tell me you don’t think he deserves to die.” “A thousand times over,” she said. “I’d still rather bring him in. A bounty hunter thing, I suppose.” She shrugged. “To us, bringing in an acquisition dead means we failed in some way. The first goal is always to capture alive. If I have to make a kill, it means something has gone wrong. I didn’t pay enough attention. I didn’t plan for everything.” “Pride of the trade?” He glanced over. “Something like that.” “Don’t you ever want to —”
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“Punish? It’s not my job. I enjoy the hunt. I enjoy the success of getting paid. Of course, it’s never been personal.” She tried to put herself into Cameron’s shoes. What someone she loved was a victim? Could she kill in cold blood? She’d taken a man out before in self-defense. It hadn’t given her any sleepless nights. But to kill an acquisition after he was captured, after he was rendered harmless and defenseless, went against the bounty hunter code — a set of unwritten laws that governed men and women like her. “Revenge is a two-edged sword. It cuts the one who wields it as well as it cuts the one it’s aimed at,” she said. “You’re too young to be this wise.” He gave her a half smile. “You’re too smart to live for revenge.” “We bring him in?” He said the words with reluctance. “We bring him in.” “But if he tries anything funny…” “His ass is yours.” “I’ll be all over it,” he said, and it sounded like a promise he intended to keep.
Chapter Ten “You think it’s Fowler?” Mia asked as they watched a tall, wiry man get out of his ancient Jeep in front of a 24-hour Laundromat and slide into Peltier’s car. “Doesn’t fit the description.” Cameron examined him through binoculars. “Of course, he could have altered his appearance.” “I’ll run his plate.” Mia was already on her cell phone. “A friend of a friend.” She flashed a grin at his questioning look. She was growing on him. At first, he resented the hell out of working with her — needing anyone’s help — on principle. He was used to being in command and she would have none of it, made it clear at every step that this was her operation, her reputation on the line. But he did need her. She knew the ropes; she had the connections. Following his own gut would have most likely landed him in jail before he’d accomplished anything. They made a damn fine team. Not that he would ever admit it to her. “Raymond Fleming,” she said as she hung up with her contact. A satisfied little smile stretched her full lips into a sexy line. Another good thing about her, that. She was easy on the eyes: soft black hair, deep blue eyes, curves that got themselves noticed even when a man was hell-bent on not noticing. She had all kinds of roundness in memorable places. He focused his mind on the job. “Is he in the militia? Jack would know.” She was already dialing. “Hi. Mia. I wouldn’t have woken you, but your buddy Cameron wants to know what you have on a Raymond Fleming.” She waited.
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“I bet he’s swearing,” Cameron said. “He’s calling in on his other line. And he’s a gentleman — he never swears in front of me,” she responded, then talked into the phone again. “That’s all? Okay. Thanks. Will do.” “What did he say?” “Fleming is in the MMFA, but that’s about all the information they have. No known address for the past four years, same as Fowler.” He swore. Screw Jack the gentleman. “It’s not as bad as that,” she said, all patience. “We are collecting threads. Until now, we had only one line leading to Fowler, now we have two.” He supposed they could look at it like that. “If they split, I take Fleming, you follow the woman.” “You’re sexist,” she said. “It’s not an attractive quality.” “You think you could take him?” “I could take them both, but that’s not the point.” “I’m not. Sexist,” he said after a minute, thinking that she was probably right about being able to handle whatever came her way. “I’m just not used to working with women. There aren’t any in Special Forces. Growing up, I was a big brother. I was supposed to protect my sister.” He fell silent. God, he had sure failed at that. “You couldn’t have prevented what happened. Nobody could have predicted it.” She reached over and gave his hand a friendly squeeze, pulling away too soon. He took a deep breath, pushed back the guilt and the pain. He had a mission to finish. “Here we go,” Mia said as Jenny’s car started up. “They’re leaving together.” And they weren’t going to her place. Fleming was at the wheel. He drove in the opposite direction.
Chapter Eleven “I’m going in.” Cameron got out of the car. They’d been watching the damn motel all morning. Fleming had dropped Jenny Peltier off, then left. They’d hedged their bets on the theory that the man brought Jenny here for a quick meeting with Fowler. “Stop.” Mia came after him. “These things take time. He might not come till tonight.” He considered, knew she was right, but it didn’t help his frustration. “At the very least, I am stretching my legs. They’ve been asleep since I set foot in that sardine can of yours.” She looked offended. “It’s a perfect surveillance vehicle.” “I don’t see what was wrong with mine.” “Other than it’s a Hummer painted like the American flag? Right, nobody would notice that.”
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Her phone must have buzzed in her pocket because she pulled it out and opened it. “What’s up, Bill?” She listened. “Thanks for the heads up. Let me know if you hear anything.” She tucked the phone away. “Friend of mine,” she said when she was done. “Word is, a couple of bounty hunters are going after Fowler. The kind of money that’s on his head is hard to resist.” He didn’t like the sound of that, didn’t want anyone else to start meddling in his business. “So you form a team with them or something?” She laughed. “Hardly. It’s more like a friendly competition.” “Nothing to worry about then. We’ll get to Fowler first.” He kept an eye on the green pickup that circled the parking lot. “I’m counting on it. I’ve got bills to pay.” “This happens a lot? The competition stuff?” “Sometimes. Mostly, we try not to interfere with each other’s hunt. Professional courtesy.” She shrugged. “But five hundred grand is hard to ignore.” “Something like that.” “Will others try to stop us?” “I can’t picture any of the guys I know going that far, but I won’t be able to count on information or favors. It’s each person for himself.” He was about to respond when the motel door opened and Jenny Peltier walked out not ten feet from them, heading their way. He froze. What now? In his job, when the enemy discovered his location, he started shooting. He couldn’t think of anything but the oldest trick in the book. He pulled Mia to his chest, tilted her head to his and bent to her lips like he meant it.
Chapter Twelve The sensation of their lips touching came as a shock. Cameron had expected something impersonal, cursory, pretend. He didn’t count on his body’s instant reaction to the softness of her lips, the faint smell of peanut butter that seemed to go straight to his head. It had been a good long time since he had kissed a woman. Apparently, his body hadn’t forgotten a thing. Now that he’d gotten the smallest of tastes, he wanted to go on and do a good job of it. “Mmm.” Which one of them made that noise? He had to stop. If he lingered at her lips a moment more, he risked losing his professionalism. He dragged his mouth over her chin instead, placed small kisses along the jawline, down to the neck. Mia Russel had the silkiest skin he’d ever touched. Somewhere above him, she cleared her throat. “She’s gone back in. Just came out to get the paper.”
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Right. He moved away and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Sorry.” He had to clear his throat, too. “I couldn’t think of anything else.” “It’s — fine. We should probably get into the car and drive around the building, pull into another spot.” “Good idea.” He started out. They couldn’t just stand there. Peltier’s window looked out front. She might have been watching. “Did you notice?” Mia asked, nodding toward a green pickup that had circled the parking lot three times that she had counted. They watched as it pulled up to the building and stopped. A stocky, middle-aged man got out, looked around furtively then walked through the motel door. Not Fowler. He was at least a foot shorter than Fowler’s data suggested. But still, very suspicious. “I’ll check it out.” Mia was already on her way. “I can do it,” he said, not liking the idea he wouldn’t be able to see her once she disappeared behind the door that lead to the rooms. She tilted her head and gave him an impatient look. “You move like military. You walk like a sergeant for heaven’s sake.” “Colonel,” he said under his breath and let her go. She was back in ten minutes. “He went into Peltier’s room. I heard ‘Careful…they don’t know anything…just the beginning…’ The air conditioner was going so that’s all I could hear. I think he’s about ready to come out.” “You listened at the door?” God, if one of them had come out and caught her… At this stage, they had to consider anyone connected to Fowler armed and dangerous. “Best I could do.” She looked as frustrated as he felt. “I should have gone in.” “If you can’t handle teamwork, you shouldn’t have come looking for a partner.” He was coming up with a snappy retort. It was on the tip of his tongue. But then she reached back for her snack pack, her breasts pushing against the soft material of her T-shirt, inches from his arm. And all he could do was grunt.
Chapter Thirteen Cameron wrote down the pickup’s license plate number and called it in to Jack. He considered following the guy once he left, then decided against it. His instincts said Fowler would be closer to the woman than to any of his buddies. Five minutes after the man’s departure, another arrived. Peltier had six visitors in the next two hours. “What the hell is she doing? Servicing the troops?” He tapped his feet, impatient. “We should grab one of the bastards and get him to tell us where Fowler is.”
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“If we do, Fowler will know we’re close to him. He’ll go even deeper underground,” Mia said, watching the latest visitor with a thoughtful expression, her dark eyebrows drawn together over deep blue eyes. “I’m not sure they know where he is.” “Hell they don’t.” And he had a couple of ideas on how to get the information out of them. Rage had been collecting in him; more and more with each man as he thought about what part each might have played in the bombing. Had this one made the bomb? Had this one placed it? Was this the one who’d figured out a way around security? He wanted to get them; every one of them. That they lived, breathed, walked, while hundreds of victims were being buried in cemeteries all over the city — while Vicky was gone — was an insult to everything he believed in. But he wanted to get Fowler the most. The rest could wait. “I think she’s passing on instructions,” Mia said. “Think about it. It makes sense. She’s standing in for Fowler.” Not a bad theory. He turned over the idea this way and that. She shook her head slowly. “But how is he getting in touch with her?” Damned if he knew. He had placed bugs all over her apartment the same day Mia had tracked the woman’s address down through the Internet. The FBI was checking her mail, kept tabs on her email. While Jack wasn’t officially on the case, he had access to information and was good enough of a friend to let things “slip.” “Here she comes,” he said, as Jenny appeared in the doorway and glanced around the parking lot. She was picked up by the same man who’d brought her there. Cameron started up the car and followed them back to the Laundromat parking lot, then to her apartment. But the light in her window didn’t come on, even several minutes after she’d been dropped off at the front door. “Maybe she’s feeding the cats first,” Mia suggested. “The neighbor’s apartment!” They thought of it at the same time. Peltier had the key so she could get in to take care of her neighbor’s pets. Fowler hadn’t run off with the rest of his buddies. He’d been hiding in plain sight.
Chapter Fourteen “I take the door, you take the window,” Mia whispered as they entered the building. For once Cameron didn’t object, but went around. He probably figured once she knocked on the door, Fowler would try to skip the back way, she mused. The apartment seemed silent, no noise from TV, no sound of anyone moving around in there. She drew her gun and tapped on the door. “Building maintenance.” No response. She knocked again. “We are having a problem with the gas lines; I have to come in and check each apartment.”
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Nobody stirred inside. “This is a mandatory check. I’m using the master key to come in,” she gave another warning then pushed the key she’d gotten from the super into the lock. The man had been more than accommodating. He didn’t like the idea of a wanted criminal hiding out in his complex, and saw the wisdom in having two bounty hunters taking care of his problem as opposed to the FBI swarming the building and shooting everything up. “I’m coming in.” Mia pushed the door open, gun in hand, went in low, and stepped to the side. The living room was empty. She shoved another door open and found three cats lounging in a small bathroom. She closed the door on them and moved toward the bedroom, caught the slightest of sounds and froze. “Don’t shoot,” Cameron said before he opened the door and walked out. “Where are they?” She scanned the apartment, zeroed in on the broom closet the same time as he did. The folding door was partially open. They moved into position without a single word, each understanding what had to be done next. “Come out with your hands in the air,” she said in her best ass-kicking voice. She didn’t expect the man to come out meekly, immediately, but she hadn’t expected him to be shooting through the door, kicking his way out, either. Mia dropped and rolled behind the couch for cover. Fowler had a bloody semiautomatic. Wood splinters flew over her head. “Put your gun down! Put your gun down!” Fowler was directly between her and Cameron, so neither of them could shoot for fear of hitting the other. The man summed up the situation quickly, went for Cameron, probably figuring him the more dangerous enemy. She dove for Fowler’s back the second it was turned; put everything she had into bringing him down. “Get the hell away from him,” Cameron was shouting. “I got him.” She grunted as the man heaved, trying to fling her off. “Get off him, bitch.” Jenny made her way out of the closet finally, and damn it all, she was armed, too. The momentary distraction was all Fowler needed. His hand sneaked around and caught Mia around the neck, brought her down. In the next second, his semiautomatic was at her temple.
Chapter Fifteen “Drop it,” Fowler said, victory flashing in his black eyes. Cameron wanted to blow the asshole away more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life; wanted to watch him go down, wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. Instead, he tossed his gun without hesitation. The bastard had Mia. Damn it, he should have never gotten her into this. Fowler was too dangerous and unpredictable. “Come on, Jenny.” Cameron turned his attention to the woman, hoping he might find a weakness there. “He’s just using you. They talked you into this — recruited you, brainwashed you. You don’t have to go down with him.” He moved forward slowly, bending, getting into position for a jump. Another few feet and he could lunge, another second and Fowler’s neck would be snapped.
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“You don’t know anything about me,” Jenny said and shot at him. As he dove for the floor, he could see Fowler pulling the trigger, too. His heart stopped. Mia. But she’d been on her guard, throwing her bodyweight forward. She didn’t quite get away from the man, but shifted her position enough so that Fowler had missed. In the next second Cameron was there, grabbing her, pushing her to safety as bullets flew around them. Then he had his gun back and returned fire. Too late. Fowler was out the door, Jenny close behind him, running up the staircase. He went after them taking the stairs two at a time, and could hear Mia follow. Fowler and Jenny weren’t far ahead of him, just a turn, always a turn, so he couldn’t get a good aim. A door banged open somewhere ahead, then a second later he saw it — the roof. He came out of the staircase fast, dove straight for the cover of a chimney stack as bullets buzzed by him. “Stay down,” he shouted at Mia as she reached the top of the stairs. Of course, she didn’t listen. The gunfire stopped. What was Fowler planning now? “Cover me,” Mia called, matter-of-factly, just as Bullseye or Martin would have said it. Like hell. “You cover me.” He pushed away from the chimney before she had time to argue.
Chapter Sixteen Footsteps slammed on metal somewhere. Cameron hesitated as he took in the roof, his vision blocked by other staircase entries, chimneys and vent stacks. “Where is he?” “Fire escape.” Mia was passing him already, running to the side. He caught up with her, looked over the edge with caution. The bastard was halfway down. He aimed his gun, swore, then lowered it. The sidewalk was full of pedestrians below him. Fowler and Jenny were moving fast, skipping steps. If the bullet missed — He swore again, vaulted over the edge and tore after them. Fowler glanced back, pulled his gun from his shirt and squeezed off a couple of rounds. Cameron turned and stepped in front of Mia to block. The bastard kept the bullets coming, but thankfully running was throwing off his aim. Man, he was moving fast. Then he was off the last step and making his way toward the cars. He didn’t go all the way to the lot. He leveled the gun at a young woman who slowed her car. A few seconds later, she was sprawled on the pavement as Fowler and Jenny peeled out of the parking lot in her vehicle.
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Cameron just about flew down the stairs, jumped the whole last flight. He ran for Mia’s car and slammed behind the wheel; picked her up on the way. The red Celica Fowler drove was just turning at the end of the boulevard. And then it passed out of sight. “Damn it. He’s getting away.” Mia yanked the seatbelt across her chest. Cameron pushed the gas pedal to the floor. “The hell he will. Are you hurt?” He noticed for the first time the patch of blood on her shoulder, and eased off the gas. “Who shot you? How bad?” “Go! Flesh wound. Don’t you dare fuss over me.” There was murder in her eyes. “I don’t fuss,” he said and ran the red light, swerved around traffic. He made it to the corner and caught sight of the Celica again. Fowler was going for the freeway, probably trying to get out of city traffic so he could make some real progress. Cameron stepped on the gas harder, honked the horn to warn a group of teenagers who were considering stepping onto the road right in front of him. Mia’s hand shot out to brace herself. “Watch the bus!” He missed it. Barely. But the tractor trailer that had prematurely jumped the curb to avoid them didn’t. It flipped on its side and blocked the road completely.
Chapter Seventeen The cops took their sweet time to clear the accident, even though nobody got seriously hurt. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Cameron looked over at Mia in the passenger seat as they waited to be released from the scene. Her arm had been patched up, courtesy of the paramedics, while he’d talked to the police. She had refused a trip to the hospital. It was what he would have done, but he still wished she had listened to reason. She was awfully quiet. He’d had to brake pretty damn hard. He hadn’t seen her head come into contact with the dashboard, but his attention had been on Fowler. She looked a little red in the face. And she was breathing heavy. “Did you hit anything?” He glanced at the paramedics who hadn’t left yet, and debated calling one over to check her head, too. “What the hell was that on the roof?” Mia turned to him finally, exploding like a hand grenade. “When I tell you to cover me, you cover me. Understood?” She shoved her way out and slammed the door behind her. That was why she was acting strange? He got out, came over to her side. “I’ve had —” She stabbed his chest with her index finger, fire boiling in her blue eyes. “Let me put it in terms you understand. When you’re working with me, I am in command.” She was sexy under all conditions. After several days of around-the-clock surveillance, he’d seen her at less than her best. But man, she was hot when she was mad.
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Not that his emotions were under complete control. He was pissed as hell that Fowler had gotten away, relieved that Mia was okay. His heart had just about stopped when he’d seen Fowler put that gun to her head. Adrenaline still raced through him. Got the better of him. He acted without thought, closing the distance between them with a single stride. And then he kissed her. This time it was for real. She was in command? She was going to run into a hail of bullets while he stood by? Oh, hell no. His muscles tightened in some subconscious anticipation that she would fight him. He half expected a knee in the balls. Instead, she kissed him back with all she was worth. For the rest of his life, he wouldn’t be able to smell peanut butter without getting a hard on. After a good long time, when the haze began to clear and he realized they were in public, he let her go. “Uh… that…” She closed her mouth, but was still looking at him dazed. He knew how she felt. He glanced down. “Adrenaline, you know…and all that,” he said, his voice rusty. “Yeah.” She leaned against the car. “Not gonna happen again.” “No. Sorry. Absolutely not,” he lied.
Chapter Eighteen “Are you sure he came here?” Mia watched the forest around them as the car sped over the rising road. They were out in the Montana backwoods and hadn’t seen a town for the last hundred miles. “Familiar territory. Jack says these were the militia training grounds. If Fowler were to leave the state, he would have done it early on with the rest of his men. He’s sticking around. Might be a pride thing. No government is going to run him out, that kind of stuff.” They came around a bend. Cameron slowed the car, came to a stop. “There.” He nodded toward the side of the road behind them. She wouldn’t have noticed the half-bent grasses in a million years. “Someone’s gone off the road not too long ago.” She peered into the woods. Fowler and Jenny were about two hours ahead of them. Cameron backed up, turned onto the path and let the car roll forward slowly. They came upon the abandoned Celica a few hundred yards later and approached it with full caution. “Might have run out of gas,” she guessed. She had so hoped that Cameron was wrong and they would find Fowler somewhere in the city. They were in the middle of the wilderness. Her expertise was in high-speed chases and urban pursuit. She could find just about anyone with the help of a good computer. She was lost in the woods. Cameron, on the other hand, seemed right at home. He moved silently, with a purpose.
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If there was a trail to follow, she sure didn’t see it, but considering his background, it was safe to assume she could trust the man to lead. He stole forward among the trees with fluid ease, alert to everything around them. She tried to imitate him as she followed. When they headed up a rocky incline and her feet slipped, he caught her on reflex, pulled her up level to him. They were inches from each other, standing on a ledge. One second she was thinking that if she ever did take on a partner, she wouldn’t mind someone like him. The next she was thinking of that kiss in the middle of the road. “Why don’t you go first? Straight up here.” He pointed out the next handhold. He probably meant it only so he could catch her if she slipped again. The higher they got, the more damage she could do to herself if she fell, slow them both down. But now that she’d thought of the kiss, she couldn’t shake off the awareness. She moved fast to get ahead of him; tried not to think of her PB and J-padded behind wiggling a few short feet in front of his face. Too fast, she thought as her feet slipped again. His large hand came up and braced her at the back of her thigh. She cleared her throat. “Thank you.” Didn’t breathe until he let go. What the hell was wrong with her? Now was neither the time nor the place for a lust attack. Not even if he was the finest of male specimens she’d met in a long time. The kind of men she normally had business with wound up dangling at the end of her handcuffs. And it never had a thing to do with kinky. Mia focused on the rocks ahead. Okay, so she was attracted to her temporary partner. She was mature enough to admit it. And she was disciplined enough to ignore it. She slipped again, and to her mortification he held her up by having her practically sit in his palms. Was he lingering? She grabbed a root and pulled up, trying not to think of the tingling parts. She would ignore whatever it was that kept happening when they touched. Definitely. She was one of the toughest bounty hunters in the west. No way was some hotshot military guy going to do her in.
Chapter Nineteen Cameron lay on his back in the darkness and stared at the patch of star-dotted sky above before returning his attention to Mia. She had the face of an angel and the body of a goddess — bathed in moonlight. But for all of that, her soft beauty was deceiving. She had a steel core inside. He found the combination an incredible turn on. Which kept him up at night. Distraction with a capital D. Another good reason for Special Forces not to allow women, he thought as he considered her again — then reluctantly admitted that he was about as comfortable working with her as with any of the guys. She knew what she was doing. He could trust her to back him up. “Is anything wrong?” she asked. “No.” He shook his head. He hadn’t noticed that she’d awoken. “Can’t sleep?” She watched him. “You were thinking about your sister.” Her voice was rich with compassion. It made him feel like an ass. He should have been thinking about Vicky, or Fowler, how to catch the bastard…anything but the woman next to him.
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Oh, what the hell. “I was thinking about you,” he admitted. He wanted to ask what lead her to this career. All of a sudden his head was full of questions for and about her. But before he could voice any, her eyes widened and she said, “We shouldn’t kiss again.” He grinned. So she’d been thinking about that. He inched closer. “Now that you put it in my head.” Not that she had to — it had been there all afternoon. He decided to go with the truth. “It’s been a really long time since I kissed a woman. I mean, before you.” “How flattering. So anyone will do in a pinch?” Her eyebrows shot up. She didn’t look pleased. “If you think just because —” “Someone’s gotta kiss you just to keep you quiet.”
*** Mia snapped her mouth closed. Who the hell was he to threaten her with a kiss? Even if it did sound pretty appealing, considering she’d just come out of an erotic and explicit dream about him to find him watching her in the moonlight. Cameron Murphy was not in control of her body or the situation, damn it. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his to prove it. There. Take that. Big mistake. He moved in for total invasion, mastery, full command. Yes, Colonel, sir, she thought, and shamelessly capitulated.
Chapter Twenty “How far ahead do you think he is?” Mia asked as they skirted a clearing. “Less than an hour. We’re gaining.” Cameron held a branch out of her way. She didn’t grumble about his insistence to lead. He was at home in the woods. It made sense to utilize his experience. An unspoken truce existed between them that morning, which included not mentioning the kiss the night before. He lifted his hand, and she froze. “What is it?” She barely whispered the words, while her stomach grumbled loudly, signaling noon. “Don’t move.” He bent to the ground, and she could see what he was looking at now. Three metal prongs the width of pencil lead sticking out an inch or so from the soil. “Land mine,” he said as he looked around for more. “I say we definitely found the training grounds.” She forgot all about her hunger as cold sweat ran down her back. If she’d taken one more step… She swallowed. “What do we do now?”
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“We back away, carefully. We’ll go slower. Go around this whole area. Step exactly where I step.” He was calm, focused. She put her life into his hands and followed him. Two hours passed by the time they went around, then another two before they picked up Fowler’s trail. By the time they finally made it out of the valley, night was settling onto the woods. “You think he knows we’re coming after him?” she asked once she felt safe enough to take a full breath. “I doubt it. Most likely he’s taking basic precaution,” Cameron said. “We’ll stop for the night. I don’t want to run into any surprises in the dark.” She wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment. She was still waiting for the muscles in her shoulders to unknot from the landmine scare. Cameron walked around for a few minutes, picked the site, and she helped him make a bed of leaves. The air was cooler than the night before. She moved in closer. For heat, she told herself, and because her nerves were rattled. She found his large presence calming. Until she looked into his eyes. He touched his forehead to hers. “We’ll get him tomorrow,” he said. She pressed against his warmth, and when his arms came around her, she didn’t pull away. Not even when his lips found hers with the ease of coming home.
Chapter Twenty-One The kiss started slow. Cameron was giving her plenty of time. For what? To change her mind? They had kissed before. She knew what she was getting into. She needed him to make her forget how close they’d come to death earlier. A goodnight kiss to relax, to comfort. And she did draw comfort for a while…until heat took over, then raw need — the strength of which took her breath away. She got sucked under so fast, she didn’t know what hit her. One second they were kissing, the next she had her hands under his shirt, the next he didn’t have a shirt on. Had she done that? She pulled back, confused, and her gaze fell onto the scars that crisscrossed his chest. She ran a light finger over the largest, then followed the path with her lips. The urge to taste him seemed overwhelming. “Mia?” he groaned the question. She buried her face into the crook of his neck. “It’s crazy. I —” She couldn’t finish. “I know.” He kissed the crown of her head and made a path down her cheek, circling back to her mouth. His large hands smoothed down her back, found their way under her T-shirt. He had enough heat to singe her skin. His fingers ran up her rib cage, to the underside of her breasts. She closed her eyes. It had been a long time since she’d been touched like this, she thought. Then he did something with his thumbs that sent fire skittering across her skin. She’d never been touched like that. “Cam…”
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By the time he lifted his head to look at her, she forgot what she was going to say. There just wasn’t enough room for him under her shirt. She lifted her arms to help him get the thing off. He bent his head to the lace of her bra, and her back arched on its own. Then she was free all of a sudden, nothing to separate nipple from mouth. He was madness. She’d felt it from the moment he’d stepped into her office. And yet she hadn’t been able to keep away from him. He came up and claimed her lips again. She gave as good as she got. The whole time she had it in the back of her mind that she would stop him. Just one more taste, just one more touch, then she would be done. But in the end, his incredible gentleness was the thing that did her in. She let go of everything: propriety, expectations, sanity. When at last he pushed inside her, her body welcomed him as if she’d been waiting for him forever.
Chapter Twenty-Two She was embarrassed. Cameron watched her, noticed the way she wouldn’t quite look at him. He was embarrassed, too. He didn’t normally display such complete lack of control. Truth was, Mia Russel had gotten under his skin. “I don’t normally —” She cleared her throat. “I don’t do things like this. I don’t know what happened.” “We happened to each other. Sometimes it’s as simple as that,” he said, then added, “I don’t do things like this, either.” “No lover in every port?” She relaxed enough to joke. “I think that’s the Navy.” “So what do Special Forces guys do?” “Spend too much time deployed to have lovers.” “You didn’t seem —” She snapped her mouth shut. “What? Rusty?” He grinned, pleased that she’d been pleased. “I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “Whatever it is, I have it, too,” he said, keeping his eyes on Fowler and Jenny’s tracks. They had gotten up early to make up for time lost. Now, at noon, they were pretty close behind. Which meant they had to go slower, had to be careful how loud they talked, what sudden noise they made. He stopped, put his finger to his lip. What was that?
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Leaves rustled a few hundred feet or so ahead. Something big. He listened for each step, judging the stride. It wasn’t deer. They’d finally caught up. Mia pulled her gun. “Not yet,” he whispered. “We wait until we get to a spot where we can get them in the open, get in front of them. We make a trap, have them come to us.” “Good plan,” she said, and moved forward silently, the same way she’d seen him do. She was a quick study. She was also extraordinarily sexy as she stalked her prey through the woods. As long as he couldn’t be in the army, something like this would be a fine job. And someone like her would make a fine partner. He grinned and set that thought away for later. They were coming to a creek. Time to move in for the capture.
Chapter Twenty-Three Of course, it had to be another cliff-scaling exercise. Mia bit back a groan as she pulled herself up, the muscles burning in her arms. She could do it, she told herself. She would do whatever it took to get ahead of Fowler and Jenny. “Want to stop for a second?” Cameron asked from behind her. She pushed on. “No,” she said, just as a bird flew up from a bush next to her. The sudden noise startled her, making her lose her balance. A sharp pain tore through her leg, and Cameron caught her, held her tight. “I got you,” he said. Yeah, he sure did. “Your leg.” He set her down and steadied her, kneeling to have a look at the long rip in the skin. “You’re going to need stitches.” He was already ripping the bottom of his shirt for bandage. “Nothing I haven’t had before,” she said, and tried not to wince as he tied the material tight. “Jack says if I don’t watch out, I’m going to look like a quilt by the time I’m an old woman.” He grinned at her. “I don’t think a few scars could make you look any less beautiful.” “Less flirting, more tracking,” she said and reached for the next outcropping, because the thought that he might be still around when she was an old woman flustered her. “I’m not going to suggest that you wait on the next safe ledge.” He came after her and helped her higher. “Well, what do you know? You’re growing.” “I —” He hesitated for a second. “If it was me, I would want to be there at the takedown even if I was half dead.” “Same here.” “I just…worry about you.”
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She stopped long enough to look back. “Would you worry about your old teammates over injuries as minor as mine? Would you consider sitting them out?” He gave a strangled laugh. “I’ve seen Campbell crawl through five miles of an alligator infested swamp with a broken leg.” He shook his head. “I care about you differently. I feel about you differently than I feel about the guys.” “Oh,” she said, and smiled, her heart doing a slow roll in her chest. “As long as you don’t think I’m a wimp who needs constant protection.” She reached the top at last and pulled up. “I can see the creek.” Cameron was moving ahead already. “Better get into position. In a minute or two, they’ll be here.”
Chapter Twenty-Four Cameron watched Fowler through the leaves. The man bent to the creek and washed his knife, staining the water with blood. He couldn’t see Jenny Peltier anywhere. Something told him she wasn’t going to give them any trouble. Had Fowler thought Jenny had betrayed him? That she had put the bounty hunters on his trail? Cameron tossed a pebble, watched as first surprise registered on the man’s face, then anger. He didn’t betray himself with any sudden movements, though, just kept rinsing the knife. Cameron threw another stone. Fowler drew the semiautomatic from his belt and shot blindly toward the direction of the noise while rolling to his left. He ducked behind a boulder and unloaded his weapon. Cameron watched from behind as the man pushed in the new cartridge. Fowler was still watching the other direction where the pebbles had fallen. Enough games. It was time to end the hunt. “Drop the weapon!” Cameron said without breaking cover. Fowler froze. He was probably just realizing that he had been fooled. He would be planning his next move. He was welcome to try. “Drop the weapon or I’ll put a bullet through your brain.” To make sure they were on the same page, he fired off a warning round at the pinecone next to the man. Fowler tossed his semiautomatic. Disappointing. Cameron stepped out of the woods. He wouldn’t have minded a little fight. If he couldn’t kill the bastard, at least he could have had some fun with him. “Who are you?” the man asked. “What do you want?” “I want justice, you son of a bitch.” He thought of Vicky, the countless other victims, his rage boiling too close to the surface. He fought to control it. For Mia’s sake, he would take Fowler alive. Then Fowler went for his feet. A second weapon. Cameron threw himself to the side and shot at the same time. He felt a bullet hit his shoulder as he watched Fowler’s gun fly out of his hand. The man scampered after it. “Go ahead,” Cameron said, ignoring the pain, keeping his gun steady.
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“I wouldn’t tempt him,” Mia said from the other side of the creek, her weapon drawn and aimed. “Game over.” She stood with her feet set apart, a fierce expression on her face. God, he loved it when she talked tough. Fowler swore like the son-of-a-bitch he was, but slowly lifted his arms into the air. Can you see me, Vicky? Cameron glanced upward once Mia had snapped the cuffs on. Justice was served today. Yes, Vicky would like that; justice instead of revenge. And Vicky would have liked Mia, too, he was sure of it. “It’s over,” Mia said, her gaze searching his face. “Yeah. It is.” He gave her a bitter-sweet smile that slowly turned into a full one. Some things were over, others were just beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Five “We make a pitiful pair.” Mia tugged apart the green curtain that separated her from Cameron in the emergency room. The doctors were done with them — all they had to do was wait for their discharge papers. Both bullets had gone clear through, without hitting bone. They had been lucky. Her leg had required all of five stitches. “Are you all right?” Concern and some other emotion softened Cameron’s face. “You know, a while ago, when Vicky had a serious boyfriend, they got matching earrings.” He shook his head. “Punk kid.” “And we got matching bullet holes,” she finished the thought for him and smiled. “Guess that makes it official. Serious relationship and all.” Her heart pounded a bit harder. “Is that what you want?” “I’m not the playing kind, Mia.” “Good,” she said. “Because I’m not the sharing kind.” He grinned at that. “Partners then? In everything?” “Partners.” She nodded. God, that sounded good. “So what’s next?” “There are plenty of others from the MMFA. They don’t have as much bounty on their heads as Fowler had, but they’d keep us in peanut butter and jelly for a while.” “Hey, watch it. Nobody mocks PB and J.” His grin widened. “No offense meant. Tomorrow we’ll start tracking down the troops.” Tomorrow? She drew up an eyebrow. It wasn’t like him to postpone a chase. “Tonight,” he said, “we are going to make love good and proper. In a bed. At least to start with.” She felt no pain. Seriously. Those words coming from Cameron’s mouth had amazing healing qualities.
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He slipped off his bed and came over, pulled her to his chest, enfolded her in his strong arms. “Partners in everything,” he said, and then he kissed her.
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The Diamond by Diane Gaston After learning the Earl of Greythorne is no gentleman, Miss Amanda Reynolds — "the Diamond" of the London Season — has refused his offer of marriage. So it is with great dismay that she learns the condition of her late father's will: to receive her fortune, Amanda must marry before her 21st birthday, a mere four weeks away! In her haste to claim a suitable husband, Amanda soon finds herself in a compromising position with the one man immune to her charms: the dashing but disdainful Captain Christian Ramsford!
Chapter One London, 1816 Amanda Reynolds spied Captain Christian Ramsford across the ballroom. Dark and brooding, he looked as if he'd prefer a battlefield to Lady Catsworth's society ball. Amanda was the Season's darling, a "diamond of the first water," emulated by the ton's young ladies and admired by its gentlemen — except for one handsome cavalry captain. It stung that he disliked her. The captain's vicar father had unexpectedly inherited a viscountcy, and it made Amanda sad that the Ramsfords still seemed on the fringe of the ton. If only the captain would accept her attempts at friendship, she could help him and his family take their rightful place in society. Amanda could introduce his mother to influential ladies. Take his sister to a fashionable modiste. Show the captain how to smile. But he had no use for her. He caught her watching him and, to her surprise, nodded to her. Giddily gratified, she forced her attention back to the flock of men toiling to entertain her, but they suddenly backed away. The Earl of Greythorne, the man everyone expected her to marry, strode toward her. "I would speak with you, Miss Reynolds." Greythorne's voice seethed with anger. Her admirers fled. She was alone. Greythorne seemed the perfect ton gentleman with his impeccable manners, superb tailoring, title and fortune, but lately Amanda's friend Lord Devlin had informed her that Greythorne was a devotee of the Marquis de Sade. Amanda's cheeks still burned from learning how some men derived pleasure from inflicting pain. She'd nearly recoiled when Greythorne approached her earlier that evening. She'd made known to him then her change of heart. "I have nothing more to say to you, sir," she told him now. She tried to push past him. He grabbed her, his fingers digging into her flesh. "We will find someplace private." Suddenly, a man's hand seized Greythorne's arm. Captain Ramsford! Amanda went weak with relief. He, of all men, had come to her rescue. "Miss Reynolds gave this dance to me, I believe," Ramsford lied in a deep and dangerous voice. Greythorne glared at him. "I have need of her." Ramsford merely increased the pressure on Greythorne's arm until the man winced in pain and released her.
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"This is not the end of it, my dear," Greythorne snapped. "Not by any means." He gave her a curt bow and spun on his heel. Amanda gazed up at Ramsford, speechless in her gratitude. He frowned as the musicians began to play a waltz. "I suspect we must dance." Only after he escorted her onto the dance floor did she find her tongue. "I must thank you, Captain." He peered into her eyes. "Did he injure you?" She felt unable to breathe. "No…no…" They circled the floor before she spoke again. "You must wonder at that unfortunate incident." "It is none of my affair." His tone was dry. But Amanda wanted to tell him. She'd confided in no one else. "I…I refused his offer, you see. And he is quite angry." His step faltered, and his warm brown eyes bore into her. "You refused him?" When he remembered to move, they again fell into the pattern of the dance, silent now, but Amanda had never felt so secure in a man's arms. Amanda knew she would be safe from Greythorne the rest of the night. The captain would be looking out for her. When the music ended, all too soon for Amanda, Ramsford delivered her to her aunt, made his bow, and walked away. Her Aunt Ellen quickly drew her aside. "Lord Greythorne told me you refused his offer." Amanda, casting a longing glance back at Ramsford, tried to sound casual. "That is so." Ellen shook her. "You fool! Your birthday is but a month away." Amanda blinked. "Of what consequence is my birthday?" Her aunt gave her an agonized look. "If you do not marry before your twenty-first birthday, you will forfeit your entire inheritance. You will be penniless."
Chapter Two Amanda spent a sleepless night, thinking about the part of her father's will that had been kept from her. Apparently, Amanda's father feared she would become as independent as her mother had been, unless she married young enough. Amanda's come-out had been planned at age eighteen, but her mother died in a carriage accident that year. Then, after properly mourning her mother, her father took sick and died. So this was her first Season in Town. Her guardians — men from the Bank of England whom Amanda had never met — had sent Aunt Ellen to act as her chaperone, though Amanda had only seen the woman once or twice before. Amanda had hardly known her parents, either. Her beautiful and stylish mother had always dashed to one society event or another, while her father followed the races or the hunt. At his death, the only home Amanda had known had gone to a distant cousin, but Amanda had been left a great deal of wealth — or so she had thought.
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"I was certain you would marry Greythorne," Ellen explained after the previous night's ball. "Your guardians agreed there was no need to inform you." How could Amanda find a husband in four weeks' time when the Season was almost at an end? Ellen joined Amanda in the breakfast parlor, dark circles under her eyes rivaling Amanda's own. They spoke briefly of traveling to Brighton with Lady Catsworth later that day. Ellen begged off going with her. The butler entered. "Lord Greythorne to see you, Miss Reynolds." Ellen gave her a pleading look. "If he offers, you must accept him this time, Amanda. I beg you." Never. No matter if she became a pauper on the street. No matter if she had to become a…a… She glanced at Ellen, who was entirely dependent upon Amanda for financial support. Amanda's fate would also be Ellen's. Amanda need not marry Greythorne, but she must marry someone. Captain Ramsford, her handsome hero of the previous evening, flashed through her mind. She shook her head sadly. The captain may have rescued her from Greythorne, but he did not like her. He had not approached her again at the ball. He'd never before spoken to her without being in the company of his fellow soldier, Lord Devlin — Devlin! Amanda suddenly thought. Devlin liked her well enough. He needed to marry. Devlin could marry her. Cheered, Amanda stood. "I will see Greythorne." Greythorne, pristinely groomed as always, waited for her in the drawing room. "Amanda, I demand to know why you refused me." He seized her arm as he had done the night before. She stared at his hand. "You have no permission to use my Christian name, nor to touch me." He glared. "You will not make a fool of me." "I will not be manhandled." She stared into his reptilian eyes, determined not to back down. Tense seconds ticked by. He released her, feigning anguish. "Forgive me. I am mad with desire for you." "Posh." Amanda did not believe a word of it. Had their match occurred, it would merely have been mutually advantageous. She crossed to the door. "I owe you no explanation. Accept my decision and do not press yourself upon me again." Amanda opened the door and the butler stood there. "Another gentleman to see you, Miss." Captain Ramsford stepped forward and bowed. "Good morning, Miss Reynolds." "Captain." She could not believe her eyes. He turned to Greythorne. "I thought I recognized your equipage out front, Greythorne." Greythorne snapped, "What the devil are you doing here?"
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The captain arched one brow. "Why, I am keeping an engagement." Engagement? Amanda's eyes widened. "Lord Greythorne was just leaving." Greythorne strode out of the room. Two spots of color rose on Ramsford's cheeks. "I saw his phaeton. Otherwise I would not have presumed…" Her pulse raced with excitement. "I am grateful once more, Captain. Do sit. I will ring for tea." He shook his head. "I must not stay." "You would break our engagement?" She gave him a teasing look. He averted his gaze. "You know very well that was a ruse." "Yes, but why?" she asked in a breathless voice. "I thought you required assistance." She could depend upon him, she thought. "You would help me?" A muscle in his face flexed. "I am at your service." She gave voice to an outrageous plan. "Give me a moment to dress and to pen a message —" He looked puzzled. "— then take me to Lord Devlin."
Chapter Three Christian Ramsford glanced at Miss Reynolds's distraught face as they stepped away from Lord Devlin's doorway. Devlin had not been home. Instead, at his residence they had met a dark-haired beauty and her young daughter, apparently Devlin's mistress and love-child. Ram had been as shocked as Miss Reynolds. "Did you know of them?" she asked after they were seated in his curricle and his tiger, Walter, handed him the reins. Walter hopped on the back, and Ram signaled the horses to start. "I did not know of them." Miss Reynolds appeared broken-hearted. "Why did you wish to see Devlin?" Her brow furrowed. "To ask him to marry me." This was a greater shock. It made no sense for the Diamond to have thrown off marriage to the Earl of Greythorne for Devlin, the untitled younger son of a marquess, even if Devlin were the better man. Ram told himself he cared nothing about it. She quickly put on a bright smile. "I…I've a great desire to be married before the Season is out. I thought Devlin might oblige me." This was absurd, the sort of frivolous notion he detested in young ladies of the ton. "Is it so important to marry before the Season is out?"
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"If one's Season is to be considered a success," she responded. Success in society. He would not waste his sympathy on her. He kept silent as he negotiated the busy London streets. She suddenly asked, "Where might one go to hire a post chaise, Captain?" He nearly dropped the ribbons. "A post chaise?" "Yes. Before we left this morning, I sent word to Lady Catsworth that I would not go to Brighton with her. She has departed, I am certain, but I do believe I shall hire a post chaise and go to Brighton after all." "Does your aunt accompany you?" "No. I shall go alone." Had her wits gone begging? A young beautiful unmarried lady would be at risk traveling alone. She appeared unconcerned. "Lady Catsworth and I sent our trunks ahead yesterday. I am certain she will still welcome me, even if I arrive a bit late." "You would go with no protection?" He did not give her an opportunity to respond. "I think not. I will take you back to your aunt." Her expression turned a bit desperate, but she did not argue with him. "Why do you wish to go to Brighton?" he asked. "Everyone of fashion will be there," she answered gaily. More frivolity. She was indeed a creature of the beau monde, the same society that had virtually shunned his family in the past and even now only reluctantly accepted them. Ram's grandfather had taken a woman of common birth to be his second wife. Ram's father had been born of that love match, but his half brother, Ram's uncle, had resented having the family blood tainted with inferiority. Ram's uncle had been a man of fashion. "Is it so important to you to be among the fashionable people?" Ram asked. "Of course it is!" she answered brightly. "Is it not important to you?" He urged the horses into more speed. "I would not be in London except for my father inheriting the title and my mother's misguided notion to give my sister a Season." "Will I see your mother and sister in Brighton?" she asked. "Of course you will not." He gaped at her. "Do not tell me you still mean to go." She set her chin. "I do, indeed." He could not believe this folly. "Miss Reynolds, I will not hear of you traveling to Brighton unescorted." Her rose-colored lips parted, and she gazed upon him with such gratitude his breath caught. "Captain Ramsford, do you offer me your escort? I will be forever in your debt."
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This was even greater folly. Riding with him, even in an open curricle with his tiger, Walter, as chaperone, would scarcely be less damaging to her reputation. But if he did not take her, he'd feel responsible if anything happened to her. Ram snapped the ribbons. "I will take you to Brighton."
Chapter Four Walter, Ram's tiger, gave an audible "harrumph" when Ram agreed to take Miss Reynolds to Brighton. Ram sent a message to his mother to explain his whereabouts, but Miss Reynolds insisted her aunt already thought her bound for Brighton. Off they went, leaving the city behind and heading into the countryside where the air was clear and the undulating hills were lush and green. In spite of himself Ram relaxed, savoring the warm sun and the pleasure of sitting next to the beautiful Diamond. The blond hair peeking out of her white straw bonnet was like spun sunshine, and her eyes were as green as the fields. The fresh air put a bloom in her cheeks, and Ram thought he had never seen her so radiant. Any man would be affected by her beauty, he told himself, even if she prized what he most disdained. Fashion. Popularity. Social success. Her values were the same as his uncle's had been, the uncle Ram had hated. He'd given Ram's father the vicarage at Bidenscourt, but little else, only as much as would avoid society's censure. "It is lovely here," Miss Reynolds said in the same tone she used in drawing rooms. He saw no need to respond. She continued, "Have you been to Brighton, Captain?" "Yes," he replied. Her verdant eyes widened. "You have?" He did not tell her it was to perform in full regimentals for the Prince Regent's entertainment. She sighed. "I have never been there. Is it lovely?" "Some would say so." He kept his eyes on the road, adding with sarcasm, "I suppose you go there in search of a husband." "Indeed," she admitted in a tight voice. Frivolous. He congratulated himself again for not falling under her spell, as so many others had done. Imagine marrying merely to be fashionable. A moment passed, and he laughed out loud. "What amuses you?" she asked. He stole a glance at her, trying to control his outburst. "Nothing of consequence." He could not tell her he'd suddenly realized just how thoroughly she had bewitched him. It was he, was it not, driving her to Brighton? Not some other besotted fool. She sighed. "Tell me about Brighton."
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Because he could not think of any other way to pass the time, he obliged her, talking about the blueness of the sea, the serenity of the Steyne, the opulence of the Marine Pavilion. She listened, asking questions more perceptive than he would have guessed of her. She smiled at him and held on to her bonnet with one hand, her shoulder bumping against his arm as the curricle swayed. Ram discovered he was quite enjoying himself, almost as if he escorted a sweetheart, instead of the Diamond of the ton. The road curved, a copse of trees obscuring the view ahead. Ram heard the horn and rumble of an approaching coach and slowed his horses. As he rounded the bend, a mail coach headed straight toward them, a young buck at the reins, a current fashion for foolish young men. Ram frantically pulled his team to the far left, keeping the ribbons taut to control the horses' panic. The curricle's wheels left the road, slipping on loose dirt. As the coach whizzed by, its back wheel clipped the edge of the curricle, tipping it nearly on its side. Amanda, her bonnet flying from her head, fell from her seat and tumbled down the embankment, rolling until she came to an abrupt stop at the bottom. Lifeless.
Chapter Five "God, no!" Ram pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger had already jumped from the curricle. "Take their heads." Ram scrambled down the slope, pebbles avalanching behind him. He slid to his knees at Amanda's side. "God, no." Let her be alive. Please, God, let her be alive. His hands trembled as he pulled off his gloves. Gingerly, his fingers probed her neck while his heart pounded in his chest. Damn that buck on the mail coach. If he crossed paths with that bloody fool he would kill him. A small pulse in her neck beat against his fingertips. "Thank God," Ram whispered. He ran his hand down her spine and felt for the bones in her arms and legs. Assured that her spine was undamaged and her limbs unbroken, he cupped his hand against her cheek. Her face was pale, her lips almost colorless. Beautiful Amanda. What had he done to her? "Is she alive?" Walter called. "Yes." He'd forgotten his tiger. "She's unconscious." Ram gathered her limp form into his arms and raced up the slope. "Drive, Walter," he yelled. "We must get her to a doctor." Ram held Amanda on his lap while Walter raced the curricle to the next village. Walter pulled to a stop at the inn, and Ram yelled to a posting boy to fetch the doctor. He carried Amanda inside, and the innkeeper quickly showed him to a room two flights above stairs. Only then did Ram release her, gently laying her on the bed. The innkeeper's wife bustled in. "Merciful heaven!" exclaimed the round-faced, matronly woman. "What mishap befell her?" "Curricle accident. She hit her head." Ram carefully removed Amanda's gloves. "Poor lamb." The woman clucked her tongue in sympathy. "The doctor will be here soon, I am sure. Your wife will be in good hands. "
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His wife? He would allow them to assume he was her husband, and provide them with false names. No one would question his right to decide her care. The innkeeper's wife smiled reassuringly. "Let us remove her clothes, shall we? Make the lamb more comfortable." Undress the Diamond? "Yes. Yes. Of course," he mumbled, hesitating a moment before easing Amanda's arms out of her spencer, while the woman removed her shoes and stockings. Ram unlaced her dress, lifting her so that the woman could pull it over her head. He then removed the corselet she wore underneath, leaving her only in her shift. "Let's put your poor lamb under the covers, shall we?" the woman said. "She is a fine beauty, she is." Ram picked her up again, so that the covers could be turned down. He tried not to think of how she felt in his arms, so soft, so delicate. As he tucked the covers around her, his wrist grazed her breast, the deep pink of her nipple visible through the thin fabric. "I'll fetch some fresh water," the innkeeper's wife said. She left the room. Ram gazed down at Amanda. Please, God, he pleaded silently. Do not let her die. As if in answer to his prayer, she moaned and her eyes fluttered open, fixing on him. The ghost of a smile flickered on her lips. "Christian," she whispered. "I am here, Amanda." He clutched her small, delicate hand in his larger one. "I will not leave you."
Chapter Six "Keep her quiet and sedated." The doctor pressed a vial of laudanum into Ram's hand, coughed, and tottered out the door, the odor of gin and sweat wafting behind him. Ram put the laudanum in his pocket. The doctor had examined Amanda in a most cursory manner, merely checking her pulse with his dirty hand. Thank God she'd been barely conscious or he'd have given her a fright. Keep her sedated, indeed. Ram had no intention of listening to that charlatan. In Spain one of his men had been knocked unconscious. When the man roused, the surgeon who'd tended him had said, "Fall asleep, you'll never wake up. March and survive." The man marched and survived, and so would Amanda. Ram would make certain of it. He returned to her bedside. "Wake up, Amanda!" Her eyelids fluttered. "No," she whimpered. He sat next to her on the bed and gently lifted her to a sitting position, using the tone he'd often taken with his sisters. "Wake, love. Do not sleep longer. Come, come now." She turned her face to him and opened her eyes. After staring for several seconds, she spoke in a slurred voice. "What are you doing in my bedchamber, Captain?" He brushed the hair off her forehead with his fingers. "I am not in your bedchamber. We are at an inn." "An inn?" She squeezed her eyes shut. "My head hurts."
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"Indeed," he murmured. "You had a nasty fall." She made no effort to move away. "I do not remember it." "That is fortunate." Some of her hairpins slipped out, and he removed the rest, freeing her shimmering blond locks to tumble down her back. Amanda leaned against him, her curves soft and warm under his touch. "My poor darling," he murmured. A knock sounded, and Ram quickly stood. The innkeeper's wife entered, carrying a tray laden with food, tea and wine. "A bit of refreshment for your lady and yerself, m'lord." She deposited the tray on a table next to the bed. Ram smiled at her kindness. "Thank you. I wonder if I might trouble you to stay with…to stay for a few moments? I would like to speak to my man." He needed to tell Walter she would recover. He also needed to warn him that his employer had suddenly acquired a new name…and a wife. "You are leaving?" cried Amanda. He squeezed her hand. "Only for a moment."
*** In the taproom, a place filled with smoke, noise and the scent of strong ale, one man nudged his companion. "There 'e is." He inclined his head toward Captain Ramsford, who'd crossed the room to speak with his tiger. The men obscured their faces with their hands. "His lordship ain't going to like it by half. If the chit is in one piece, this fellow's going to bed her." The man took a swig of ale. "Tempting piece. I'd bed her myself, I would." "Dolt!" His stout friend swatted him across the head. "Greythorne will strike you with that whip of his, for talk like that." The captain crossed the room again, and the two men dipped their heads. The thin man checked under his coat where he'd stuffed a woman's battered white straw bonnet.
Chapter Seven Amanda lay with her eyes closed, feeling as if a score of hammers had pummeled on every muscle and bone in her body. The hammers had settled in her head, which throbbed with pain. Her thoughts would not remain in order, but Christian Ramsford seemed to fill them. She had the delicious notion that he'd sat next to her on her bed, nonsensical as it was. She smiled, and rolled to her side, drifting away from the pain. "Amanda!" She opened her eyes. Ramsford sat inches from her face, his expression stern. She must have done some new thing of which he disapproved. How she wished he could like her a little. "Stay awake, Amanda." She blinked her eyes, but shafts of pain cut through her temples. "Do excuse me, Captain. I seem to have a headache."
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She heard a soft chuckle, and his arms encircled her, lifting her up so that she sat against the pillows again. She did not wish him to let go. "Open your eyes, Amanda." She opened her eyelids a narrow slit. Two Captain Ramsfords sat before her, each holding forth a cup. "Drink some tea." She gave a polite smile as the two focused into one. "Thank you very much, but I do not care for tea at present." "Drink it." He put the cup to her lips and she discovered she could drink the tea and keep her eyes closed at the same time. She might even be able to drift back to glorious sleep…. "Stay awake." She blinked several times. He sat with her on the bed, holding the cup to her lips. The rest of the room, still blurry, was unfamiliar. "Captain, I do not perfectly understand where we are." He smiled at her. Kindly, she thought. "We are at an inn. The curricle had a mishap and you tumbled out." Memory suddenly returned. Her need to marry. Greythorne's visit. Ramsford's unexpected arrival. Her visit to Devlin and, biggest folly of all, her insistence upon going to Brighton. Now she was alone with a single man in as compromising a situation as one could imagine. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Where is my dress?" The captain moved off the bed. He spoke stiffly. "It was soiled by your fall. It is being laundered." She clutched at her head and found her hair loose about her. "My hair is down!" Ram straightened. "I assure you, Miss Reynolds, my intentions and my behavior have been honorable." Amanda glanced at him, though it hurt to look up far enough to reach his face. His expression was flinty. She needed him to smile at her again, to murmur kind words to her. Otherwise, she would feel entirely alone. He went on. "Nothing will come of this. I have provided false names, and no one besides the innkeeper, his wife and the doctor have seen you." Amanda tried to compose herself. She most feared he would leave her again. Tears stung her eyes and she dragged her fingers through her hair, frantically trying to tame it. He came to her side again, but his gaze had turned soft. He took a strand of her hair in his fingers. "Would you like me to put your hair in a braid?" Overcome by the effect of his nearness, she could only nod. He sat next to her again, and her nostrils filled with the intoxicating scent of him. His fingers carefully worked at the tangles in her hair. He gently caressed her scalp, and a wave of pleasure shot through her.
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"Oh," she exclaimed. He stilled. "Did I hurt you?" "No," she said, her voice breathy. "You did not hurt me."
Chapter Eight Her tresses felt like silk as they slipped through Ram's fingers. She'd let the covers slip from her body, and he was too aware that only the thinnest layer of muslin lay between his fingers and her bare skin. He proceeded to plait her hair. She sighed. "You braid well. Did you wear a pigtail like the Hussars?" "Not that." Ram made an effort to sound unaffected by her. "I had many sisters and not enough servants." "How many sisters?" she asked. "Four. All younger." She sighed again. "I had no sisters or brothers. I can hardly imagine it. I suppose one might never have to be alone." "Exactly so. One is rarely alone." He finished the braid. "I need something to tie this, or we'll soon be back where we started." "There's a ribbon on my shift." She pulled at it. "I cannot get it off." The ribbon decorated the front of her shift and was certainly long enough to tie up her hair. Ram handed her the braid and took a small penknife from his pocket. When he grasped the front of her shift, he inadvertently exposed her naked breasts to his view. With trembling fingers, he cut the threads holding the ribbon, hoping she would not see the evidence of how she affected him. He quickly tied the ribbon around her braid, wrapping it around twice and pulling it tight. As he let go, she slid back under the covers. "I shall sleep now." "No sleep, Amanda." He lifted her up again. With his hands on both her shoulders, he forced her to look at him. "You must stay awake. Do you understand?" She nodded and closed her eyes. Her chin dropped to her chest. "Damn." He lifted her off the bed and placed her feet on the floor. "We march, love." "No," she whimpered, but he felt her begin to support herself. "That's the way, love," he whispered. But instead of walking, her hands slid up his chest and encircled his neck. Ram, surging with desire, grabbed her waist and pressed her against him. Reason was in flight. Primitive urges prevailed. "Remove your boots," she murmured.
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"My boots?" "Otherwise you will disturb the poor people below stairs with your clomping about." He laughed at his folly, thinking she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He removed his boots and put his arm around her for support. "Time to walk, Amanda." The room was very small. He could take only about five or six paces from wall to wall. Ram made a semicircular path around the bed and back again, but her eyes turned glassy and he feared she'd fallen asleep. "Talk to me," he commanded. "Very well," she murmured sleepily. They took several paces before she spoke. "We had lovely weather this day, did we not?" "Yes." Ram felt a trifle more in control. "So much nicer than the rain of late, don't you agree?" "Much nicer," he agreed. "I believe it has been a cold spring. Perhaps summer will be so as well." They turned and started in the next direction. "Amanda?" "Yes, Christian?" His heart turned a somersault at her use of his given name. "Have you a great deal more to say about the weather?" Her step faltered. "Why do you ask?" He made her continue to walk. "Because you are putting me to sleep." She laughed, the sound as musical as his sisters' fingers on the pianoforte. "Then perhaps we ought to sleep together."
Chapter Nine Blood surged through his veins, though reason told him Amanda merely wanted to sleep, not sleep with him. He made her walk some more. "Do you not have town gossip to talk of?" he asked her. She frowned. "I detest gossip. One does not mind so much sharing good news, but would you not dislike your misfortunes being someone else's entertainment?" He glanced at her, almost wishing she'd not revealed this more complex side of herself. It made her that much harder to resist. He continued walking her around the room, while she asked him questions about himself. About growing up with sisters. About attending school. About the war. "A soldier's life is not a fit topic for a lady," he said.
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"Was it very bad?" Her face tilted to his, sympathy glistening in her eyes. With her finger she reached up and traced the scar on his temple. "How did you get this?" He stared into her beautiful eyes, trying to use them to block the memory. "A French chasseur slashed me with his sabre." Her lips parted. Her finger touched the scar again. Ram kept his hands on her waist, but, with effort, held her at a careful distance. "We must walk," he said, guiding her back to their path. "And talk of other things." Somehow, she got him talking about his family, about his uncle's lack of generosity, about how his mother and sisters so often went without new dresses, how his uncle sent him to school, but never with enough funds so that he often went hungry. He told her how his father, a good man, forgave his uncle, though Ram never would. He told her how he would rather remain a soldier than accept his uncle's life, though he owed it to his sisters to make sure the estate prospered. So he would give up soldiering and make certain his sisters were launched successfully and his parents cared for. But he intended to never set foot in town, if he could help it. He'd given her his coat to keep her warm as the night's chill found its way through cracks in the windows. The fire died down, and he left her side to tend it. When he turned back to her, she had collapsed in the chair. "Oh, no, you don't." Ramsford pulled her upright. She put her hand to her forehead. "Truly, I am a little fatigued. Must we walk?" He brought his own hand to cover hers at her brow. "Is your head still aching?" She gave a wan smile. "The pain is not so bad." He cupped her cheek, wishing he could remove all her pain. "Perhaps you might eat a little." They had not touched the food. She sat on the bed and he on the chair, the table between them. It was so companionable he'd forgotten she was the glittering Diamond of London ballrooms. Here in this inn, she was soft and warm and belonged to him alone. He pulled the cork from the bottle of wine and drank, hoping to dampen his raging desire for her. When they finished eating, he said, "Time to walk again." He pulled her to her feet, but she collapsed against him. "I'm sorry, Captain. My legs do not seem to operate properly." "Back to the bed, then, but you must remain awake." He lifted her onto the bed. She immediately burrowed under the covers and closed her eyes. "Oh, no," he said. "Sit up and talk to me." He joined her on the bed so that he could jostle her awake if she dozed. She nestled against him. "Tell me of your sisters." So he talked of his sisters, until his eyes grew heavy and he had to force them open again. He told her every funny thing they'd ever done, all the silly things they'd said. She laughed, sounding more like a little girl herself.
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But, as she leaned against him, he was reminded of just how much woman she was, and of how much he liked having her all to himself. Dawn could not be more than an hour or two away. He'd soon be forced to part from her, to watch her again across crowded ballrooms amidst admiring gentlemen, like a diamond on velvet.
Chapter Ten When Amanda woke, the first rays of the sun were peeking into the chilly room. The fire had burned down to embers, but she did not feel the cold. Ramsford nearly covered her with his body, warming her in a manner she'd never before experienced. One of his hands cupped her breast and she could feel his warm moist breath against the sensitive skin of her neck. Most alarming, however, was the male part of him, hard and erect underneath his buckskins, pressing firm against her thigh. She stifled a giggle. It was scandalous, she knew, but it felt oh so lovely to have him next to her. Her head still pained her, but she could not regret any of this. As terrible as it had started out, the previous day had been the very best of her whole life. The captain — Christian, she smiled to herself — had cosseted her more than any other person, except possibly Nanny, but Nanny had died so long ago. He'd held her and braided her hair and worried about her and talked to her, telling her all about his life, actually sharing it with her. It was quite the nicest gift anyone had ever given her. When he talked about his sisters, Amanda felt as if she actually knew them. How she wished she had grown up with them. How lovely it would have been to always have someone around one could talk to without fear of being corrected or instructed on how one ought to behave. She sighed, and he shifted, nestling his head on her chest. She dared to move her hand so that she could touch the soft hair on his head, as straight and severe as he had been during the day, now tousled like a small boy's. What a good man he was. So honorable. So devoted to his family. So clearly loving his sisters. She marveled at how unselfish he was, to give up his wish to remain in the cavalry, as nonsensical as that seemed to her, in order to ensure his sisters were cared for. She'd never imagined such love existed — to give up one's greatest desire for someone else. She sighed again. This time he groaned and pressed his lips against her neck. She felt his tongue tease her nerves. "Mmm," he murmured, as if enjoying the taste. His fingers pressed into the flesh of her breast, and even through the fabric of her shift, she could feel his palm scraping her nipple. An ache grew from deep within her. Not like the aching in her head, but a delicious, torturous ache, one that made her yearn for more. Almost involuntarily she tightened her arms around him and arched her back. To her surprise, he moved over her, still kissing her neck, her ear, her cheek. As he settled over her, it seemed natural for her to part her legs, although it allowed that hard male part of him access to her most private place. As he pressed against her, her ache grew stronger, more exquisite. She arched her back again and pulled up her shift so that there were fewer layers of cloth separating them. He pressed against her and released, pressed and released, in a rhythm that built something glorious inside her, something that seemed almost within reach. She moaned with the pleasure of it all. He stilled. "My God!" He pushed off her and slid from the bed, barely righting himself on the cold floor. "My God, Amanda."
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Ram cursed himself. What insanity had befallen him? He'd been in bed with her, halfway to gratifying his lust. In his sleep, no less. He had fallen asleep, allowed her to fall asleep. "Amanda." He spun around, terrified he might find her unconscious. She sat staring wide-eyed at him. Her braid had come undone and her golden hair fell over her shoulders in tangled curls. Her full breasts rose with each rapid breath, straining against the cloth of her shift, breasts that had felt round and firm under his fingers. He longed to explore them again, to taste them, to lose himself inside her. Ram's erection pressed painfully against his buckskins, well visible to her eye. He turned away. What kind of scoundrel was he? What kind of reprobate? He was supposed to have kept her awake, not ravish her, not rut her like some animal. He could not even speak an apology. What words could be said for what he had done? She took a ragged breath. He glanced back at her. "Does your head pain you?" "It is bearable." She sat hugging her knees, looking small and vulnerable. "Can you travel?" he asked. She nodded. "Very well." He strung his neckcloth around his neck and retrieved his waistcoat from the chair. Buttoning it, he looked around for his boots and shoved his feet into them. Grabbing his coat, he walked to the door. "I shall send the innkeeper's wife with your dress." He strode out of the room and finished dressing in the hallway before going below stairs to find the innkeeper's wife. An hour passed, enough time to find Walter and tell him to see to the curricle, even enough time to eat a little, washing the food down with two tankards of ale. Enough time to compose himself so he could face her again. The innkeeper's wife passed him as he left the taproom. "Your wife is all dressed and waiting for you, poor lamb." He murmured some cordiality and trudged up the stairs. When he opened the door of the room, Amanda was seated on the bed. The tray of food he'd sent up looked untouched, and she barely turned her eyes toward him. He felt his shame flood back. "Are you certain you are fit to travel?" She nodded. "I want to go home." "Not to Brighton?" he asked. "Home." She looked as if she might dissolve into tears any minute, and why should she not? She'd placed her trust in him and he had treated her abominably.
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His heart beat painfully in his chest as he walked over to the window and back again to face her. "Miss Reynolds, I…I will not ask your forgiveness for my appalling behavior. It was unforgivable." She averted her face. He stiffened his back. "I have compromised you most thoroughly, and honor demands I make amends." She appeared even more beautiful than when she'd graced London's ballrooms, he thought. He wanted nothing more than to hold her again, to kiss away the distress he'd caused her, to never allow anything or anyone to hurt her again. He would make amends to her, he vowed it. He would devote his life to making amends to her. "I will marry you," he said. Her head snapped around, and she stared at him, looking as if she'd been slapped in the face.
Chapter Twelve Amanda's throat constricted. The captain — she could not call him Christian now, not when he addressed her as Miss Reynolds — was handing her a way out of her difficulties. If she married him there would be no blemish to her reputation. No loss of fortune. Money to support Aunt Ellen. There were countless advantages. All she need do was accept his proposal of marriage. He turned away from her. "If…if you see fit to accept, I have enough wealth to keep you in comfort. The title I come into is a respectable one. It will not elevate you in society, but neither will it debase you." His voice was so stiff, so formal, so unlike the man who had comforted her and held her in his arms. He was being good, she realized. Doing what he ought, not what he wanted for himself. Changing his life as he had done for his sisters when he gave up the cavalry to accept his eventual inheritance of a title and property. He turned back to her, not quite meeting her gaze. "You do not speak, Miss Reynolds." She was filled with love for him, a man so determined to do what was right in spite of his own desires, though she felt her heart breaking with the knowledge that she'd become another duty for him. Her lip trembled and she hoped he did not see. "It does you credit to make the offer, sir. I am very sensible of the honor you do me, but it is unnecessary." His glance captured hers. "It is necessary. My behavior this morning…" It was she who looked away. "We shall not think of that." Although she would never forget the feeling of his lips upon her skin, her own shocking wantonness, the sensations he created inside her. She took a breath. "You have said no one knows we are here. I am persuaded there shall be no harm done if you simply take me home." "You refuse me, then?" His voice was low. "I free you, Captain." She glanced back at him, but his back was turned to her and she could not see the effect of her words upon him. "As you wish." He faced her again, but his expression gave away no emotion. "The curricle is likely ready if you are prepared to leave."
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She rose from the bed, feeling dizzy from the emotions swirling inside. The aching of her head was only part of her pain, but she refused to complain. The sooner she got the captain away from here, the better were the chances they would not be recognized and he forced to marry her, after all. He gave her his arm, as stiff as his manner toward her, as he escorted her down the stairs. The innkeeper's wife met them at the door of the inn. "Now don't you look better, lamb," she clucked. Amanda gave her a wan smile. "I thank you again for your kindness." Ramsford opened the door, but the innkeeper's wife stopped them. "Where is your bonnet, lamb? The sun is bright today." Amanda looked to Ramsford. He merely shook his head. "I will fetch you one of mine." The woman hurried away. They waited a few tense moments in the more public area of the inn's entrance for the innkeeper's wife to return. She brought a simple straw bonnet, which she placed on Amanda's head, tying the ribbons under her chin. After another goodbye, Amanda and Ramsford walked outside to where the curricle was waiting, Ramsford's tiger holding the horses. He was conversing with two men, who walked away as they approached. Without meeting her gaze, Ramsford lifted Amanda onto the curricle, his hands spanning her waist, reminding her of his more intimate touch. A moment later they were on their way, and Ramsford had still not spoken a word to her.
Chapter Thirteen Lord Greythorne tapped the glistening steel dagger he used as a letter opener against the edge of the gold and black lacquer desk. He raised one eyebrow and surveyed the two commonly dressed men standing in front of him. "I lost him, m'lord," the stout man stammered, turning his hat nervously in his hands. "He drove back to his house, but he didn't stay. Afore I knew it, he rushed out. Got a horse from the stable and rode off. Lost him in St. James." Greythorne scowled. "What of the girl?" "She's not budged from her house," the other man said. "Yer not to worry, m'lord. We have men watching her place and his." His lordship leaned back in the chair, slapping the blade of the steel dagger against his open palm. "It does not sound as if a betrothal is in the air." He gave a dry laugh, no longer taking notice of the two men. "I'll wager she has spurned him. He compromised her, and she spurned him, nonetheless." The two men shifted in their places. Greythorne waved his hand in dismissal. "Find Ramsford. Watch them both." He cast a malevolent look at the two uneasy men. "Do not fail this time." They backed out of the room, bowing as they went. Greythorne examined the point of the dagger, testing it with his finger. He grinned. It appeared the Diamond had rejected Ramsford. It was not too late for Greythorne to renew his offer. This time she would not refuse. He would see to it. And he would also see she was properly punished for daring to refuse him in the first place.
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"One must do violence to the object of one's desire," Greythorne spoke aloud, quoting de Sade. "When it surrenders, the pleasure is greater."
*** Amanda closeted herself in her room for two days trying to sleep away her headache and the heartache that was its companion. By the third day when she woke, all that remained was a dull throb. She rose from her bed, reached for her dressing gown, and thought of Ramsford. It would have been so easy to accept his offer of marriage and solve all her problems, but she had learned from his example and done the right thing by him. So why did she feel so miserable? She took a step toward her dressing table and put her fingers to her mouth as a wave of nausea washed over her. Perhaps she ought to have eaten more than a bite or two of the food brought in on trays and later removed scarcely touched. The door opened quietly and her maid entered. "Oh, miss, you are awake. Mrs. Reynolds is asking for you." "Very well. Help me dress then," she responded. She almost felt presentable when she descended the stairs to the breakfast parlor where her aunt waited for her, worry and confusion on her face. In between bites of toast and sips of tea, Amanda told her the whole story of traveling to Brighton, the accident, the night at the inn. She left out the name of her escort and neglected to mention how intimately he'd cared for her, how he had shared her bed, how he had proposed marriage to her. "What will you do now?" Aunt Ellen asked, her voice tinged with tension. Amanda turned her thoughts away from a warm-eyed, dark-haired cavalry captain whose arms had held her and whose words had comforted her. "I will find someone to marry me," she replied.
Chapter Fourteen Amanda sorted through the invitation cards. The pink of the ton would return from Brighton on the morrow and the London entertainments would resume. Which of the various routs and balls and musicales would afford her the best chance to find a husband? She threw down the cards. The very idea made her ill. Everything had changed since being at the inn with Ramsford. The butler appeared in the doorway. "Lord Greythorne requests a moment of your time." The last person she ever wished to see. "Tell him I am not at home." Greythorne stepped into the room behind the butler, who glanced in alarm toward Amanda. "Come, my dear, you would not refuse to see me, surely?" Greythorne gave her an elegant bow. Amanda directed her gaze at the butler. "It is all right. I shall see him, but remain nearby, please."
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The man nodded and backed out of the room. Greythorne closed the door behind him. Amanda faced him, her chin high. "I resent this intrusion, sir. I thought I'd made myself clear. I do not wish to see you or speak to you." "Amanda." Greythorne made her name sound like a word not fit for a lady's ears. She glared at him. "Do not speak to me in so familiar a way." His thin lips curled into a smile. "You will wish to hear what I have to say." She took a deep breath. "Then say it and take your leave." He laughed, a dry sound. Without invitation from her, he sat down, crossing his legs and casually swinging his foot. His voice was mild but malevolent. "I shall place the announcement of our engagement in tomorrow's papers." "Do not be absurd," she snapped. "You do not agree?" He flicked an imaginary piece of fluff from his well-cut jacket. "If not an announcement of our betrothal, then a scandalous on-dit, perhaps." Amanda managed a bored expression. "I despise gossip." He laughed again and rose from the chair, approaching her with a predatory step. She stood her ground. He leaned to her ear. "A certain Lord G and this Season's Diamond spent an intimate night together at a certain inn on the road to Brighton." The blood drained from Amanda's face. "That is a lie." "Not entirely so." His eyes gleamed in triumph. "You may disclose the truth to the ton. An easy matter, surely." From inside his coat he produced her bonnet, battered and dirty. Amanda's heart thudded in her chest. Did he know Captain Ramsford had spent the night with her? If so, he knew she could only prove his lie by exposing Ramsford as her companion that night. She must either try to save her reputation by marrying Greythorne or by marrying Ramsford. And Greythorne was betting she would choose him. Even if he printed the lie about the inn, she would be pressured to marry him. The ton would approve of marriage to Lord Greythorne. His place in society was inestimable. In fact, she would be thought very clever for securing the union with an indiscreet liaison. But what if she exposed Ramsford as her companion at the inn? His place in society was not at all secure. He would have to marry her, and even then the scandal might damage him and his hopes for his sisters. After what he had done for her she owed it to him to protect his good name. Greythorne waited for her reply, his expression smug. "I care not what you print," she bluffed, making herself yawn. "You bore me, Greythorne. You may leave now." Greythorne's eyes flashed angrily. He turned to her before walking out the door. "You will lose this contest, Amanda, and it will be my pleasure to extract payment from your defeat."
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After he left, she collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her hands.
Chapter Fifteen At the breakfast table the next morning, Aunt Ellen shoved The Morning Post into Amanda's hands. "Did you see this? It was Greythorne you spent the night with. Why in God's name did you do it, if you meant to refuse him? This will be your ruin. You must marry him now." Amanda located the damning words on the page. "I did not stay at an inn with Greythorne." She faced her aunt calmly. "It is a lie." "A lie?" Ellen cried. "Who would tell such a lie?" "Greythorne." Amanda dropped the paper onto the table. "He would do no such thing," Ellen retorted. "Greythorne is a gentleman." Amanda gaped at her aunt. Her refusal to believe Amanda stung, but she tried to maintain a patient demeanor. "He is no gentleman, Aunt. He is trying to force me to marry him." "Of course you must marry him." Ellen poked the newspaper with her finger. "After this you will be cut by everyone." Amanda's old governess used to speak to her in the same bullying tone. When she'd been a child she'd learned to give the appearance of compliance and she fell back on that old habit. This time, however, she would not do as she was told. This time she would outwit Greythorne. Somehow, she would salvage her reputation and her fortune. And she would do it all without damaging Ramsford. At least, that is what she hoped. And she hoped she might devise this course of action by the evening, when she and Aunt Ellen attended Lady Rawley's ball.
*** Ram brushed the dust from his jacket before he walked through the door of what he still thought of as his uncle's London town house. He'd gone in search of Devlin, finding him in Kent at his brother's estate. To Ram's surprise, Devlin was about to marry his beautiful mistress. Ironically, Devlin charged him with looking out for the Diamond. Devlin told him what he'd discovered about Greythorne, his predilection to the practices of the Marquis de Sade. Now it made sense for Amanda to have refused Greythorne, but it still pained Ramsford that she refused his offer of marriage, especially since it had been so important to her to marry before the end of the Season. He supposed he was not lofty enough for her. Ram could not avoid her now. Devlin had made it Ram's duty to make certain Greythorne stayed away from her. He must watch over her until she found the society husband she was so determined to catch. The butler met him in the foyer and took his hat and gloves. Legs stiff from the ride, Ram trudged slowly up the staircase. He peeked into the parlor. His sister reclined on the settee, reading the newspaper. "No morning calls, Mary?" Startled, she glanced up. A smile lit her face. "Christian, you are back! I thought perhaps you would return in time for the ball."
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He would rather face an icy rain in the wilds of Spain than attend Lady Rawley's ball. "I would not disappoint you." She giggled. "I would not wish to miss it. There is the most delicious scandal afoot. Have you read the morning papers?" He was reminded of Amanda's dislike of gossip. "No, I've been riding all day." She rose and handed him the newspaper, pointing to a certain item. He read and the blood drained from his face. "Is it not shocking?" Mary said. He returned the paper to her. "I just remembered an errand I must run." "You'll be back in time for the ball?" she called to his back as he rushed down the stairs. Ram hurried on foot to the Diamond's town house, but her aunt sent him away, saying Miss Reynolds was not receiving callers. Was it that Amanda would not see him, or anyone? He could not convince her aunt to have his presence announced. "Tell me, Mrs. Reynolds, do you and your niece plan to attend Lady Rawley's ball tonight?" he bluntly asked. She blinked as if uncertain what to tell him. "She…she has planned to attend." "Then I will not trouble you further." Ram bid her good day and left. He must confront her at the ball, then.
Chapter Sixteen When Lord Rawley's butler announced Amanda, the ballroom turned quiet as a tomb. Amanda held her head high as she walked to where Lord and Lady Rawley stood receiving their guests. Neither met her eye as she greeted them. Their son, Mr. David Sloane, a handsome young man about her age, gave her a sympathetic look as if in apology for his parents' chill. The buzzing of the gossips sounded like bees around her head, and more than one elegantly attired personage gave her the cut direct. She would survive this evening, she vowed, or at least appear as if she had. Appearances were everything. She'd planned hers very carefully, dressing in pale pink, adorning her hair with only a simple ribbon. The effect was innocently ethereal — and virginal. "Perhaps we should sit in the chairs," Aunt Ellen whispered, gesturing to a corner of the room half hidden by huge jardinieres of flowers. "Certainly, do be seated, Aunt," Amanda replied in a calm voice. "I shall first say hello to some friends." Her aunt retreated to the corner. Amanda approached a group of ladies and gentlemen who would have fawned all over her two days before. They scattered, like beads falling from a broken necklace. Amanda stood conspicuous to the whole room. She doubted she had ever felt so alone, except perhaps when Ramsford left the bed they'd shared. A lump caught in her throat, but she swallowed and made herself gaze about serenely.
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A moment later Greythorne entered the ballroom, coming to a stunned halt at spying her. She smiled inwardly. He'd thought she would hide herself in shame. They all did. But she refused to feel ashamed for the time she'd spent with Ramsford. Greythorne appeared to collect himself. He strolled into the room, speaking to one or two gentlemen of his acquaintance, some who smirked knowingly at him. As soon as Greythorne came close enough, Amanda walked up to him. All eyes were now riveted on her, she knew. "Good evening, Lord Greythorne," she said in a clear voice calculated to be overheard. "I hope you are well, especially after that shocking piece of gossip in the Post this morning." He faced her openmouthed. "What a nasty trick," she went on, adopting an indignant expression. "Do you have any idea who might have done it? I declare it could be our ruin, not that anyone would believe such a tale. No one will believe it, will they?" Greythorne turned beet red. His eyes flashed with anger. Amanda pretended to frown. "Do you suppose someone is trying to force us to marry? Who could want such a thing?" Because the crowd had fallen silent enough to hear a pin drop, Amanda was reasonably certain her voice had carried well. "Most unfortunate," Greythorne mumbled. He bowed and quickly walked away. The crowd buzzed. Amanda's knees felt suddenly weak. Appearances, she thought. She'd given the appearance of innocence and hoped that the ton would believe in it as readily as they believed the appearance of wrongdoing. She took a deep breath. It should be safe now to go to Aunt Ellen's side. Then she saw Ramsford, tall and elegant in his evening attire. He walked directly toward her.
Chapter Seventeen Ramsford had spied Amanda as soon as he'd entered the room. She'd stood alone, looking as fragile as Dresden porcelain. Then as if turned to steel, she'd approached Greythorne, and her clear, musical voice penetrated the sudden silence. Brave girl, he thought as Greythorne marched away. Her eyes met his, and the power of her beauty struck him once more. He left his mother and sister, too busy whispering with the other ladies to notice, and walked directly toward her. The music began for the first set. Ram extended his hand and led her to the dance floor. When the set of the country dance brought them together, she whispered, "You should not have approached me." They broke apart again. His cheeks felt hot, as if she'd slapped him. She still did not want him. "I read the newspaper. Did you doubt I would seek you out?" he said when the dance coupled them again. She quickly whispered, "People might talk." He nearly laughed aloud. People were talking of nothing but her. They came back together. "Save me the supper dance."
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He did not speak with her again. When the dance ended, he escorted her to her aunt, who gave him a suspicious look. He bowed to them both and found a place to stand where he could keep her in view. A known reprobate approached her, making himself disagreeable. Ram poised to come to her aid, but she managed to rid herself of the man herself. After that, other men, fortune hunters and dandies who would never have dared approach her before asked her to dance. When the supper dance was announced, Ram was glad it was a waltz. He took her in his arms and led her into the dance. "Who placed the ad, Amanda?" he asked as soon as he could. "Greythorne." She spoke in a voice that seemed determined to sound composed. "He knew about the inn. I do not know how. He thought he could make me marry him." Ram glanced over to where Greythorne danced with the daughter of a marquess. Curse the man. Ram wished he could challenge Greythorne to a duel-swords, so he could draw the man's blood — but that would hardly help Amanda. It took some time for Ram to calm himself. They danced by men who leered at Amanda and by ladies who whispered behind their fans. In spite of her bravado, it seemed the ton would not so easily forego the enjoyment of seeing a Diamond shatter like glass. Ram frowned. "It is not going well for you, Amanda." "I shall come about, I am certain," she answered with forced cheerfulness. "If you are worried about your reputation, you should not have asked me to dance." He looked down at her. "I am mindful of being the cause of your disgrace." She raised her eyes, and he swore he could see through them to the pain in her soul. "No, I alone am the cause of my disgrace." Ram twirled her around the floor, unable to speak for the emotion she aroused in him. It mattered not that he was an unworthy match for her, nor that she did not wish to be attached to him. He would turn over heaven and hell to ensure her well-being. Greythorne would not marry her and bring torture into her bed. Nor would any other man have her. "We must speak in private," He danced her to the doorway and led her through the hallway into a small parlor, dimly lit with a branch of candles. After checking to make certain they were alone, he shut the door and grabbed her shoulders. "You must marry me. It is the only way out of this." She sought his gaze. "You do not wish to marry me." He glanced away, lest she see the raw desire that hummed through him. "I do wish to marry you. I must." She tried to pull away, but he drew her closer, leaning down and making her look at him. "You will not survive this scandal unless you marry, Amanda. I trust I am more acceptable than those men dancing attendance upon you this evening. You must marry me." She seemed to search his face, tears glistening in her emerald eyes. "Very well, Captain," she whispered, her lips mere inches from his. "I will marry you."
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All eyes were upon them when they reentered the ballroom, but Amanda could think only of the feel of Ramsford's arm beneath her hand. She knew she was being selfish for accepting him, for making him pay for her folly, but she was simply not strong enough to refuse him a second time. He escorted her over to her Aunt Ellen. Amanda lifted her chin when she saw Greythorne standing next to her aunt. Her aunt looked puzzled as they approached. She glanced nervously toward Lord Greythorne. Amanda ignored him. "Aunt Ellen," she said. "Wish me happy. I am betrothed." "Betrothed!" Greythorne cried, his voice loud enough to cause heads to swivel in their direction. The whispering resumed in earnest, moving through the room, louder and louder, like a wave crashing to shore. Aunt Ellen's jaw dropped. Amanda suddenly felt giddy with happiness, a happiness she certainly did not deserve. She gave a light laugh. "I am betrothed to Captain Ramsford." He stepped forward and bowed to her aunt. "I am honored your niece accepted me." Ellen blinked. "Well, I…I do wish you happy." Greythorne's face was red with anger. He stormed away. "Will…will you marry within the month?" Ellen asked. Amanda should have known her penniless aunt's concern had been confined to the money that ensured her support. Amanda would not blame her for it. Ramsford looked puzzled, but he answered, "We shall marry whenever your niece wishes." Ellen looked relieved. Amanda suddenly wished to be anywhere else but at her aunt's side. She turned to Ramsford. "Shall we tell your mother as well?" He glanced around the ballroom, abuzz with this new on-dit about the Diamond. "I fear she may know already." The shock and dismay on Lady Biden's face as they approached confirmed his fear, but Amanda did not expect Lady Biden to rejoice about her son marrying a woman whose name had been made scandalous. Ramsford, however, presented her to his mother and sister as if she were a prize catch. His mother was gracious, if palpably uncomfortable, and his sister could barely look at her. Supper was announced and Ramsford escorted them all to a table, inviting Amanda's aunt as well, so they all could be ill-at-ease together. While his mother made stilted conversation with her aunt and his sister remained sullen, Amanda followed Ramsford to the table to fill plates with the various treats set out for the guests. "I am sorry, Christian," she said, lapsing into the familiar address of their time at the inn. His brow furrowed. "You may cry off if you wish." She blinked in surprise. "I did not mean that." Besides, she could never cry off. That would make him the object of even more talk and speculation. "I meant, your family cannot want me."
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"We will invite you and your aunt to dinner tomorrow, unless there is another invitation you wish to accept." She thought his mother would not like this at all. "Nothing would be so important, but your mother —" He interrupted her. "My mother will agree." Amanda was about to protest further, but she was distracted by a glimpse of Greythorne, shooting daggers at her with his eyes. Ramsford noticed the direction of her gaze. "I will deal with him," he said.
Chapter Nineteen The next morning, Ram left a protesting mother and sister to their planning of a last-minute dinner party, and called upon Amanda's guardians. Amanda needed their permission to marry. Having heard the scandal, they acquiesced immediately, adding cryptically that he would certainly want to marry her before she turned twenty-one, at which time they could discuss settlements. He then proceeded to Doctor's Commons, to the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury, for a special license so that they would not have to wait upon banns and could be married right away. His last stop brought him to White's Club, a place that reminded him too much of his uncle for him to feel comfortable. But it was there he located Greythorne, sitting alone at a table nursing a glass of brandy. "May I sit?" Ram asked. Greythorne glared at him, but because others in the room were casting curious glances, he reluctantly nodded. Greythorne lifted the glass to his lips. "To what do I owe this…honor?" Ram kept his composure with difficulty. "A warning." He leaned toward Greythorne, giving him a lethal look. "I am betrothed to Miss Reynolds and I will marry her. You will neither approach her again, nor attempt to ruin her." Greythorne gave a dry laugh. "What? Or you will challenge me to a duel?" Ram kept his gaze steady. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to kill you, but I will not risk a hanging for one of your ilk. I will, however, expose to the ton your attempt to blackmail Miss Reynolds…as well as your more sordid predilections." Greythorne blanched. "I do not know what you mean." "You know precisely what I mean. I assure you I have proof of your perversions, as do others, so I suggest you give up such practices, as well, before they become more widely known." Ram then relayed some of the more specific details Devlin had told him. He was bluffing about proof, for Devlin had not confided the source of his information. Greythorne sipped his brandy, but his hand shook noticeably. "Do we understand each other?" Ram asked when he finished. Greythorne was still a long time, but eventually he nodded. That afternoon, Ram took Amanda for a turn in Hyde Park. Their presence sparked more whispering among the fashionable people, who also drove through the park to see and be seen. It was a good sign that no one
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cut them. That evening, they experienced a somewhat stilted dinner. Amanda was all that could be desired, trying to put his mother at ease, draw his sister into conversation, including her aunt in the discussion. Ram was intensely proud of her. He managed to get her alone for a turn in the garden, a tiny plot of green behind the town house. "The license should be ready tomorrow," he told her, suddenly feeling as awkward in her presence as he used to feel when calling upon her with Devlin. "We can marry wherever you wish, but if you have no preference, I would desire my father to perform the ceremony." She glanced at him. "Are you certain he would wish to?" "I do not see why he would not. I assume you are not in so big a hurry to be married you could not wait until we travel to Bidenscourt." Ram wanted to remove her from London before some other hurt befell her. He trusted that if they were out of sight, they would soon be out of the ton's mind. "Not so great a hurry," she responded.
*** Three days later Ram waited in the church where he'd grown up. His father beamed happily from his familiar position as officiate, and the pews were filled with villagers all come to witness their beloved vicar's son marry. Ram felt a thickness in his throat as he glanced around, seeing familiar faces smiling at him. The welcome he received touched him deeply. The door of the church opened and his mother and sisters filed in. Ram craned his neck, worried lest Amanda had changed her mind, but, glittering like the Diamond London had once deemed her, she was there on the squire's arm. In a few moments Amanda would be his wife.
Chapter Twenty The wedding ceremony had been like a blur. Amanda could only remember how handsome Ramsford appeared, how warmly he looked upon her when he took her to be his wife. Love and good wishes were in abundance, during the ceremony at the church, and during the wedding breakfast at Bidenscourt to which the whole village had been invited. Amanda knew none of it was meant for her. The devotion was meant for Ramsford and his family. All were wary of her. Ram's father alone had embraced her like a daughter, but Amanda suspected the dear man embraced everyone. Ram's mother and sisters were nervous around her. The villagers treated her as if she were as distant as royalty. In contrast, they acted as if Ramsford were a lamb returning to the fold. Experiencing the love surrounding Ramsford made Amanda's emptiness more acute. There was no one here for her. Even Ellen had not come, preferring instead to return to her cottage in Surrey. Amanda was alone. It should not disturb her so, but tears suddenly stung her eyes. She rushed out of the room lest anyone see. Retreating to the bedchamber she would share that night with Ramsford, she grasped the bedpost and leaned her cheek against it, squeezing her eyes shut so she would not cry. The door opened and she felt Ramsford's arms around her. "What is it, Amanda?" "It is nothing," she cried, but she could not help burying her face against the comfort of his chest. "Do…do you regret —" His voice caught.
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"No…no…" She clutched at him. "Although you must. I…I was selfish to marry you, but I wanted to so much —" He drew her away from him and looked her in the eye. "You wanted to marry me?" She blinked rapidly against her tears. "Yes. I…I know it was wrong of me, and I tried to refuse you, but when you asked me the second time, I could not." "Amanda!" He gaped at her. "I am so sorry, Christian." She turned her face away. He laughed. "You wanted to marry me?" The tears spilled over. She nodded. He took her chin in his fingers and turned her face up to his. To her surprise, he touched his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. She inhaled in surprise, taking his breath into her own mouth. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back. His lips became more demanding, and his tongue touched against hers. A moment later he kissed her neck, her ears, the skin above the neckline of her dress. He murmured, "And I wished to marry you, Amanda, although I had no hope you would want me. I had convinced myself that you were frivolous — saying you wanted to be married by the end of the Season and such —" "I needed to marry," she said. "My inheritance — Aunt Ellen's support — depended upon my marrying by my birthday." She explained the stipulation of her father's will. His eyes were earnest. "Then it is I who am sorry, Amanda, for misjudging you." He kissed her again, and her senses came alive in a way that had been new to her until their night at the inn. He lifted her onto the bed and soon they were entwined, her body aching for some release, something she knew would come when their marriage was consummated. She was disappointed when he released her and sat up. He rubbed his face. "We are expected below stairs. To toast our health and happiness." She rose to kiss him once more. "There will be time together later." He looked into her eyes, his gaze smoldering like fire. "I love you, Amanda." The tears filled her eyes again. Tears of happiness this time. She touched his face. "And I love you, Christian." They stood and laughed as they straightened their clothing. When they left the room arm in arm, Amanda sighed. "I wish we could return to the inn for our wedding night." He halted, smiling at her. "Why not? We could reach the inn within three hours." "You cannot mean it." She gazed at him in wonder. "You would do this for me?" He put his arms around her again and kissed her soundly. "Mrs. Ramsford, I am at your service."
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Jury Duty by Ariella Papa Everything's going great for Rebecca —she's finally made a clean break from her ex, Tommy, and her career as an animator is taking off. Then suddenly, all hell breaks loose —her boss wants her to produce her own show and wants the episodes ready in six weeks, and Rebecca's selected for jury duty. While juggling impossible work deadlines with her civic duty, Rebecca finds herself distracted by a certain Juror #9 —and in deeper than she thought when she returns home one day and finds Tommy waiting with a freshly poured glass of her favorite white wine….
Chapter One I should have known that we would wind up sleeping together again when he offered to bring over my mail. Okay, wait, already I see some questions from the jury and if there's one thing I've learned in these past five weeks it's that details are important. So let me start at the beginning. I was at my workstation. Work was going well these days. Everyone had been treating me a little bit kinder since the article came out. The one where my animated character, Esme, who is a bespectacled smart-aleck 13-year-old, was called "a feminist icon for the tween generation." This got me praise all the way up the ranks to the head of the adult networks. Now in meetings, people were likely to say something to the tune of "Let's ask Rebecca if she thinks this accurately represents the audience." I kind of liked it, but it kind of made me feel like I had a lot to live up to. All my friends were convinced that Esme was based on them. Kathy knew it was her because of the glasses. She never fell for the "men don't make passes" bullshit and more than once convinced me to spend far too much money in Selima. I hadn't even known about the trendy SoHo eyewear store until Kathy opened my eyes to the wonder of its glass cases and funky frames. Beth thought it was her because she was sure that Esme was Portuguese like she was, and felt like Tommy — her brother, my ex — had a big influence on my creation. And of course, Lauryn, my roommate, was certain that Esme's detective skills were derivative of her discoveries of her now-ex-husband Jordan's money troubles and infidelities. In reality they were all wrong. Esme, my character, who was dubbed one of the 10 coolest chicks in entertainment, was everything I'd wished I was as a teen or tween or whatever you wanted to call it. Esme was a gamma girl, totally comfortable with her looks and her brains. Totally unlike who I was at 13 or even who I was 13 years later at 26. It seemed to me like everyone was making a big deal out of nothing. Esme's Enlightenments wasn't even a show. It was just 60-second interstitials that aired during the kids' block on weekend mornings. I doubt anyone noticed them. I think the magazine was trying to be hip by even mentioning Esme. I didn't think everyone was going to make such a big deal about it. I didn't expect there to be photocopies of the article (actually, it was just a page with a picture and a blurb) in everyone's mailbox. I didn't expect the general manager to mention it in his weekly memo. And I definitely didn't expect the ad in Weekly Variety. I was thinking about all this and how nice it would be if I had someone I could really talk to about it all, someone like Tommy, who I used to be able to talk to about this stuff. Then the phone rang and it was Tommy. "Hey," he said. "I was certain you'd have someone answering your phone for you. Some little peon." "C'mon. It was just one little article in a magazine that nobody reads." "More people read it than my magazine."
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"That's comforting." Tommy had started a gaming magazine. He was obsessed with video games. It was part of the reason we broke up. "So what's up? Your thumb got a cramp or something?" "Very funny. No, I just wanted to see how you were. You know, say hi. See how it was going with the scorned woman." He was talking about Lauryn. "C'mon, Tommy, Jordan's the dick." "That's right. Think about how much of a gem I am compared to Jordan. Put that in your pipe and smoke it with those girlfriends of yours." "It isn't fair. Your sister is a traitor." "Believe me, Beth's taken your side. My whole family is on your side." Doesn't it sound like we get along wonderfully? Like we're totally cool with the whole dissolution of our relationship? Well, let me tell you, part of being a grand juror means that you have to hear all the evidence before you decide to indict. In other words, don't assume. "So why are you calling me?" See, I can cut right to the chase. "Honestly, I wanted to congratulate you on the press." "Well, thank you." I was kind of smiling and twirling in my chair. "I also got a shitload of mail for you. We got a wedding invitation, from your side. I think your cousin Cheryl. You'll have to get a date. You got your credit card bill and something from New York County. I bet it's jury duty." There it was, my sentence, but I was so innocent then. I was almost flirting. I missed him, if I must tell the whole truth. I missed him a lot. "I could drop it off if you want." "Actually, I wanted to pick up that lamp. Do you want me to come over? I mean, to pick up my mail." "Yeah, really. I could make you some dinner." "That's okay. I'll just grab my mail." When I called Lauryn to see if she wanted me to bring anything home, I mentioned that I was stopping by Tommy's place. Although I slipped and called it "our place." "If you don't make the break in your mind, Rebecca, you're never going to make it in your heart." "Right, Lauryn. I'm just picking up my mail. Don't pull out the Dr. Phil yet."
*** th
I walked up 9 Avenue from the studio to my old apartment in Hell's Kitchen. I really missed the area. I sighed when I passed Don Giovanni's. It was there that Tommy first proposed that we live together. Now I wonder if that was when our whole relationship started to suffer. What I didn't miss was the walk up five flights after Tommy buzzed me in. He was standing with the door open when I got up the stairs. He held out a glass of white wine, my favorite vinho verde. "Hi," I said kissing him on the cheek. "Thanks."
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"Hey." I was relieved to see he wasn't wearing the usual sweats and a T-shirt. In fact, it seemed that he was intentionally wearing my favorite button-down shirt. I stepped into formerly our, now his, apartment. I smelled sausage. "Have you been cooking?" I asked. "Yeah, my mom sent down some chorizo. I'm making some pasta. I hoped you'd stay for dinner." "Okay," I agreed too quickly. Tommy didn't cook that well except when it came to Portuguese food. His mom had taught him and Beth really well. I took a quick scan of the living room while Tommy went to put on the pasta. The place seemed amazingly clean. I think he had even put the PlayStation 2 controller away. The table, which was usually covered with game boxes and papers, was set and there were even two pathetic melted-down candles stuck in the center. "Did you get a cleaning lady?" "No, just straightened up a bit." "Well, it looks nice." He brought in some carrots and hummus. I took one and dipped it as he poured me some more wine. "So what did old Hackett say about the press?" Hackett was the head of programming. "He covered his ass really well. Caught me in the kitchen and congratulated me as if the whole thing had been his idea." "That figures, the asshole." I liked that Tommy knew all my stories. It was just easy to feel comfortable around him. He finished up the wine in his glass and poured the last of the bottle into our two glasses. "Shit, it's done," I said giggling. I guessed I had been sort of gulping it, partly because it went down so smooth and partly because I was nervous to be seeing him. "That's okay. I got two more bottles. I'll go open one up." And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is where the trouble began.
Chapter Two "I knew it. I just knew it," Lauryn said when I answered the phone at work the next day. "That's why you based Esme on me. I could have told you that you were going to fuck him when you went to pick up your mail." "Look, Lauryn, the last thing I need right now is 'I told you so.'" "No, you probably need the morning-after pill." She had convinced me to throw away my pills with her in some kind of pagan type ceremony that was supposed to symbolize our freedom from men. It was pretty scary and now I regretted humoring her. "He had condoms." "Interesting." I knew it was. We hadn't needed condoms in about two years. After both of us took the necessary tests and decided to be monogamous, I had gotten on the pill. It was very interesting that he
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happened to have condoms handy. I knew that Lauryn would suspect the worst, but even then I was hesitant to trust circumstantial evidence. "Well, I'm glad they were there and — Shit!" My other line was beeping. I could see it was Hackett. "Lauryn, it's the head of programming. I'll talk about this with you tonight." "Try not to make any pit stops on the way home, huh?" "Thanks." I clicked over to the other line. "Rebecca Cole." "Hi, Becky." Becky? "It's Matt Hackett. I was wondering if you could have a meeting with me today at 11." "Sure," I said, a little petrified that his assistant, Meg, wasn't scheduling this. The meeting would be in 20 minutes. "Great, see you then." I really can't think of anyone who could find any acceptable reason to refuse meeting with the head of programming. But, it was weird that he called himself. I came in late today. Now, like most animators, we started at around 10 and it was pretty casual, but lately I'd been coming in around 10:30. I think the article thing had gotten to my head a bit. It was like a get-out-ofjail-free card. I hadn't been the efficient little worker bee I usually was. I was ducking out early, coming in late. I knew I was going to get my wrist slapped eventually, but I hadn't expected Matt Hackett to do it himself. I had good intentions this morning. I snuck out of my (fuck!) — Tommy's — place and got halfway to work when I realized that I left my mail on the kitchen counter. I had to go back. And he was up when I got back. He had already taken his position on the couch with controller in hand. I could hear the swell of the Grand Theft Auto 3 soundtrack when I opened the door. I wondered if he had been pretending to be asleep when I left. "Hey," he said, pausing the game. "I'm glad you had to came back to say goodbye. You made a pretty quick, quiet escape. I was beginning to think you were Lara Croft or something." All of Tommy's references these days were video game related. And they kind of had to be since he started the gaming magazine with his friend Mike. Still, it bugged me. I was annoyed that he was already in the throes of a game that I knew he wasn't reviewing at 9:30 in the morning. So I owned up to the real reason I came back. "Forgot the mail." "Oh," he said, looking sad, "yeah." He turned the game back on. I wondered which one of us would be the first to bring up last night. "I'm going to use the bathroom." I splashed some cold water on my face. I wished I had some skin care products here still. My skin felt extremely oily. When I came out he asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. He had finished his game. I accepted a mug, but then remembered he didn't have any half-and-half. I only liked half-and-half in my coffee. Everything about being here felt familiar, but somehow wrong. I'm sure he felt the same way. "Look, about yesterday…" Good, at least he was bringing it up. It seemed like a small victory. "I didn't really intend for that to happen. It was great and really good to see you, but I won't let it happen again."
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I had said pretty much the same thing the last time this happened. I nodded and sipped my bitter black coffee. He looked over toward the Spiderman clock in the kitchen. "I think you should really make sure your mail goes to Lauryn's. If any more comes here, I'll give it to Beth." Wow! I knew he was right, but as he said that, I realized that would mean I wouldn't be back. I had subconsciously moved out really slowly so I could keep coming back. I loved this place. Maybe I should have fought harder to stay. "Okay." I said. I was kind of stunned. "I got to get to work."
*** I thumbed through the mail while I waited for my sentence with Hackett. My cousin Cheryl was marrying her boyfriend, Dan. Great, I'd have to find another date. Better still, I had to explain to my entire family all the reasons why Tommy and I were no longer together. I'm sure then they would all tell me what they really thought of him without solicitation. I couldn't wait for that. Next was my credit card bill. I owed about $10,000. Paying for the movers two months ago didn't do much to help that. I scanned the bill to see if there were any charges on there that were Tommy's. Oh, god! I was still looking for excuses to have to call him. This had to stop. I had to just make a clean break. It was what I intended. I just hadn't expected it to be so hard. There were a couple of catalogs I knew Tommy had already flipped through. He had a strange obsession with catalogs. I had to stop referring everything back to him. I was almost as bad as Lauryn. The last piece of mail I had was a summons to appear tomorrow and be considered for grand jury qualification. I had gotten one of those notices a couple of months ago. When I went down to the courthouse, I was told that I would be summoned in the next few months. If I was selected as a grand juror, I would have to serve for 20 business days every afternoon or morning. I could only defer for up to six months. Now, they had me and I had to report. Great.
*** I knocked on Matt Hackett's door at one minute to 11. He motioned for me to come in. He was finishing up a call. "I know, we're so pleased…. I'm certain it's going to be big…. Sponge Bob who? They'll say... I know I know, look at Britney.... This demo is more Julia Stiles...absolute licensing tie-ins. Uh-huh...yeah.… Well, she's here now.… I'll give you a call." I couldn't fathom that anything he was talking about could have to do with me, but I sat up straighter when he looked up at me. I was ready with an excuse about a sick cat if the lateness came up. "How are you, Becky?" No one calls me Becky. "Great, Matt, how are you?" Hackett had been in the business forever. It was weird to call him Matt, but that was one of the weird rules of the network. Everyone must call everyone by his or her first name. The idea being that we were all equals. I looked around at the size of Matt's office. We were so not equal. "Terrific," he said. I almost expected him to have a cigar, but that would be a real infraction of company rules. "Much better since Esme's been getting such great publicity. Did you hear the Times is going to do something in Arts & Leisure this weekend?" I hadn't. I wish I read more. "I thought tweens was old news."
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"Absolutely not. Have you seen the research findings? This stuff is testing off the charts. Even with boys. They think of Esme as a tech head. They like her. She's got all-around appeal." I didn't know if I should thank him or if I could interrupt the flow. "So the big guys upstairs said to me, why is it just an interstitial. Why not a show? I said, great idea. We'll have a pilot by the upfront." "The upfront?" I had to interrupt him. "That's, like, six weeks away." The upfront was the yearly conference where advertisers got together to decide how much money they would spend on a channel based on its programming. They needed to see polished samples. This was big time. "Well, I spoke with Kim and she told me you had about four 60s ready to go." "Yeah, I'm working on them, but that's only four minutes of non-narrative story. There's no way we can get a pilot." Hackett looked at me and I knew that no one contradicted him. "Of course, we'll get you some help. We're taking two animators off Diamond Clubhouse and hiring you an assistant. Congratulations, you're now the executive producer of Esme. Just keep doing what you're doing and keep curriculum in mind. After the upfront, we'll go into full-blown production to have 13 eps by fall. Now, go get started. Make us proud. I got Meg working on your staffing." "Oh, okay." I felt as though a bus had hit me. "Thanks." I left his office and went to sit in one of the bathroom stalls. I should have been happy to be promoted, but instead I felt sick. I had six weeks to come up with a 22-minute pilot. Brand-new stories and brand-new animation. When I was done with that, I'd have five months to get 13 episodes ready. It didn't seem possible. And that, ladies and gentleman of the jury, is when I began to panic.
Chapter Three Everyone's got a way to get out of jury duty: "Tell them your sister's a lawyer," Kathy said. "Don't show," Beth said. "Say you were a victim of a violent crime," said Jen, my new assistant, who also happened to be Matt Hackett's niece. "Tell them you hate men," Lauryn said. She was quite serious. We were in line at Whole Foods. Neither of us felt like cooking so we just sampled a bunch of the prepared foods and then hit the salad bar. "Or has that changed since you had your orgasm?" "Two," I said, honestly, but wanting to get her goat all the same. I hoped the line guy hadn't heard me. "Number nine is yours," he said pointing to us. We walked up to cash register nine. "I can't believe you," she said, putting some organic tampons on the counter. "You'd think you could restrain yourself after everything he's done." "Lauryn, he didn't do anything. That's part of the problem. I lost him to his GTA 3 inertia. In case you forgot, I was the one who moved out." "I think you're in denial," she said once we were outside and walking to her, fuck, our apartment. "Really, I think you're making excuses for the fact that you're not over him."
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"I never said I was over him. I just needed to get away from the incessant sounds of explosions and gunfire." "Don't forget the toys," she said. I knew she was right, but I didn't say anything until we got home and started eating. Tommy had always been into collecting things: comic books; figurines; movie posters; and old school arcade games. There was barely enough room in our apartment for all of that junk. I was blind to it at first, thought it was a cute little quirk that Tommy had. Then he started his magazine, Toys and Games. And then things got worse. I realized I was dating a child. Our relationship ratings went down. I needed a big stunt. My jump-the-shark move was requesting a dog. I thought it would be the first step toward responsibility. It would be great, since he worked from home on the magazine. I figured he'd have some time between games and writing to take the dog for a walk. "I'm just too busy for that, Rebecca," he said, not even bothering to pause Tony Hawk. When we stopped having sex soon after that, I pretty much decided it was over. I spent the better part of the day after Hackett gave me what should have been my dream job moving my stuff from my workstation to my office. I also had to meet my new animators, John and Janice, and set up some schedules with Jen. Jen was very eager to help me. I expected her to be kind of spoiled because she had gotten this job through her uncle, but she seemed too enthusiastic. She insisted on calling me Becky, and that meant that John and Janice also called me Becky. I was beyond correcting them. I suspected there was something going on between John and Janice, but as soon as I saw the number of empty soda cans in their trash, I realized these guys may have been doing it, but they were hopped up on caffeine and hardworking. That was what it was going to take to get this pilot off the ground in six weeks. It gave me a glimmer of confidence. That confidence was quickly shattered when I realized that everyone expected me to make this show happen. Being the executive producer meant I kind of had to tell them what to do. Animating and maybe writing some dialogue were things I could do, but managing other people was not. Plus, if this whole thing failed, it meant I would fail. It meant that, god, who even knew what they would do to me. I never wanted to have this kind of responsibility. And now, I had to head down to 100 Centre St. to find out if I would also be serving New York County for the next 20 days, as if my life wasn't busy enough. I was running late, of course, but the place was packed. It seemed like everyone was scheduled to show up for jury duty at the same time. The courtroom was standing room only. A man with a heavy Bronx accent told us that when we heard our name we had to say morning, afternoon, or excused. "But if you excuse yourself this time, folks, your name just goes back into the computer and we call next month and every month for six months. Eventually, we're gonna get you, so it's best to volunteer now." He said "volunteer" as if we weren't compelled to be here. It seemed that there was no way for me to even try out any of the excuses my friends and coworkers had supplied. The only way to excuse myself was to live in a different county. I'm a firm believer in getting things over with. I couldn't imagine how I was even going to be able to spare three hours a day for the next four weeks. At the same time, it seemed like the next six months were going to be even harder. If the pilot did well, I'd still have an actual show to produce. There was still a chance that if I "volunteered" I wouldn't get called. I had always been lucky. I might as well chance it. The civil servant began calling out people's names.
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"Cole, Rebecca," he said. "Afternoon," I yelled. It would probably have been more time-efficient for me to go in the mornings since the session started at nine, but I was not a morning person and I couldn't imagine starting the day in a courtroom. Besides, I knew I wasn't getting picked. I had to have faith. When all the hundreds of names had been called, the people who asked to be excused were released. This opened up some seats. I needed one after standing for so long. The names of "volunteers" were put into a kind of wheel. They picked four morning juries and then they had to pick four afternoon juries. Each jury consisted of 23 people. After three juries were picked, I was feeling pretty confident. If I got out of this "volunteering" thing without being picked, I would be excused for four years. There were only five more jurors to be picked for the fourth and last jury. This was a testament to how easily the whole production was going to go. I was lucky, there was no denying it. Maybe not lucky in love, but lucky. Three more and still not called. I should go to Vegas. I was certain to have more disposable cash with my promotion. Maybe I could make enough at blackjack to pay off all my awful debt. "Cole, Rebecca." "What?" I looked up. There were only two more to go and I was — shit! I was one of them. I was a grand juror for the next 20 days. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is when I got royally, judicially screwed.
Chapter Four There is nothing like sitting in the hot courtrooms on the ninth floor of 60 Centre Street to put things in perspective. Every day around 1:45 I dashed out of the office, entrusting Janice and John to keep on working and not wander into my new office for some recreational sex. I stopped to get an iced coffee at the little cart by the subway stop and waited on the long security line to get let into the building. I was juror number three. So named because I sat front row. The whole thing was meant to be completely anonymous. At times, I regretted sitting in the first row, because that meant a lot of the witnesses looked at me as they testified. More often than not, what they saw was a giant yawn. It wasn't awful, the actual experience. I mean, I could eat my lunch. There were lots of slow times when we were waiting to hear cases and I got a lot of work done. We got a 15-minute break every day and sometimes we even got released at 4:30. That's good, right? I did luck out by not getting picked as the secretary or one of the forepeople. That would have sucked. I could have had to write stuff down or swear people in. Just being a grand juror meant all I had to do was listen and vote. Some of the jurors liked to ask a lot of annoying questions of the witnesses, but most people just wanted to get the votes done, assuming that the quicker we voted, the quicker we'd get released. Don't get me wrong though, most people would only vote to indict when the evidence was presented. But the D.A.s did a good job and we usually indicted.
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I had a lot of time to think about Tommy. I thought a lot, but didn't really reach any epiphanies. Esme was much better at coming to conclusions than her creator. After the first week, I was exhausted. I was staying at work until 10 or 11 at night. I had to stay after Janice and John left. I was jealous that they each got to go home with each other, while I was working just as hard and went home to an empty bed. They were both really talented, definitely better animators than I was, but they seemed to respect what I said about Esme. I noticed the character was starting to look different from the one I originally created. If you ever watch early episodes of The Simpsons, you'll notice a difference between then and now. Esme was evolving in another animator's hand. She was looking a lot better than she looked when I drew her. The differences were subtle; I doubted the audience would notice, but I did. My baby was growing up. Hackett insisted we have a status meeting on Monday so I could update him on progress. That meant I had to go in on Saturday. I slept until a decadent 11 and then went to work, promising Lauryn I would be home to go out for drinks with the girls tonight. I found Jen typing away in her cube when I got in. Janice and John were also at their workstations. I hadn't asked for or expected anyone to be in on Saturday. I was impressed with their dedication. At the same time, I felt guilty for being the last one to get there. It was beginning to look as if we were a team. "Hey," I said, smiling. "Doesn't anyone have a life anymore?" "Not 'til after the upfront," said Janice, downing the last of a can of soda and throwing it into the trash. "Three points. John, can you toss me another one." I sat in my office for a while, trying to iron out the second segment of the pilot. Animated shows were sometimes broken down into two 11-minute segments. Janice and John were working on a device to link the four minutes I had already almost completed. It was a stretch, but I think we'd found something that worked. I had to find another adventure for Esme to go on. Around two I hit a block. I felt as though I'd blown my Esme load on all the other interstitials. What was I going to do if the show got picked up? I poked my head out of my office. "Hey guys," I said. "If I buy pizza for lunch, can we have a quick brainstorm?" John, who hardly said much, swiveled toward me in his chair. He nodded and said, "Need more caffeine." The brainstorm went really well. It was the first time I got a sense of where everyone was coming from. John had some totally wacky ideas for adventures for Esme. Janice, like me, was into developing her character, making her a real grrrl. And Jen was remarkably attuned to curriculum, in other words, making sure the kids who watched the show actually learned something from it without knowing they were learning. We all heightened each other's ideas. With a belly full of soda and pizza, I went back to my office and jammed out two possible scripts. I was feeling good. It may have been all the caffeine, but I was literally buzzing. The scripts were solid and Hackett would love having a choice. Lauryn called at eight to make sure we were still meeting up at the place. At 9:30, I decided to leave and demanded that everyone go, too. I made them swear to the gods of caffeine and industry that they would not show their faces around here on Sunday. In the cab to the bar I pulled my hair out of its ponytail and applied my favorite gloss. We were meeting up at a place that Zagat's said was "Vietnamese, Senegalese wheat-free fusion with a South American accent." Beth had picked it. I had no idea what to expect.
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The place was packed and rocking with Cuban music when I arrived. I made my way through the crowd to the tiny table for two where my three best friends were sitting. "Finally, you're here," Lauryn said, exhaling smoke as she kissed me. "We're already one in," said Kathy, winking before she kissed me. "Honey, you look tired," Beth said, looking into my face after she kissed me. I was, but I didn't want to admit it. I had my game face on. "My contacts are bothering me from staring at the computer all day." "You should be wearing your glasses," Kathy said, tapping the side of her hot-pink cat-eyed specs. I have no idea what I ate. As usual, we let Beth do the ordering, since she had done the research. She was usually pretty good about picking restaurants, but something about all these tastes didn't really mesh. No one wanted to admit it to her. We just kept drinking the Latin drinks. Kathy was engaged and living in Jersey City with her fiancé. We got the latest updates on the wedding, which all of us were in. Beth was dating some guy from work. It seemed to be going really well, except that he had invited her to go to The Dungeon with him and she wasn't sure if it was a hot new bar or a bondage club. Lauryn was Lauryn, or at least the alien that seemed to have inhabited my friend's body since the unwelcome discovery that her young marriage was actually a "starter marriage" and Jordan, her ex, was interested in trading up. Lauryn liked to pretend she had "washed that dickwad right out of my hair," but in reality all roads led to Jordan. In my exhausted state the conversations were very confusing. "So, we should have a dress-fitting in about two months," Kathy said. "I'm thinking of making drapes out of my wedding dress and sending them to Jordan to hang in our old place." "He absolutely loves going to foreign films with me," Beth said. "I told you guys that Jordan fucked at least three people when he went to that conference in Cancun, right?" Lauryn said as we nodded. "No, it's not really one case. It's many cases that we hear over four weeks. Some are continuous." I said. "If I hadn't had to move out, I'd still be living in Westchester and Rebecca could have gotten out of this whole thing by not living in Manhattan County," Lauryn said. I was amazed at the conclusions she jumped to. In her mind, Jordan was responsible for everything. "There is no way I would have moved out of the city," I said. "Let's go to Barraza," Kathy said. It was the perfect thing to do. We needed more Latin drinks and dance partners who could take the lead. I only managed two mojitos before exhaustion set in and I had to go. Beth decided to share a cab with me, while the other two, recently divorced and soon-to-be-married, didn't want the night to end. In the cab, I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat.
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"Are you doing okay with everything?" Beth asked. It's not easy to have one of your best friends be the sister of your ex-boyfriend. "Yeah," I said not wanting to have to talk about it. We arrived at my place and I leaned over to kiss Beth goodbye. "Actually," Beth said, handing the cabbie some money. "I'll get out here with you." And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, was the start of a conversation I didn't want to have.
Chapter Five "Look, Beth," I said as I let her into the apartment. "I was hoping I could just, you know, get some sleep." "Well, I wanted to talk to you about what's going on with you and Tommy." "Fine, I'll make some tea," I said. I was hoping to buy myself some time in the kitchen. Lauryn, Beth, Kathy, and I lived together in college. The summer after we graduated, Jordan and Lauryn got married and I started dating Tommy. Beth hadn't been thrilled with the idea, but she opted to never really get involved. I tried to keep my friendship with her and my relationship with Tommy completely separate. Of course, once I started spending holidays with Tommy's family, it became more difficult for the two relationships not to become intertwined. The most Beth and I ever talked about it was when Beth said that of all the girls Tommy ever dated, I was her favorite. I had chickened out of telling her when I moved out by calling Kathy at work and asking her to relay the news. Now as I poured two cups of tea, I wondered what Beth could possibly have to say about the whole thing. She was sitting on the couch, leafing through the copy of the On the Verge magazine that featured the thing on Esme. I handed her the cup and she smiled. "This is great exposure for you." "I know, it's pretty cool." I could feel her looking at me, so I concentrated on blowing on my tea. "Tommy told me about what happened the other night." "Right," I said. I had seen witnesses evade revealing things about themselves when they testified. I wasn't going to volunteer anything unless I was asked outright. "Do you think that was a good idea?" "Um." I took a sip. It burned my tongue. "Probably not." "Do you want to get back together with him?" "Does he want to get back together with me?" "That's not the way to answer." Neither one of us said anything for a minute. Then she said, "No." "No?" I said. I was surprised. I was the one who moved out. When I lived there, I made things so easy for him. I put up with all his shit. I made sure he was fed and cleaned. So we hadn't really been sleeping together toward the end, but it was always good whenever we did. I couldn't believe he would have chosen this breakup. It was me who had been making a point. "Shit!"
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"What?" I couldn't tell her that I was finally realizing that I had done all this to get some attention in the relationship. I could barely admit that to myself. "What do you mean no?" "I mean, I think he realizes that your relationship is kind of dead-end and he knows you're better off without him, but when you go over there and sleep with him, it confuses things." "Look, it's not like I intended to sleep with him." That much is true. Of course, it didn't take much to convince me. "And since when do you even want to talk about me and your brother?" "Rebecca, I love the both of you. You don't seem too happy with the way things are and he called me hysterically crying the day you moved out." "He did?" I asked. He had just seemed angry when I got my stuff. "I can't belief he pulled himself away from HotShots Golf 3 long enough to notice." "Rebecca!" "It's true, Beth." Suddenly, I was losing my composure. The professional witnesses were much better than me. "I love your brother, but I was miserable for months. It's not much better now, but I think it's for the best. Damn!" "Rebecca, don't cry." And of course it was too late. I cried for a while. Beth was pretty good about staying with me and trying to cheer me up. "Hey, at least you're not as bad as Lauryn. You don't seem too bitter." "I'm not, but I do really miss him. There were lots of good things about him, you know." "Yeah, I do,"she said. "You know, I just don't want to do this all again. I put time into your brother. It was comfortable. We had like, you know, shorthand. Remember when I broke my ankle playing tennis and he took me to the emergency room and stayed with me all night? Who's going to take me to the emergency room now?" I continued to cry. "Well," Beth said, patting my head. "That was the first and last time I ever heard about you playing tennis." I wiped my eyes and smiled at her. "I know this all sounds awful. I just got used to him." "I know," Beth said, being much kinder than any of the D.A.s ever were. "I know."
*** The meeting with Hackett on Monday did not go as well as I thought it would. It was supposed to be an hour meeting and it lasted from 10 until I had to leave for jury duty. Of course, he gave me some attitude about leaving the meeting, but what could I do? It was my civic duty. He liked the two new plots I had come up, but he wanted something more "dynamic" for the pilot. "We need to get them hooked and keep them hooked. The ratings have to be big on this one. Big. It's got to sell the ad execs who are going to buy time on it. Give it a different approach, Becky. Try again." Also, he had an issue with Esme's sister, Ellie, being such a big role. "I think we should give Esme a brother. How about Edwin? Let's create an Edwin. What do you say?"
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What did I say? What did I say? What I should have said was that it was far too late in the game for him to be throwing this curveball. I should have reminded him that Ellie had been pivotal in the shorts that tested so well. I should have mentioned that the deadline was now four weeks away and that gave us no time to work in a new character and that we would virtually have to scrap what had already been done. I should have told him that just because he was the boss did not mean that he shouldn't make decisions in a timely fashion. And by the way, I should have said, Edwin is a shitty name. What I said: "Um, well, I think those are great ideas. I'll talk it over with my team." And then it was 1:30 and I had to run downtown. I couldn't find any of my team, who were certain to have a mutiny when they heard this development. To add to the downward spiral of my day, the 4 and 5 train weren't running, so I had to take the local 6 to City Hall. It took forever. I was late getting to jury duty and caught attitude from the bailiff. The D.A. who was presenting a case made a point to inform me that I couldn't vote on one of the counts because I had missed important testimony from two witnesses. We never started on time except today of all days. Since I couldn't vote, it made my presence seem entirely futile. During the break, I tried to call in to work to see if Jen could get everybody together to talk about what Hackett had said, but my phone was dead. I forgot to charge the battery last night. "Fuck," I said. I banged my phone against the table in the break room. "Um, there's a pay phone down the hall," I heard a voice say. Of course, I knew I was overreacting. I was growing dependent on my cell phone. It was silly. "Thanks," I said. I looked up at the blue eyes behind the voice. And that, ladies and gentleman of the jury, is when I first noticed Juror #9.
Chapter Six "It's impossible," Janice said. "There's no way." We were having a meeting about what Hackett said. It wasn't going well at all. I knew I was asking for the impossible from my team, but it wasn't me asking, it was the big boss. It was my responsibility to make sure they produced and to buffer their complaints. It was a shitty position to be in, but it's what I signed on for when I got promoted. Although it didn't seem as though I ever had much of a choice. "Look, I didn't use Ellie that much in the shorts," I said. "And she's young enough, so that we can doctor her up a bit to look like a boy, Edwin." "We don't like to doctor up our work," John said, getting all self-righteous about his art. I thought about saying what I usually heard people say in these situations, which was, "It's just TV, it's not brain surgery." I didn't. "Okay, everyone, listen." Fuck! Was I in any position to be the leader? Things had been so much simpler when Esme was just a creative side project I had done when I wasn't working on titles for the real shows. All the same, this was my moment to rally the troops. I had to do it. "This isn't my choice. Sometimes, we all have to do things we don't want to do. We have to corrupt our creativity for the corporate agenda." I looked over at John, who was caressing his goatee. "Esme is like, my baby. Honestly, she's all I have right now." I directed this to Janice. She had a boyfriend. Maybe she could find a little pity for me.
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"I know we're all working real hard on this. It's the worst time for me to have jury duty, but it's two more weeks. This is a great opportunity for all of us." This was to Jen. I knew she had ambition. "If this show gets picked up, if it's a success at the upfront, we're sitting pretty. That means more staff, more say, and maybe, hopefully..." "More money," John said. "Well," I wasn't going to say that. "Yeah, and more respect." "When is your case over?" Jen asked. I explained to them, once again, that it wasn't one case. I was required to serve the entire 20 days. I still had nine to go. I pleaded with them to hang in. If I were them, I'm not sure I would have trusted in anything I said, either. I suspected there was going to be some sort of coup soon. I'd be forced to retire in disgrace. Esme would be turned into a boy like Ellie was. It was all too much to bear. "Fine," Janice said. "We'll do what we can. For the record, I think Edwin is a crap name." I spent every minute of the next week working on a big script that would wow them at the upfront. I found myself drinking a lot of soda and coffee to keep myself awake. Jury duty became more interesting because I could look across the aisle at juror number nine. There was no wedding band, but what did that really mean? He could have a girlfriend. He probably had a boyfriend. He might be living with someone. I tried to make conversation with him during the breaks. I didn't want to stalk him, but I got water at the cooler whenever he was in the bathroom. I was perfectly positioned to share my insights on the various cases with him if he was interested. The whole thing seemed like more work than I had time for. Although, it did help to pass the time in jury duty. As much as it sucked to have to go down there every day for three hours, I got used to it. The woman who sat next to me, juror number four, was a Southern woman in her forties who was full of funny expressions. She was single and said she didn't have high expectations. She said she was "looking for a penis and a pulse." I said that didn't sound too bad to me, either. "Now, if my tits were as perky as yours, honey, I wouldn't have any trouble." I laughed and looked over to juror number nine. He was smirking and looked away. He had been listening to our conversation. Now, he knew I was single. The ball was in his court. I had too much going on to try to pursue him. If it were meant to be, it would happen. In the meantime I had a show to produce and that meant giving one of my characters a sex change. Little things excited the members of the grand jury. We had so many continuous cases that we chose a few that were our favorites. For each case that was continued, we had to choose a code word. That was pretty fun. I had a sense of pride when my code word suggestions were selected. Although, I got tough competition from a copywriter that sat in the back of the room. What the grand jury liked was pictures. We could have heard a ton of evidence about different people, but seeing a picture of the defendant was ideal. We passed around these pictures, staring at the people, trying to gauge their guilt from their expressions in pictures taken at weddings. On the way back to the office, I fished a picture out of my wallet. It was a picture of Tommy and me with Jordan and Lauryn at their wedding. All of us looked so happy and drunk. From our expressions you couldn't gauge any guilt or innocence. There was no way to tell what any of us were going to do in our relationships. I shook my head. Why even bother having a relationship with someone?
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It all made my head hurt. By Thursday we had a rough, very rough first segment of the pilot to show Hackett, with crude drawings of Eric (my concession to Janice) where Ellie had once been. I hoped that Hackett wasn't overly attached to the name Edwin. I brought all the guys to the meeting. I needed the support and I wanted them all to feel involved. Also, I think that if they saw Hackett kind of beating up on me, they would understand that I wasn't the one creating all of these changes that kept everyone chained to their desks until past midnight. I held my breath when I mentioned Eric, but Hackett didn't seem to notice. He seemed to like the new script for the second segment. He watched the segment we had and didn't say much of anything. A lot of times, the brass felt like they had to input continuously throughout a show and that made getting through it take forever. When the segment was over, he requested we see it again. Jen, who was driving the VCR nervously, rewound the tape. Hackett's giant office was full of tension. After watching it the second time, he gave us his verdict. If only we could do approvals by voting. Hackett had too much power. The jury vote was the only fair process as far as I was concerned. "I like the new script for the second segment. I still feel like the connections between the original four minutes are weak. The one with the stolen panda works. I'd leave that one in, but the other three minutes need to come out. If the show gets picked up, we can work them in later in the season. If not, we'll leave them as 60s. Otherwise, keep up the good work." That was our cue to leave. We filed out of the office. It wasn't so bad — he could have scrapped the whole thing. We had to fill three 60-second holes. Problem was, our schedule was so tight that it didn't seem possible. We needed to be animating the second segment by now to be on schedule. "Look, guys," I said before anyone could quit. "Just work on the schedule as we planned. I'll figure out the three minutes." I went into my office to contemplate suicide. I knew I had to do this to keep the team going, but how was I going to do it? There was a knock at my door and Jen came in. "Paychecks are in." She handed me mine and left. We had no time for small talk and we all knew it. I opened up the check. My jaw dropped when I looked at it. It was the first check that reflected my promotion and it was huge. I couldn't believe it. Yes, I had an inhuman amount of work to do, but I was rich. In over my head, but I could pay off a chunk of my credit card bill. Suddenly, I knew how to begin tackling the problems of the pilot. And that, ladies and gentleman of the jury, is when I went for a makeover.
Chapter Seven They say if you can't change your life, change your hair. As Maholly, the stylist, razor-cut the sides of my hair, I suspected this could be the start of something big. I smiled when she spun me around in the chair so I could see the back. I nodded when she told me I would have no trouble taking care of it at home. I knew it would never look this good again. After my haircut, I headed over to Henri Bendel. I had never gone to this department store before, but now I had a big fat paycheck to get me out of debt, which was foreign territory for me. I wanted to hop right back in.
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I agreed to get a makeover from a woman with a strong accent. She worked for some company whose name I couldn't pronounce. I was swept up in it and before I knew it, she was doing undereye masks, testing face creams, and applying moisturizer. There were boxes and bottles everywhere. My face felt heavy. It was all very strange for me. I barely wore any makeup; for special occasions I wore lip gloss. I washed my face with stuff that came from the drugstore. "Your skin is the most important thing, you know. You must take care of it. It's the first thing people see. It's like your hair," my skincare professional said. I had the feeling she was insulting both my hair and my skin. It was at that moment I realized how bad her breath was. Breath may not be the first thing people see, but it certainly was important. I flinched backward. "So what's in this stuff?" "You have not been paying attention. I told you." I felt like she was reprimanding me. "I tell you again. East." "East?" "East. In yogurt. East." "Oh, yeast," I said finally understanding, kind of wanting to correct her. She nodded and began applying makeup to my face. She put a lot on, even though she promised it would all look very natural. When it was all done, she held the mirror up to me. I looked like a clown. "Very nice," I said. She asked me what I wanted to buy. I chose a lip gloss and the undereye masks. These late nights were doing me wrong. "No face mask?" She asked. "No." "No toner?" "No." "No eye shadow? Eye shadow very pretty." "No." "No moisturizer from whale sperm." "No, just this." She seemed really disappointed and her attitude didn't improve. I found this surprising because the two items came out to 85 dollars. I thought I heard her sigh when she gave me back my card. If this was being upwardly mobile, I wasn't sure I was prepared. It was already too late to make jury duty. Tomorrow, I would tell the bailiff I got held up at work and hope he didn't notice my new haircut and my clear skin. I didn't want to go home yet though. Lauryn had mentioned something about having some kind of sex party this weekend. She had casually described it as a Tupperware party with dildos. I didn't want to listen to her make plans.
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If I went back to work, I'd have to make it to the bathroom before anyone could see the seven layers of foundation on my skin, but I wouldn't be able to explain the hair. I decided to go to the only place where I still thought I could feel comfortable. I couldn't help it. "You look like the clown in Twisted Metal." Tommy said when he opened the door. Another game reference. He handed me a glass of vinho verde. I kissed him and set the glass down on the first surface I could find. I needed to stay sober. "Thanks. I got a makeover." "You're wearing a lot of eye shadow." "Well, I didn't buy any. She said she was going to do it natural." I saw his expression. "So, apparently she lied. Can I use your bathroom?" He nodded and I went to wash it all off. I checked the bathroom for signs of feminine invasions. Nothing. In fact, the hair gel I had conveniently left in the cabinet was untouched. "Much better," he said when I emerged fresh faced. I could swear he winked. "Are you busy?" I said grabbing some tortilla chips out of the bag he offered. "No. It all went to press last week. What a pain in the ass. And you, how's Esme?" "Awful. We are so behind schedule. We've turned Ellie into Eric." "Cool. I always thought she should be a he. Was that Hackett's doing?" "Of course," I said. "He also had more comments on the pilot. He wants to lose the stuff I had already done." "Are you kidding? The panda stuff is awesome." I smiled. He had a good eye. "He said we could keep that part, but the rest of them have to go. What are you, Hackett's henchman?" "We've agreed to spy on you at all times. I just need to get someone at jury duty to keep tabs on you." I thought of juror number nine. Then, we didn't say anything for a minute. I ate another chip. Maybe I should have held on to that wine. "Did you bring over the pilot?" He asked. I always used to show him my stuff. I really trusted his opinion. Sometimes he was a big help. "Yeah, you want to see it?" "Sure." We sat on the couch to watch the pilot. "But imagine it without the three minutes you know about." "Got it," he said. He put his arm around me. I half glared at him. "Sorry. Habit." When the pilot was over he told me everything he thought was wrong with it. I interrupted him so that I could get a pen and take notes. It was cool to get a fresh perspective from someone who was kind of familiar with Esme. And best of all, he came up with a great way to keep the story connected using the panda that we were so fond of. I couldn't believe how perfect it all was. "That's a great idea. I can't wait to tell the team." "I like that you have a team now."
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"I guess it's cool." I looked in my lap. He grabbed my hand, then let go, then grabbed it again. "It's gonna be fine." "What is?" "Everything." I wanted to believe him. I really wanted to make things okay. "We shouldn't do this," I said. "What?" he asked. I nodded at our intertwined hands. "I'm not doing anything," he protested weakly. "I know," I said. I leaned over and kissed him. "But I am." And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is when I became a repeat offender.
Chapter Eight The editor-in-chief of On the Verge magazine called me as I was trying to figure out how to incorporate Hackett's changes into the second segment of the pilot. "Hi, Rebecca. This is Eve Vitali of On the Verge magazine. We spoke about Esme a few months back. I'm a big fan." "Oh, hi, thanks. You know, a lot of good things have come from the article." "I know. I saw the ad in Variety and rumor has it that you're developing the interstitials into a series." "How do you know that? We haven't even had the upfront yet." "I know people who know people." Eve was very matter-of-fact. She had a confidence I envied. "The reason I'm calling is because we're doing an article on women who have their dream jobs and we wanted to interview you. Our readers love this stuff, and truth be told, so do I." "Dream job, huh? " "Yeah, I'm assuming from our last conversation that this is your dream job, right?" "I guess so. I honestly haven't had time to think about it. It just sort of happened." "That's how it goes," said Eve, sounding like an old sage, but a happy one. "So you would like to do the article." "Absolutely, but I'm going to have to get back to you about when." "Cool. We were thinking in a couple of weeks." "Great, that'll be after the upfront. I'll know if I'm really getting my dream job or if it's all just a dream." "I think it will feel a bit surreal no matter what. Take care and good luck." "Bye."
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*** The last week of jury duty we had really hot weather. The room was stifling. It made me sort of glad that, in spite of everything, I got it over with. I couldn't imagine doing it during the long, hot summer. Jury duty had complicated my life, but in a way I was grateful for it. I think it was good for me to see how people's decisions can affect their entire lives. On the last day of jury duty, I was in the break room kind of staring at the water cooler, but really scoping juror number nine. He smiled at me when he came out of the bathroom. He had very white teeth and very blue eyes. "Hey," he said. "Are you happy to be done?" "Sort of," I said. "Now, I guess I have to work even more." "I know what you mean." We laughed. "What's your real name?" "Rebecca." "Does anyone call you Becky?" "Yes," I said. "But I don't like it." "Oh, okay, Rebecca. I'm Seamus." What a great name. "You know, I've noticed a bunch of great restaurants that are pretty close to here. Do you like restaurants?" "Of course. Doesn't everyone?" Was he about to ask me out? Was I ready to accept? Would this mean I was over Tommy? Was I? This was happening too fast. "You know I've been so busy lately. I mean, I really have no life. My friends actually got me, well never mind. And I just got out of this long relationship, although I'm not sure that I'm really out of it. And I think I want to be, but I'm not exactly sure." "Whoa, whoa," he said holding up his hand. "It's just dinner." "I know, I'm just so, I don't know, something, these days." "Well, look," he took out his wallet and handed me his card. "Why don't you call me when you're not so, I don't know, something." He smiled. I looked at the card and nodded. "I will call. I promise." "Okay, good. I've enjoyed listening to you think up names for our continuous cases and I noticed that you always asked the questions I was thinking of." "Really? That's cool. I really like your teeth." Why had I said that? What the hell was my problem? He laughed, so I got a better look at them. Quite nice. "Great, Rebecca. Good luck with your work and your life and I hope I hear from you." And that was it. The ball was in my court. I had to make this decision without the help of a jury or Tommy or Hackett. And I would make it. Just not now.
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Tommy's idea for the panda connection worked out perfectly. I practically stuck a caffeine IV in my arm and worked on it for three days straight. When I was done, all I could see was pandas. I was sick of it, but Janice and John both seemed to be impressed. It was as if they finally believed I could animate. Hackett liked it, too. Of course he had a ton more changes on the second segment, but we had sort of anticipated that in our schedule so we were only about a week behind. Time was ticking, but I felt like maybe, just maybe, we could get this thing done. If we did, it would mean that I had conceived of and produced a network TV show. Lauryn had her sex party, which I had to miss because of work. Kathy tells me it was a ton of fun and she's really been enjoying her edible body paint. Beth got handcuffs in case things heat up with her coworker. She didn't mention anything about knowing about my night with Tommy. I think it's better that way. Lauryn has decided she's going to get some therapy to deal with her issues about the divorce. She asked me if I wanted to do some kind of partner plan, as if we were getting a trainer or something, but I just don't have the time. The three of my so-called friends bought me a stuffed panda and put a hot-pink dildo in his hand. They left this for me on my bed. It was just what I needed to see after working for three days straight. I'm sure I'll find it funny one of these days. I still feel like things are spiraling a bit, but it isn't out of control. I just have to go with it. Who knows what kind of things could come from this article? Maybe everything, maybe nothing. And if the Big Guys don't go for Esme at the upfront, well then, I'll just have to deal. It has been a good experience, I think. I wonder if I will ever stop feeling like I'm winging this whole thing. Okay, I see a hand. I was getting to it. Tommy. We had a very nice evening, but I think it was really the end. Okay, I don't know, but the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth of what I think right now is that it's over. But there's always a chance he'll appeal. I just know I'm not going over there again. That is a promise I made to myself. We've both got to have some time to think. So that's it, for now. I have to talk to Janice and John about the final cut of this. We still have to do the audio. I'm never getting to sleep tonight. I also think I'm developing a bit of a caffeine addiction. I am certainly going to get a lot of use out of those undereye masks. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is my testimony.
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Before Blue Twilight by Maggie Shayne He had been alone for so long that he could not go on. But from the depths of despair, he found a light — a soul mate, a woman who gave him a reason to live, to exist, to go on. In this thrilling online prequel to her Twilight vampire series, author Maggie Shayne takes us back into the depths of history to tell a story like no other — the story of one man who would refuse to give up hope. The story of a love that would last for centuries.…
Chapter One Alone. I'd lived alone for so many centuries that I'd had enough, and so I'd decided to end it that night, and I prayed to whatever gods might exist that there was no such thing as the immortality of the soul, or that if there was, I had lost mine long ago. I had no desire to go on. Not then. Not in any form. There remained in me, ironically, the heart of a romantic, the soul of a poet who didn't compose, only felt. Fitting, then, that I chose to make my last moments on this earth worthy. That is why I found myself lying on the hard, dew-dampened cliff above a thundering waterfall in the darkest hours of that long ago night. I lay there, listening to the roar of the waterfall and tasting its mist on the air. I stared up at a moonless sky full of diamond-like stars and waited to see the sunrise for the first time in countless centuries. I wondered how high that golden orb would climb before its kiss caused my body to smolder; how long I would be allowed to gaze upon it before fire consumed my flesh and bones. It would be painful — unbearably, maddeningly painful to a creature whose senses were as heightened as those of a centuries-old vampire. I will not say I didn't fear the pain — I did. I waited in dread of it. And yet, I would welcome it for the sweet release of nothingness I so hoped would await me on the other side. It had been a long life, a full one. But not a good one. Immortality had been wasted on a man like me. I lay there, awaiting the sun, awaiting death, my back upon the cool, solid stone of the earth, my face and clothes coated in the falls' mist, my eyes filled with the stars as they faded slowly into a sky that paled from indigo to purple. It wouldn't be long now. Another hour, two at most. The roar and rush of water was joined by the harmony of those birds that rose before dawn and began their nightly task of singing up the sun. I listened to that song as I never had before. Always it had been a warning to me. Now it was a dirge, my personal requiem. I closed my eyes and relished the symphony as I awaited death's arrival. Then an unwelcome sound stumbled into the song — one of discord — a sour note that did not belong and that would change everything. I think I knew it, even then. It was the sound of a woman, crying. I opened my eyes, angered at the interruption. Ruined. My beautiful, poetic exit from the world was ruined. Sitting up, I sought the source of the weeping, thinking the interloper would be fortunate if I didn't decide to take her with me on my final journey. When I saw her, I rose to my feet, my body acting of its own will. Even at this distance I could see that she was beautiful. There was no question, not to my preternatural eyes. She stood on the opposite side of the dark cascade, on the very edge, staring down into the rocky froth far below, and I knew that she intended to jump. She intended to die. Just like me.
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Chapter Two From the moment my eyes fixed upon her, my awareness of my own misery faded. Her misery, instead, filled my mind. Her golden hair, long and curling, moved with every blast of wet wind that rose from the pounding falls. I willed her mind to open to mine. It wasn't difficult to read her — her emotions were bubbling over. There was pain and grief — overwhelming grief. Why, I wondered? What could cause such pain in one so young? Suddenly, I knew I had no time to plunder the depths of her mind in search of answers, for she inched nearer the edge, her unclothed toes curling over the side, her chin lifting even as she opened her arms to her sides like the beautiful Cathartes Aura drying its feathered wings in the morning sun. I shouted, using the full power of my voice — an awesome thing in a vampire as old as I. "Nu! Stai!" She flinched, her eyes fixing on mine across the yawning chasm. She showed no fear at the unnatural force of my command, though she had to know that voice could belong to no ordinary man. Facing me she stared, and then her eyes widened — with recognition. I held up a hand, telling her without another word to remain where she was. She knew me — I was royalty. She must obey. And yet, she did not. Rather, she leaned forward and fell, more than jumped, into the void. Left with no choice, I dove — and with little more than the force of my will and the wisdom of instinct — arrowed my body downward, angling toward her. She fell slowly, her body flat, arms and legs splayed. I shot, arms and feet pointed, my body cutting through the air like a blade, even as the power of my mind tried to slow her descent and speed my own. I had not mastered flight, though some of my kind had. I could change my form, but it took time to accomplish such a feat, and time was something I did not have. So my choice — if it could be termed a choice at all — was to break her fall with my own body. Everything seemed to happen at half speed. I sliced through the upsurge of mists that seemed to bolster her. And then I was there, my body colliding with hers. I tried to make the impact less than crushing as I wrapped my arms around her slender frame and I turned to put my back to the earth. For one instant her eyes, as gleaming black as pure onyx, held mine with a force I'd never felt. "Why?" she whispered. The pain in that single word was beyond understanding, and for the life of me I could not think of an answer. I didn't know why. Pain exploded in me then, as the river's jagged rock teeth stopped our descent all at once. Icy water enveloped me, filled my nose, mouth and lungs. Bones cracked beneath my skin and all went dark. I knew even as I embraced it that this was not the darkness of death. This respite was temporary — as it had been so many other times before. It was the same darkness that was my prison, my life.
Chapter Three I woke to the smell of a wood fire. Conifer branches — the sizzle and snap of the pitch were unmistakable to my honed senses. Pain wracked my body. I knew then, it must still be night. I couldn't have been unconscious for long. Some time, however, had clearly passed.
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I lay in the shelter of a cave, behind the face of the waterfall, and I saw a tunnel that twisted farther into the mountainside and downward, away from the cascade, which must have been the path we'd taken. The tiny fire leapt and danced a few feet from me, and my clothes were drying, slowly, on my body. She sat on the other side of the fire, gazing at me through the tongues of yellow flame. "I thought you might be dead," she said. Her voice was like honey with bits of the comb still caught in its depths; smooth with unaccustomed coarseness tripping it up now and again. "I am glad you're not." "But not so glad that you are not." She blinked and averted her eyes. "Not so glad of that, no." "Why?" Lowering her head, she let her small shoulders slump forward. Her dress was faded brown and plain, its neckline rounded, its fabric worn. "My entire family is gone," she whispered. "I see no reason not to join them. There's nothing for me here." I nodded. "I see." Her dark eyes narrowed. "You aren't going to argue with me? Tell me how much I have to live for, how much lies ahead for a girl of seventeen, the way all the others have done?" "Why would I argue against seeking the solace of death when I was up there tonight planning to seek it out for myself?" She blinked, clearly stunned by the revelation. "But you — you're the prince." "And I know pain. And I bleed, just as you do. No, I'll not argue with you, pretty one. I cannot even tell you why I took it upon myself to interfere with your plans. Except…" "Except?" she asked. I shrugged. "Except that I was so struck by your beauty, I couldn't help myself. It was pure selfishness on my part. For one brief instant, when I looked at you on that precipice, I thought I glimpsed —" I drew a breath and plunged on. For what difference did it make now, whether I spoke honestly or falsely for the sake of manners or pride? "I thought I glimpsed a reason to live for perhaps one more night." "That reason being — to save me?" "No," I said quickly. "Not to save you. To…know you. To speak to you. To share my pain with someone who might understand it." I lowered my head. "I told you. Entirely selfish. I'm sorry if I have prolonged your suffering by my thoughtless intrusion." She studied me for a long moment, and finally lowered her eyes and whispered, "I can die as easily tomorrow as tonight, I suppose. Tell me about your pain." I stared back at her. The flames sizzled and popped. And I heard myself whisper, "Perhaps I will. But there is this first. What I tell you here, in this cave has never been told to another soul. It can never leave this place." She shrugged. "I don't intend to ever leave this place, my prince. I will take your secrets to my grave."
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"So tell me," she whispered. "How is it you speak in a voice louder than the waterfall? And how is it you flew through the mists to save me as surely as a hawk swooping upon a snake in the meadow?" "How do you think?" I asked. "I can see you have some notion. Have you been listening to the villagers and their gossip about me?" She smiled, not a smile of joy, but one of bitterness. "One cannot live among the gossips and not hear their tales. They say you've sold your soul to the devil and made yourself immortal. They say the king isn't even your true father, but rather some distant descendant of yours, passing you off as his son to help keep your secret." She fixed her eyes upon his mouth. "They say you drink the blood of virgins to remain ever young." For the first time I saw a light in her eyes. A light of excitement, of danger. She was reckless, this one. "And what do you say?" I asked. She shrugged. "I say if this were true, why would you be so eager for death? I say if this were true, you would not be lying here in pain right now." I shrugged. "It's true, I am in pain. But I will sleep during the daylight hours, and when I wake at sundown, I will be completely healed." Her eyes widened. "Or, I could heal much faster. Right now, in fact, with just a sip of your virgin's blood." Her smile died slowly. "You're trying to frighten me. You can't, you know. If you wish to take my blood, take it. Drain me and leave me dead. I don't care." "I wouldn't leave you dead, my beauty. Only gasping with pleasure. And perhaps no longer so virginal." Her eyes were dark and fiery as she surged to her feet and came around the fire. She knelt in front of me, and tore the neckline of her dress open, baring her neck and her breasts. "Do not take me for an ignorant little fool," she said. "If it's my virginity you want, you've no need to resort to horror stories. I'd just as soon know a man before I die." I stared at her. Her breasts, round and firm with youth. Her beauty and vitality overwhelmed me, and the hunger that gnawed at me night after night rose up like a beast and demanded sustenance. I sat up slowly, and the hunger overshadowed even the pain that movement caused. I reached for her, clasped her nape in my hand, and drew her closer. With my lips, I traced a path along her jawline from her chin, to her neck, to her collarbone, to her breasts, giving my full attention to them until the girl was breathless and arching in pleasure. Then I slid my mouth upward again, to her neck, her delicious, salty neck. I parted my lips and suckled the skin there, feeling the rush of blood in her jugular as surely as I could feel the pounding of the waterfall outside our cave. Cupping her head, tugging it backward just enough, I bit down. And when my fangs pierced the vein and her blood rushed over my tongue, I felt everything she felt — including the climax that rocked her body.
Chapter Five That mere sip of her blood hit me as a bolt of lightning would have. So ferocious was its power, that I dropped the woman and stumbled backward, falling onto my haunches, breathless and stunned. Only belatedly did I realize that she lay there, still, on the cold stone, her hair spread around her like a puddle of golden silk.
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Scrambling to my feet, my nerves still tingling and snapping with whatever power lurked within her blood, I hurried back to her, knelt over her, and lifted her from the floor. Her hair fell like a curtain, but I saw no blood, felt no lump on her head. "Wake up, pretty one. Wake up." Her brows furrowed into a tight little frown, and then she blinked and squinted at me as if I were a light that hurt her eyes. But the only light in the cave came from the fire beside us. "What …happened?" "You don't remember?" Screwing her face in concentration, she nodded. "Ah, yes. You tried to frighten me with silly vukodlak tales. And then you kissed me." As she said it she lifted a hand to touch her neck, where the skin was no doubt tender. "Did you faint from fear? Or desire?" I asked, wondering if she had felt the power when her blood melded with my own. Had she forgotten it, in her swoon? Or was she only denying the memory because she did not understand it? "I faint at any overabundance of excitement," she said, lowering her head. "I used to be so strong. So very strong. I could outrun and outclimb most of the boys in the village when I was growing up. I could outfight most of them, too." I couldn't help but smile. "I don't doubt it." "You should. I'm as worn out as an old woman now." It was a shame. And yet, I was beginning to understand why I'd been so compelled to save her — even when doing so would thwart my own plans — and to see the powerful impact from a mere taste of her blood. I had to know for sure. "Are you ill?" I asked. "You said all your family had died. Is it the same sickness that took them?" "I'm ill, yes. But not with the plague that took my family. It was swift and sudden, taking them with a ferocity unlike anything I'd seen." I nodded. I'd seen the ravages of the plague that had been sweeping the outlying villages. Its victims were stricken down with raging fevers, hacking coughs that threatened to tear out their lungs. Within a few days they either improved or died. It was fast and merciless. "It took my mother first, leaving no one but me to care for the others when they fell ill. My father. My brothers. My baby sister. She was only two." I lowered my head, feeling her pain. Feeling her, more than I had before. There was a connection between us; I knew it now. And that tiny sip of her blood had strengthened it still more. She was like me. She was one of The Chosen.
Chapter Six Could I tell her what she was? Should I?
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God knew it was information no one had bothered to share with me. And I'd resented it — for centuries I'd resented it. "What ails me," the beautiful creature went on, "no one knows. I only seem to grow weaker with every year and I've grown tired of being a young woman in the body of an old one. Whatever it is, it will take me sooner or later. I say, I prefer sooner. I wish to have done with it." "I see." "You cannot possibly see." I hooked my finger beneath her chin, tipping her face up to mine. "But I do. By day, you tire easily, sleep often. Only come sundown do you feel any energy at all. When cut, you bleed profusely. And —" Her small gasp silenced me. Her eyes met mine, wide and amazed. "How can you know these things?" "Because I suffered from the same ailments myself, child. Long, long ago." "And yet, you live," she whispered. "And you're strong. How did you cure yourself? Tell me!" "I will, if you will tell me something first." "Anything," she promised. I nodded, and settled into a more comfortable position beside the fire, for my broken bones still ached. "What do you wish to know, my prince?" "Nothing so difficult." I told her. "Only just …your name." Sighing, she lowered her head. "My name?" I nodded and saw the relief in her eyes. She had expected me to ask something else, something more difficult. She whispered, "Elisabeta." "Beautiful," I told her. "Like you." "I am often called odd looking. Never beautiful." "Oh, but you are. The pale golden hair and those onyx eyes. It's a rare combination." "Rare is odd." "Diamonds are rare, Elisabeta. Not odd, but precious." She lowered her head, and I saw her cheeks color. "Will you tell me now, what you know of my ailment?" I glanced toward the cave's entrance, where the color of the sky was paling more than before. No longer purple, but violet near the top, and gray near the bottom. "The sun's rising. Do you feel it? The daylight coming, tugging at your senses, drawing you to rest?" "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I do. I thought I was the only one who could sense the dawn's approach."
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"All those like us do. After the…the cure is taken, Elisabeta, it doesn't just call to you. It insists. I…must sleep by day. I cannot resist it, even if I try." She lifted her head. "You're falling asleep even now, aren't you? But I so want to know … I so want to know if I can be well." "You can be…as well as I am. And I will tell you how, precious one. Stay with me, here. Sleep safe in my arms this day. And when night falls again, and I wake, I'll share with you all of my secrets. Secrets…no one has ever known before." I lay back on the stone, far from the entrance and a safe distance from the fire. Without my bidding, she came to me, and curled up beside me in the cradle of my arms. "These secrets I will share — could cost me all that I have. Even my life," I told her. "They demand a steep price, Elisabeta." "I'm poor. I have nothing to offer a prince," she whispered. "You have everything to offer me, child. In exchange for my secrets, you must agree to stay with me…for always."
Chapter Seven "The price for the cure…is my companionship?" "Not for the cure. For the knowledge. For the secrets." My eyes were growing heavy, my body languorous. "If you don't wish to take the cure —" "Why would I refuse it?" I closed my eyes. "You didn't want to live at all, only a short while ago." She nodded. "I suffered this illness for the sake of my family. The weakness, the dizziness, the sick feeling in my stomach — all of it. Now that they're gone, I see no reason to go on suffering, when only death awaits me at its end. But if I could be well, if I could be cured, and…and if I could be with you… " She nodded firmly. "I would not refuse the cure." "You very well might," I said. "But that's for later. Later, 'Beta. If you refuse the cure, you must stay with me until your mortal life ends. And if you take it, you must stay with me forever, for that is how long you will live." She lifted her head, her eyes not quite believing, and with a trembling hand, she brushed the hair from my forehead. "Does that mean you've decided not to end your own life?" "If I can share it with you, Elisabeta, perhaps it might be worth going on." Tears filled her eyes as she threaded her fingers in my hair. "I've known you only a few short hours, my prince. And I cannot fathom why a man as glorious as you would want a peasant girl to make you such a promise. But I tell you now, I do make it. I will stay with you, for all my days, be they few or be they countless. And I make that promise without any need for your secrets. I make that promise freely. You owe me nothing in return. No secrets, no cures. It's a promise you cannot buy."
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My heart swelled. It made no sense, I know, for I barely knew the girl, and yet I felt, for the first time in my memory, something warm filling my body besides the freshly drawn blood of a living being. It might have been hope. It might have even been…love. "I'll tell you the cure, Elisabeta. When I wake." "Then sleep, my prince. Sleep and I will do the same." And so I slept. And she did, too, I believe. It was peaceful, and I was more content than I had ever been. But I worried, deep inside my mind. I feared what her reaction would be when I told her the truth. That in order to live much longer, she must accept the dark gift that had been forced upon me by a demon who wanted an immortal slave in a time near the dawn of history. What would she do when I told her what I was? Would she believe me? Would she flee from me in horror and disgust? Or would she embrace me still? I slept. I slept like the dead. And yet I remained, somehow, impossibly, aware of what went on without my body. I knew when someone entered the cave, a man, who called her name in a voice that was impatient. "Elisabeta! What do you think you're doing there! By the Gods, girl, who is that man?" I felt my beloved stir, and tug herself from my arms. "It's not what you think, Uncle. I…I nearly fell from the cliffs, and the prince saved my life. He was injured in the effort, and I only —" "The prince?" The man's voice conveyed both surprise and fear. "Move aside. Let me have a look at him." And I felt the man's breath on my face, his hand, rough with calluses, on my chest as he felt for signs of life. "He asked me to stay with him until he wakes." "Oh, he won't be waking, girl. He's dead. The prince is dead, God help us all."
Chapter Eight Elisabeta wept. I felt her pain washing through me and I heard her tears, every one of them, as they spilled to the stone floor, and onto my body. "He cannot be dead," she cried. "He cannot be." "Stop. Don't act that way. Lord above us, what will the villagers think?" "I don't care!" she cried. "I don't care!" God, why did the old fool have to come? She would have rested by my side until I woke at sundown. She would have been all right. But now — "Where are you going, girl? What do you think you're about?" She called back, from somewhere farther away. "If he's gone, then I'm going with him. I don't want to live!" If the bastard let her fling herself from those cliffs, I vowed in helpless silence and impotent rage, I would kill him when I woke. I would! I heard his footsteps pounding on the stone, and then I heard no more. And with her absence, the day sleep closed in and claimed the consciousness to which I had clung.
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I knew no more until nightfall, when energy and life seeped back into me as it did at sunset every night. My veins sang, my skin tingled, my lungs filled with their first breath in many hours, and my eyes opened. She lay across my chest, weeping. "Why? Oh, cruel fate, why? Why did you give me hope only to tear it away from me again? Why did you give me love only to replace it with pain deeper than any I'd felt before. Why?" My shirt was wet with her tears. I felt their warmth on my skin. And only then did I realize we were no longer in the cave. We were in my so-called father's private chapel. I lay on a bier surrounded by candles. No coffin. No flowers, not yet. Had the king been told of my condition I'd have no doubt been safe in my own rooms by now, awaiting my nightly resurrection — he'd seen me in a deathlike slumber before, and knew I would return. How he explained it to himself, I know not. I only know he loved me as a son and trusted me. But since I was here, he must still be away, on the secretive journey he'd undertaken a day earlier. She was here, though. My beloved Elisabeta. And I couldn't bear to see her cry. I lifted my hand and stroked her hair. She shot up from where she'd lain upon my chest, gazing down at me with eyes wider than the moon. "Prin meu? My prince?" "Do not weep, child. I'm not dead. I was…I was only sleeping." "You were cold!" I nodded, gathering my wits about me, sitting up slowly. "Don't be afraid. This…Elisabeta, this is part of the secret I promised to share with you." I lowered my head, cursing myself for a fool. Was I truly about to trust this stranger with my life? Yes. I was — she was no stranger and I knew it by then. "By day I rest, and in my rest, I seem to all the world like a dead man. But I am not." "Then…what are you?" "A man. A lonely man, who will live forever. A prince in need of a princess, Elisabeta. I am immortal. I am…" "Undead," she whispered.
Chapter Nine The horror in her eyes was like a blade to my heart as she stumbled backward, away from me. One hand pressed to her heart, but she moved it all at once, to press her fingertips to her throat, where I had tasted her. "You…you…" "I am the same man you met last night. No more. No less. You have nothing to fear from me, Elisabeta." "Nothing to fear? How can you say that?" She stared at the polished onyx floor as she backed away from me. Her feet, bare last night, were clad in thin slippers now, worn, their color faded. The dress she wore was different, as well, a dark purple linen garment, beneath a threadbare black cloak with a hood that hung from her shoulders. "You are a demon. A monster."
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I flinched and told myself not to let the words hurt me. She didn't understand. She was afraid. "I am no monster. I'm a man, I tell you." I swung my legs from the bier, let them hang over the side. "Won't you listen to me? Let me explain?" She brought her head up, fixing her gleaming black eyes on mine. "You told me you knew a cure for the ailment that is killing me. What could be more monstrous than to lie to me about my very life? My very…death?" She shuddered on the final word. "You didn't have any fear of death last night, Elisabeta. What's changed?" "You gave me hope. False hope." She whirled to run from the small, stone chapel, but by then my strength was with me again, every injury from the day before healed, and the power of the night surging in my veins. I lunged after her, moving faster than her eyes could have hoped to follow. To her, it seemed I simply appeared in front of her to block her escape. And even as she tried to stop short, and fell instead, against my chest, I caught her shoulders and held her tight. She tugged against me and shrieked, "Let me go!" "It wasn't false hope. I can help you. I can save you." I shook her. "Do you hear me? I can!" Her struggles ceased. She stared up at me with huge eyes, finally, it seemed, hearing my words. Pale and frightened, close to fainting, I guessed, from the excitement, she searched my face and whispered, "How?" "Then you're ready to listen to me? Finally?" She blinked twice, and after a moment, nodded. "I'll listen. I suppose if you intended to kill me you could have done so last night." "I could. But I would not rob the world of such a gift." I looked around the chapel. "Does anyone know you're here?" "No, I —" She bit her lip as if she regretted the admission, but then seeing no need of pretense, she went on. "I snuck in. I…I wanted to see you. They said you were dead." "But you know now that I was only sleeping, as we all must by day. By night, my energy is boundless." Her brows bent together. "I am much the same — though my energy is never boundless, it is greater at night." "Oh, Elisabeta, we are more the same than you could begin to imagine. Come, let us leave this place and go where we can talk comfortably." I took her arm, but she resisted. I looked again into her eyes. "You felt something for me last night, 'Beta. Now you feel only fear. Which of the two is more real? Which do you trust?"
Chapter Ten She never answered the question, but she came with me. I led her through the stone chapel to a small door in the back. "What of the servants who placed you here?" she asked. "If they return to check on you, they'll be shocked to find you gone." "They will not return to check on me. They've heard too many rumors. They fear me."
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She lowered her head as we exited and moved through the night. I led her to the meadow, where my stallion grazed alone. "He grazes by night?" she whispered. "While the others are all penned up in their stalls?" "By my command. If I'm about by night, it's logical my mount should be, as well." "It only stirs more gossip," she told me. "My very existence stirs gossip," I said with a sigh. "I should leave this place." "Why haven't you?" I sent a thought to my horse, and whispered, "Come, Soare." He swung his head toward me, shook his mane, then galloped across the meadow, stopping beside me. I leapt upon his back, and reached down for her. "Soare," she repeated. "Sun. A strange name for a horse as black as midnight." "Not so strange to me." I took her hand and pulled her up, settling her in front of me. "No stranger, I suppose, than a horse who wears no saddle, bears no reins." "I don't need them to direct him." "He seems, almost, to hear your thoughts." "He does. You can, too." I gazed down at her as Soare carried us away, and I thought, You are beautiful, Elisabeta. She gasped and stared up at me in surprise. "You see? It's not all bad, being as I am." "Then it's true. You are what they say you are? Undead? Vampyre?" "That's what some call what I am. But it tells you nothing about what I truly am, 'Beta. It tells you nothing about me," I said, thudding a fist to my heart. "Then tell me. Tell me about you, my prince. Tell me why you stay here, when you are so very unhappy, and when the villagers speak of you only in fear-filled whispers. Tell me that above all else." I nodded, and guided Soare with my thoughts, to take us over the twisting path through the forest. "I came here because it was once my homeland. I truly am a prince of this place, you see. But the gossips have one bit right. The king is not my father. I am, in fact, one of his forebears." "It's beyond belief." I nodded. It was, to most. "I used my powers and my strength to convince the king that I was his son, when in truth his son died in battle several years before my arrival." "How could you convince the king to believe such a thing?"
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The way her body rested against mine gave me a feeling of warmth I had seldom known, and I relished it. She wasn't afraid. Not yet. "I can…control the thoughts and minds of many." She lifted her gaze. "Mine?" "I've no wish to try, 'Beta. Never fear." She smiled. "Go on with your story." I nodded and went on. "You see, there is a woman. An immortal, like me, who has certain gifts of…prophecy. Necromancy. Divination." "What is her name?" "Rhianikki. Or it was. She changes it from time to time. She was a princess and priestess of Egypt. One who accepted the gift when I offered it to her." "So you're here because of a woman." "Because of what that woman told me. What she saw in my future. She told me I would find my soul's true love, here in this place. That's why I've stayed. But until I saw you, on the cliffs last night, I had given up hope." Her face went as still as stone. "You mean…you believe it's me?"
Chapter Eleven "I'm going to let you be the judge of that," I told her. "Once you've heard my story." I bade Soarse halt, then slid from the stallion's back, and helped Elisabeta to the ground, as well. We were in a tiny wildflower-strewn clearing, surrounded by trees on three sides, and the river on the fourth. A deer stood nearby, nibbling red clover blossoms, unafraid. "I was ill as you are now, weak and growing weaker. I was thirty years old, at the time. And one night I was simply taken from my bed by a man as strong as ten men should have been. He took me to his home, a crumbling ruin of a castle, and there he…well, he made me into what he was." She stood looking up at me, her hands still resting on my shoulders. "How?" "I don't want to frighten you with such —" "How?" she asked again. Yes. She needed to know, all of it. "He sank his teeth into my neck, right here." I touched her neck. "It wasn't painful, as you know. But he didn't merely taste me in passion, as I did with you last night. He drank from me until I was all but drained. And then he made me drink from him. And I did." A soft gasp was her only reaction. "When it was done, I slept as if dead. I thought myself to be dead as I drifted into that slumber, for it was far deeper than any sleep I had ever known. And when I woke…I was changed." Her face was pale in the darkness. She seemed afraid and yet eager to hear all I had to tell her. "Changed in what ways? Did you feel differently? Look differently?"
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I nodded. "My senses were heightened to a point where it was nearly unbearable at first. Every touch was magnified a thousand times, and more so with every year I live. Be it pain…or pleasure." "Oh." She averted her eyes. "My hearing was acute. My eyesight, like an eagle's. My weakness — gone and replaced by a strength such as no human being has ever known. I can run too fast to be seen by mortal eyes. I can leap, to the top of this tree if I wish it. I can listen to the thoughts of humans, and other immortals, as well, and speak to them and…there's so much, 'Beta. So much. I'm immortal, ever young, ever strong." She nodded slowly, turning to pace away from me, and then sitting in the grasses and flowers. I moved to sit beside her. "You make it all sound wonderful." "It is…or, it could be." "Then why had you decided to take your own life last night?" I looked at her sharply. "You are too insightful for me," I told her. "But you're correct, there are…drawbacks to living this life. I can never see the sun again. It would burn me to cinders." "Then…you can die?" "Everything can die. I think in time, everything does. I can die, from the sunlight, or by fire. An open flame is a dangerous thing to a man like me. A cut, even a minor one, could cause me to bleed to death. And pain for me is…it's excruciating." "I see." "But worse than all of those things is the loneliness. When you live so long, Elisabeta, everything you know dies before you. Kingdoms come and go. Ways of life, entire civilizations pass out of existence, and yet, you go on." "Searching," she whispered. "For someone to share it with." "Yes. Exactly that."
Chapter Twelve "How old are you," she whispered. I lowered my head. "I have lived more than four thousand years." She blinked and nodded slowly. "And what about…what about what they say about you. That you have to drink the blood of virgins to survive?" I met her eyes, smiling slightly. "Living blood. Be it that of virgins or sheep. And I don't need to kill in order to feed, little 'Beta. I tasted of your blood last night — only a sip. And yet you live." She lowered her eyes from mine. "It was a sensation I…I never…" "I know. I felt it, too." I stroked her golden hair, remembering, my blood heating, my hunger growing. "Is it always like that?"
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"No. At first I didn't know why the sensations of blood sharing were so exaggerated with you. But I think I understand now." "Then make me understand." I nodded. "Most humans cannot become what I am, Elisabeta. Only a select few. It's something about the blood, something different, and unique. Among my kind we call those unique ones The Chosen. We sense them, are drawn to them inexplicably and irresistibly. There is a powerful attraction between the Undead and The Chosen." "On both sides?" "Yes," I whispered, my fingertips stroking her cheek. "And what of my illness? We share that, as well?" I nodded. "The Chosen always grow weak and sick. They die young unless they are changed. For you, death is near — few months, perhaps weeks away. I don't want to let it take you." "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know if I can bear to live a life such as you've described to me. I don't know if I can…" "Let me show you how it can be, between us. Let me show you, Elisabeta. Only then can you decide." "I…" She looked up at me, afraid and yet curious, and aching for something she did not understand. "Let me make love to you, 'Beta." "I want that so much. But — you won't change me?" "I vow it to you. I will not change you." "Then yes, prin meu. Yes." I kissed her then. I pressed my mouth to hers and tasted her lips, slid my tongue between them to sample the moistness inside. And she gasped and was stiff and tense. I lifted my head. "I can make it easier for you," I told her. "How?" "I can take the fear and the inhibitions from your mind by commanding it with my own. Would you like that, Elisabeta?" She blinked in surprise. "To surrender to you? My very mind?" "Yes. Surrender to me. Your mind. Your body. Your soul." I nuzzled her neck, her shoulder, and lowered her body into the deep grasses. "Say yes, Elisabeta. Give yourself over, just for a little while. Trust me." "I do trust you." "Then…" I sat up and left her lying there. I probed into her mind with the power of my own, and took what I had been asking her to give me. "You have no fear of me, Elisabeta. You know I will never harm you. You trust me utterly."
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"Yes," she whispered, and the fear and hesitation fled from her eyes, from her mind.
Chapter Thirteen I freed the clasp of her cloak, and spread it open, then slowly unlaced the dress she wore down the front. Her breasts strained against the fabric, until I pushed it away, baring them to the night sky, to my eyes, to my touch. I did not take control of her mind. I wanted her to give herself to me freely. But I did ease the fears and the shyness away. I soothed her, whispering to her innermost soul that she could trust me utterly. And she could, it was nothing less than the truth. My lips traced a path over her neck and chest, to her breasts, and then I took them, suckled them deeply and hungrily, one and then the other. My lady's hands clasped my head, held me to her, arched her back, and from within her mind I knew the delicious sensations coursing through her. I knew her every thought, her every desire. When she wished my tongue to flick over her stiffening peaks, I complied. And when she wanted the pinch of my teeth, I gave it to her. And all the while, my own desire grew. I rubbed against her outer thigh, to show her, and in a vain effort to seek release, though it only served to arouse me more. When I lifted her skirts, she began to stiffen up again. No, my love, I whispered to her inside her mind. No, you aren't afraid. You want this. You know you do. You want my touch. Here … And with the thoughts, I pressed my hand to her center. She whimpered and moved against me, until I parted her folds and explored within. Heat and wetness greeted me. I wanted more than I had ever wanted before as I probed and plumbed the very depths of her, and then focused all my attention on the center of her desire, the tiny kernel of flesh that set off a thousand sensations when I pressed and squeezed and rolled it. Her cries grew louder, unabashedly animalistic while my hand worked her center, and my mouth, her breasts. I grew rougher, hungrier, and she seemed to enjoy it all the more. Impatient now, the bloodlust raging in me, I opened the dress down the front, and parted it so that I could see all of her. Utterly naked, exposed to me. In a flash her hands flew to cover her body. I sat up over her, staring down. "No, Elisabeta. You are mine, body and soul. You want to give yourself over to my every desire. Don't you?" "Yes." "Then say it." "I am yours," she moaned. "And you are mine, my prince." I stripped away my garments in a frenzy of desire, and then I lay atop her, my hands pressing her thighs apart as I lowered myself to her center, and without hesitation, slid inside. She gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders and her thighs going taut. "Open to me," I whispered.
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And she did; she opened wide and I sank myself inside her to the very depths of her, like burying myself in a sweet haven from which I never wished to emerge. I pulled back and drove again as she moaned in sensation. With my hand I tipped her head to one side, and pushed the golden hair away from the skin of her neck, baring it, and watching the tiny pulse beat just beneath the flesh as I took her body and lowered my head to take her blood, as well.
Chapter Fourteen I sank my teeth into her throat and she screamed and I knew it wasn't in pain, but in the most exquisite pleasure she had ever known. The orgasm rocked her body as I fed, and it was echoed in my own until I forced myself to release her neck, to ease my body down beside hers. I held her gently in my arms until the waves of pleasure subsided. It was, I knew, beyond ordinary release. Beyond even, preternatural sensation. Beyond anything I had ever known, and certainly far beyond anything she had ever imagined. Breathless, she whispered, "I never knew it was…it would be like…" "It's not. Or not with anyone else, 'Beta. It never has been." She looked up, surprised. "Really?" "I'm as stunned by it as you are," I told her. "Though, perhaps, not surprised. I've been told that sharing blood with one of The Chosen can be overpowering." She snuggled closer into my arms. "It was. And wonderful. But —" "But?" I felt the cold finger of panic touch my heart. To me, in my mind, that act of lovemaking, of blood sharing, had bound this woman to me. I thought I had claimed her as my own, and she had claimed me as hers. It hadn't occurred to me that she might feel differently. "You still have doubts?" "I…" She seemed to search for words. "Making love to you is heaven. Beyond heaven. But it tells me nothing of living as…as you must live. Nothing of being…what you are." I lowered my head, my heart sinking. "I thought it would be enough." Her palm cupped my face. "It may very well be, my prince. My love. But I'm not yet at death's door. Can you not give me time to know more? After all, it's more than the decision of a lifetime. It's a decision for all time." "What can you learn in time that you don't already know?" "I could be with you. Live with you. As you do." I was impatient, angry, perhaps, but unsure why. I suppose I wanted her unabashed acceptance, rather than something so noncommittal. "My love," she said softly. "You told me that once I knew your secrets, I would be bound to you for all my days. Be they many or be they few. I have no desire to alter that decree. I wish to be with you, from this day forward. That I know. My only uncertainty lies not with you, but with myself. I need to decide whether my days with you will be those of my mortal lifetime — or the endless days of eternity. And for that I need more time." She brushed her lips over mine. "Do you understand my feelings, love?"
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I swallowed. "I do, but I don't like the notion of waiting. Anything could happen, 'Beta. As long as you remain mortal, you cling to the fragile lifetime of a mortal. The smallest accident or illness could take you from me before I could do a thing to prevent it. By the Gods, woman, your family perished of the plague." "But I did not. It was weeks ago — and I'm not ill. Not with the plague, at least." I sighed, pulling her tightly into my arms. "I don't think I can let you go, 'Beta." "Give me a few days, my love. Enough to become used to this idea. Enough to…to adjust, to understand and accept. Please?" I stared at her for a long moment, at the genuine feeling in her eyes. And at last I said, "Yes. I will give you the time you ask for, if you will give me something in return." "Anything," she whispered, and blushing added, "though I believe I've already given you all that I have of value." "What you've given me is priceless. What I ask is even more so. Give me your hand, Elisabeta. Be my bride. Marry me. Tonight."
Chapter Fifteen "Marry you? T-tonight?" Her wide black eyes seemed endlessly deep with wonder, and a hint of disbelief. "How can you know me enough to make me your wife after an acquaintance of mere hours?" "Think about it, 'Beta. Had we never met, neither of us would be alive tonight. I had no wish to be alive before I found you — nor did you before that fateful meeting on the cliffs. How is it so difficult, then, to believe that we belong together?" "Is that what you really believe?" "It is," I told her, and it was true. I did believe it. I still do. "We have no one to answer to, 'Beta. We can do this if we wish it. I'm the prince, I do as I please. And you have no family to object." She looked up at me, smiling in a watery way that made my throat go tight. "I do believe I love you, prin meu. Yes. No matter how I end up choosing to spend my time with you, I will marry you." I gathered her into my arms, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around and around, and then I lowered her slowly as our lips met, and mated. I do believe that night was the happiest I had ever known until that point. Certainly there have been none better since. Together we raced back to the village that spread out in the shadow of the castle on high, and to the home of the priest. We woke him from his sleep, stood in his doorway as he gazed at us, wondering what we were about. "What's this?" he asked. And then his gaze took focus and his eyes went wide. "Your highness! I had been told you were dead!" "The castle servants are bumbling fools, I'm afraid. I was laid out in my father's chapel, awaiting your visit — which I'm sure was impending," I added with a meaningful crook of my brow. "Naturally, my leige! I had only thought it best to wait for daylight." Ah, so the superstitious gossip had instigated fear of me even in a man of God. It didn't matter. I should have been angry, but I was too happy then to let his ignorance cause me any concern.
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"I was suffering from little more than a blow to the head, which left me in a deep stupor for a matter of hours. I'm fine now, as you can see." "Yes, yes. Do come inside. I've a warm fire, bread and wine if you wish." "We have only one wish this night, Father," I told him, turning to gaze into my beloved's eyes. "To be wed." We had followed him inside his small cottage, and he stood now with the plank door still open. "Tonight?" "Indeed. Within the hour if you can manage it." "But…but there's been no betrothal. No reading of the —" "Nor will there be," I said, my voice lowering slightly. The priest stared from me to Elisabeta, and then he frowned. "This child is still in mourning for her family." "We will be wed this very night, unless you wish to find yourself in the castle dungeon before dawn," I told him. I felt my 'Beta go stiff beside me, felt her gaze turn to one of disapproval as her hand tightened on my arm.
Chapter Sixteen The priest sucked in a sharp gasp, and 'Beta held my eyes and shook her head firmly. "Not like that, my love. Not like that." And then she turned to the priest. "Marry us, or don't. You'll not be harmed either way. We shall simply leave this place and find another who will." He agreed, not because of her reasoning, but out of fear of me. He knew I did not make threats I would not carry out, and didn't trust this mite of a woman's ability to temper my rage. Nodding his acceptance, he said, "I will meet with you in the castle's chapel in an hour. Is that acceptable?" "It is," I told him, and with my bride in the circle of my arms, I tugged her from the cottage. From there we mounted my horse and rode to the castle, where we woke every servant and friend, relative and guest of the king. He still hadn't returned from whatever journey he'd undertaken, which worried me. The man believed me to be his son, despite that it wasn't so. He didn't often keep things from me. At any rate, I shouted orders in a way that must have shocked and surprised them all, for I tended to keep to myself and to remain quiet and undemanding, so long as my privacy was respected. Not tonight. Tonight my often morose expression was replaced with a beaming smile, and my orders were given joyfully. By the time the hour had passed, the servants had located a beautiful gown for my lady — the color of rich cream. They had gathered flowers for her to carry, and even tucked a few blossoms into her hair; forget-menots, their tiny blue heads as delicate as 'Beta herself. They had awakened minstrels and the cook to alert them to the impending celebration and set them to work preparing the hall. "You are so beautiful," I told my bride as she came to stand beside me before the priest. "I am almost convinced this is all no more than a sweet dream, and that I will awaken to the lonely reality of my life as it was before." "It is a dream," she told me softly. "A dream come true." The tiny stone chapel was filled with people — strangers, servants and people who feared me — as my beloved and I knelt at the altar that night, and she pledged to be mine forever, and I pledged to cherish her
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always. Little did those gathered to witness our vows know just how much more those promises meant when spoken by a man who would never die. And then it was done, and I took her into my arms and sealed our bond by pressing my lips to hers. I thought that fate, for once, had smiled upon me. I was glad to be alive for the first time in centuries. I relished this life; I thanked the fates that it was eternal, for surely I thought 'Beta would agree to let me share the dark gift with her. To make her as I was. To be with me for all eternity. Surely she would.
Chapter Seventeen As eager as I was to carry my bride to our bedchamber, I knew she deserved a celebration worthy of her. For though a commoner, she was far more. A descendant, no doubt, of some ancient royal line. It was the tale I would weave for the world. And one I had no reason to doubt could be true. For how could a family produce a woman like her without having royal blood in its lineage? How? One so perfect, with the face of an angel and the gold-spun hair to go with it. And those eyes, those piercing, bewitching black eyes. How I loved her. My jewel. My princess. Musicians played their lyres and flutes as we entered the castle hall. The cooks began lining tables with the foods they'd managed to prepare in short order, while the smells of still-roasting meats filled the hall and watered the mouths of all present. Ale and wine flowed, and I danced with my bride and saw her cheeks pink with joy, even though the rest of her countenance seemed to pale. Holding her in my arms, I frowned at her. "Are you feeling worn out from all of this?" "Only a little tired. But my love, I don't wish for this night to end." "It must. All nights do. Be we need not end, 'Beta. Not ever." She smiled and rested her head against me. "I know." Before I could ask if that meant she had made up her mind, the doors burst open, and the entire room fell silent. The music and dancing stopped. The eating and talking stopped. Everyone went still. I turned to see my so-called father, the king, standing just inside the entryway, flanked by soldiers-in-arms. He found my gaze across the crowed room, spoke softly to his men, and made his way to me. "It seems I've interrupted a celebration," he said. "And my morose son, with a smile on his face and a beautiful prize in his arms. Dare I hope —?" "She is my wife, Father," I told him. "Elisabeta. Your father and your king." I felt her hand tremble as she dropped to her knees before the king, lowering her head. "Rise, child. Rise," the king said. He bent, and taking her shoulders, helped her to stand. "You are a princess, and far too special and beautiful to bow before an old man." Smiling, he kissed her cheeks, then turned to face me, still holding 'Beta's hands. "So sudden?" "I had only to gaze upon her once to know she was the one," I said, uncustomarily sentimental. "I could not wait, not even for you."
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"I would not have had you delay. Truly, you've claimed a rare treasure, my son. I only wish I didn't have to spoil your celebration with dire news." I frowned. "You went on a secret journey — and took with you soldiers, I see," I said, nodding toward the soldiers who remained near the door. "Soldiers who don't seem eager to join in tonight's revelry." The king grabbed a passing servant. "Tell my men they may eat, but not drink any wine or ale. And remind them to remain alert," he commanded. This alarmed me more. "What is it, my king?" "I left to verify rumors of enemy troops amassing at our northern borders. Saw no reason to disturb you with what was, then, just gossip. But I found it to be true. We are being invaded, my son. We are…at war."
Chapter Eighteen "We need to turn them back before they cross the river. My son, we need every man, or the kingdom will fall." I owed the man so much. My life. Had he not taken me in, accepted me as his son, I would never have found my wonderful bride. I could not refuse him. And I knew what he did not — that I was his most powerful warrior. Turning, I stared down at Elisabeta. She gazed up at me, love and fear in her eyes. "I don't want you to go," she whispered. "I wish I didn't have to. Come." I took her with me, leaving my father to put an end to the revelry as he must. We climbed the curving stone staircase to my bedchamber — our bedchamber. Its window hole was covered by thick layers of black cloth, for my protection when I slept there by day. The bed was huge and comfortable, and it, too, was surrounded in dark curtains as an added defense against the sun. The door could be barred from within. I didn't bar it, only closed it behind us, and moving to the window, I tore the cloth away. "My bride will see the sun for as long as she can," I told her. "Put it back!" She flung herself into my arms. "I've made my decision," she told me. "I'll be as you are, I will. I wish to be with you always. Just please, don't go. Don't go to war, my love." I held her, rocked her gently in my arms, kissed her hair, her face. "Don't fear for me, my precious 'Beta. I'm immortal." "But you can die. You told me so! The sun, the bleeding…suppose you are pierced with a sword or an arrow?" "I promise you, I will not die. I will return to you. And when I do, if you still wish it, I'll instill in you the spirit that lives in me. That of eternal life." "Do it now." I pushed her hair from her tear damp face, and shook my head. "I need to be with you afterward. I need to help you understand what you'll be experiencing, to explain to you, to hold you through it all. It's like a death, Elisabeta. A death and a rebirthing. You cannot go through such a change alone. I won't have it." "Then stay. Stay and do all those things. Stay with me for always as you promised to do before the priest!"
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I lowered my head as grief made my voice catch in my throat. "I cannot. I simply cannot." She trembled and wept, and I tipped her face to mine and kissed her, tasting her tears. "I love you, 'Beta. Who knew a man could fall so deeply in love so suddenly? You…you've stricken my heart like a bolt of lightning. Nothing could keep me from you. Not ever." "Let me come with you," she whispered against my neck. I closed my eyes in sweet agony. Gods, it was tempting. To have her by my side…but I knew better. "You're not strong enough. You must conserve your energy, rest, and be well until I return. The battle will be fierce and I expect, over within a day or two at most." "What if it's more?" she asked me. "What if you stay away too long and I die in your absence?"
Chapter Nineteen "If it's more than two days, I'll return for you. You have weeks, perhaps months yet, 'Beta. I promise." "I love you," she told me. "You are the princess of this keep," I told her. "There is no queen. Anything you desire, you have but to ask. The servants love you already." I heard horses below as soldiers made ready. "I have to go." "I love you," she told me, again, and kissed me desperately. "With all I am, I love you!" "And I you." With deep regret, I withdrew from her arms to don my battle gear, my weapons. She walked with me down the stairs and out into the courtyard, and bless her for it, her eyes were dry as we joined the others there, her chin held high. Queen-like, she was. Glorious. I kissed her once more as I mounted Soare, and I felt her eyes on my back as we all rode away to face battle. It was fierce, the combat. We fought for three days straight, and all that prevented me from returning to her after the first two as I had promised, was the certainty that it would end on the third. We had but to press on to achieve our victory. For me to pull out then might have ensured defeat. And so I broke my promise to my bride. When I returned, it was to see the chapel doors thrown wide, servants, villagers, everyone who hadn't been with us in battle, filing in and out, wailing and weeping aloud. Flower petals lined the path outside. Frowning, I dismounted and hurried forward, asking first one person and then another what was happening. Was this a service for all the fallen soldiers? It couldn't have been for we had only just returned with their bodies. But each person I approached only looked at me in something like shock, and then backed away, crossing themselves and muttering prayers. Baffled, I shouldered my way through the crowd, and into the chapel. And then I died inside, for I saw her. My beloved Elisabeta lay on the same bier where she had wept for me only four nights prior. Her golden hair spread around her, and the finest gown she had ever owned covered her slender frame.
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A cry like that of a wounded animal was wrenched from the depths of my soul as I ran to her, gathered her into my arms, and felt no life in her. She was cold. Stiff. "No! No!" I cried. "By the Gods, it cannot be." "Come, my son —" The priest was there, his hand on my shoulder, but I whirled on him, on all of them, screaming at them to get out. To leave me to my grief. And they did, all except one mourner who waited silently, in the shadows a good distance from me. For hours she waited there, while I wept and held Elisabeta's body in my arms, and railed against the Gods, against Fate for having given me such bliss only to rip it from my hands. Eventually, the rage ebbed and I knew what I must do. If my beloved would leave this life, then I would go with her. I'd no desire to live without her. And perhaps, somehow, we would be together again on the other side. My decision made, I moved to return to the cliffs where my life would end, after all.
Chapter Twenty "It's nearing dawn," a woman's voice said. "You weep over her body any longer and you'll burn with the sunrise." I gently laid Elisabeta's body down, and turned to face the woman. I knew her. I had given her the Dark Gift long, long ago, when she'd been a princess in Egypt, rejected by her father, the Pharoah, and sent to the temple to be raised by Priestesses of Isis. "Rhianikki," I said. "I go by Rhiannon now." She stepped out of the shadows, her long jet black hair reaching to her waist, a gown of fine gold fabric draping from her shoulders to her feet and leaving her slender arms bare. She nodded to a spot beyond me. "It's a beautiful likeness, isn't it?" I turned to see a painting, a portrait of my Elisabeta hanging on the chapel wall. It so captured her beauty and her spirit, it took my breath away. "She had the artist working day and night from the moment you left. It was to be a wedding gift to you upon your return." I could barely raise my head, my grief was so powerful. "What happened to her?" I asked. "She was told you had died in battle. That uncle of hers, I believe. She didn't believe it until the second day had passed without word. It was only twelve hours ago, at dawn on the third day, that she threw herself from the tower, in order to join you, her prince. One of the servants heard her cry out that were you alive, you would have returned to her by then. She'd barred the chamber door from within; no one could get to her in time." It was more than I could bear. I dropped to my knees. "Then it was my broken promise that cost her life." Shaking my head, I said, "Why did you tell me I would find her here, if she was only going to leave me again, Rhiannon?" She sighed and lowered her head. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I did not foresee this, my friend." I nodded, believing her. "No matter. I will join her, soon enough."
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Rhiannon came to me, placed her hand on my shoulder. "Always you've been so morose. Always. Hating your eternal life, resenting it, mourning your loneliness. There's nothing in the world so tiresome as a vampire unable to embrace his nature. At least now you have reason for your constant melancholy." I lifted my head, knew she was leading up to some argument as to why I should live on. "I won't go on without her," I said, hoping to forestall her words. "Yes," she said, "you will. Shall I tell you why?" Blinking the salty dryness from my eyes, I nodded, and managed to get to my feet again. "I don't suppose I have a choice. Go on, tell me why I would put myself through the hell of living even one more day without her?" "I have had a vision," she told me. "I don't get them often — less and less as I grow older and more powerful. But this one was real and it was strong. Do not even think to doubt its veracity." "No one dares to doubt or question the immortal princess of the Nile, do they?" Bitterness, not humor, laced my words. "Go on, if you must. I cannot walk into the sunrise until it comes, and there is still an hour of hell to endure before then. So go on, tell me of this vision." "She will return to you." My head came up, my heart leaping in my chest. "Oh, it will not be easy. For first and foremost you must remain alive until she does. If not, there's no telling whether the two of you will ever find one another again. So you cannot, you see, walk into the sunrise. You must live, in spite of your pain. For her." I shook my head. "I would do anything for her. But…for how long?" Even the most hard-hearted vampiress in the world could not hold my gaze as she whispered the length of my sentence. "Five-hundred years. Or thereabouts." I stumbled. She caught me, kept me from falling. "You will find her in a place called New Hampshire. In a village called Endover. That is where she will return to you five centuries hence — if you can endure that long." I faced Rhiannon squarely. "I've never heard of such a place." "That's because it doesn't yet exist." I held her gaze, probed it. "Are you certain?" "I am." Sighing, I returned to my beloved, to her body, the shell that had once housed her. I leaned over her, and I kissed her still, cold lips. "I will try, my love. I vow, I will try. Though living that long without you might very well do me in. If I can last, for you, I will." I closed my eyes on the hot tears that welled in their depths, and I moaned, "Come back to me, Elisabeta." From somewhere beyond the walls of the chapel, I swore I heard her voice whisper, "I will."
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Hooked on a Feeling by Colleen Collins Back in the 1890s, my Denver mansion was the grandest gentlemen's club from Kansas City to San Francisco. My girls and I entertained senators, judges and lawyers with our beauty, wit and charm. I, Lillie Tremont, was a celebrity and a successful business woman. Now, my home has fallen into disrepair and has been invaded by an uptight schoolmarm who plans to run, of all things, an etiquette camp! But I've got a few ghostly tricks up my sleeve yet, and I'm sure I can scare the woman right back to Philadelphia! Then again, if there's one thing I know, it's sparks between a man and a woman. And there are definite sparks flying between the schoolmarm and that gorgeous handyman… Perhaps it's time to do a little matchmaking!
Chapter One It wasn't that Margaret Landon hadn't wrestled with obstinate foes in her twenty-eight years; it's just that they'd been the living, breathing kind. Not an antiquated, obstinate bathroom sink faucet that refused to cough up more than a squirt of water. "I hate old things," she muttered for the nth time as she stared down the faucet. Hated everything, in fact, in this decrepit old house she'd been forced to move into yesterday, a mere two days before the St. George Finishing School for Girls' etiquette camp started. The school was to have opened in its new downtown Denver building, but due to construction problems, the St. George board of directors moved her to this god-awful building that the owner supposedly rented out for parties. "Halloween parties, maybe," she muttered, looking at the faded wallpaper and cracked floor tiles. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Margaret looked at the open bathroom window, barely a breeze disturbing its white curtains. She'd been told of the summer thunderstorms that rolled through this part of Colorado most afternoons, but obviously no rush of stormy air had caused a door to slam shut. Too many other things to worry about. Like this faucet. "If I'd known I'd be wrestling fixtures, I'd have packed T-shirts and jeans instead of blouses and skirts," she muttered, gripping the faucet handle. There was a time she'd always dressed in jeans, back when Margaret had been Maggie, a streetwise gangly kid from one of the roughest 'hoods in Philly. She'd never backed down from a fight, never passed up an opportunity to get what she wanted. Qualities she still had, although she'd whitewashed them so they were socially acceptable. Because Maggie was no fool. By the time she was sixteen, she'd observed how girls from moneyed families didn't need to act tough and cuss to get their way. That a dignified air and a few well-chosen words could open doors faster than a swift kick. With the goal of reinventing herself, and her determination to never return to her poor roots (or date bluecollar guys), she took an entry-level job at an executive protocol company, changed her name to Margaret and learned about charm, culture and business etiquette. By twenty-three, she'd worked her way up the ranks to be a business protocol consultant.
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Now, five years later, she was determined to win the coveted position of executive director at the prestigious St. George Finishing School for Girls in Denver, Colorado, because winning this job would prove she had overcome her past — that she was someone to respect in the world that had once rebuffed her. Taking a deep breath, she gave the faucet one last good crank. Whoosh! With a strangled cry, she threw both hands in front of her, fumbling through an explosion of water to turn…the…faucet…off! Moments later, she stared at her green-eyed reflection in the tarnished sink mirror. Strands of her fine blond hair were plastered to her face. Her favorite, and now ruined, silk blouse made her look like a wet T-shirt contest contestant. Knock knock knock. "Great timing for a delivery." With everything from beds to table settings being delivered for the camp that started in two days, she had no choice but to answer the downstairs front door. She grabbed a towel and dabbed at her face. Lightly shaking her silk blouse, she bounded down the curving staircase. Knock knock knock. "Hold your frickin' horses," she muttered, opening the door. A man dressed in sawdust-covered jeans and a work shirt stood on the sagging porch. Sunlight glinted off his brown hair. As his sky-blue eyes gave her a slow once-over, a smile curled his lips. "Plumbing problems?" "How'd you ever guess?" She smiled tightly. His eyes lingered on her breasts. Heat rushed to her face as she realized that despite tugging the blouse away from her body, the wet silk must be translucent enough to see her lace bra with the tiny pink rose at the clasp. She cleared her throat. He looked back into her eyes. "Uh, I'm Patrick Delaney. The St. George group hired me to be a handyman for the place." "Margaret Landon, executive director of the St. George Girls' Finishing School. Well, I will be if I pass their job interview these next few weeks." They wanted to see how their candidate performed before making the job offer. Which meant she had to view this run-down place as a challenge, not an obstacle. She turned, motioned for him to follow her inside. "Ten teenage girls are arriving in forty-eight hours. Think we can transform this dump into an etiquette camp by then?" Another door slammed somewhere in the house. Margaret jumped. "There it goes again!" Patrick chuckled, put a reassuring hand on her arm. "Where's that pesky water pipe?"
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A few minutes later, Margaret, who'd excused herself to replace her wet blouse with a clean one, walked up behind Patrick who was turning the faucet on, off. Water flowed appropriately. "You fixed it!" Margaret said. "It wasn't broken." "But…" She frowned. "I think I know the problem," he said, his blue eyes meeting hers. "Same thing is causing the doors to slam, too." She tried not to think how closely they stood. Or how long it'd been since she smelled a guy's clean, masculine scent. A tiny shiver zinged down her spine. "Seriously," she said, finger-combing her hair and slicking the damp curls off her face. "Seriously," he said, his eyes following the movements of her hand through her hair, "it's Lillie Tremont. The madam who once ran a bordello in this very building. Others have heard the slamming doors or heard haunting music, but I believe you're the first to get soaked." "Very funny." "It's true. I believe it, anyway." "Well, I don't believe in ghosts." His blue eyes twinkled. "So, what's next to be fixed?"
*** Lillie, fanning herself with her black-lace and tulle fan, lay across the love seat in the adjoining bedroom. She watched as Patrick and Margaret walked out of the room on their way to check a loose floorboard downstairs. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "An etiquette camp? I have to contend with ten teenage girls and that uptight schoolmarm?" The living couldn't hear Lillie when she talked, unless she materialized. And she avoided materializing unless it was absolutely necessary. Lillie liked her privacy, and she'd haunted to keep it that way for over a century. Unfortunately, the current owner was beyond rude for renting out her place for parties and disrupting her privacy! But she ensured those events were over quickly. A few door slams or flickering lights usually did the trick. Or her personal favorite — playing a snippet of Brahms on her old Victrola. People would look for the source of the music, never find it and promptly leave. "Etiquette camp," she muttered, floating across her former bedroom. "Maybe I should try some of the pranks those ghostly hookers are concocting up at Maiden Falls." Maiden Falls, the former mining town in the Rockies, had a luxurious honeymoon hotel — formerly a bordello that was Lillie's main competitor — whose shady ladies died after a disastrous gas leak in 1895. But oh, the stories Lillie had recently heard about their ghostly shenanigans! Like Belle Bulette, the feisty cardshark, who'd gambled her soul on that randy reporter and the debutante. Or golden-curled Sunshine, who stirred up a tempest when she decided a savvy businesswoman was better suited for her ex-flame than her husband-to-be! And the rebellious, free-spirited Rosebud, who fell in love with a real, live man!
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Floating to a mirror, Lillie checked her makeup, patted her red curls. "Now Arlotta encourages her girls to do good deeds so they can escape to the 'big picnic in the sky' but I'm staying put until my ring is on the hand of a lover." She glanced up at the ceiling, pleased no one had ever discovered the whereabouts of the ring, either. After a final adjustment to a wayward curl, she floated down the staircase, mulling which haunting tricks would work best these next few weeks.
Chapter Two Lillie lounged on a corner settee and pondered her dilemma. Ever since yesterday, when that uptight, rulelovin' Margaret Landon had moved in, Lillie's every breathing — well, spirited — moment had been focused on haunting her out. Unfortunately, Margaret was a hard nut to crack. Who'd have thought a woman who dressed so femininely, and ran an etiquette camp for God's sake, could be so fearless. Margaret had written off slamming doors to the wind, mysterious water drips to faulty plumbing and squeaky floorboards to rotting wood. Really, it was almost enough to make a ghost give up haunting. Fortunately, Lillie still had plenty of tricks, so to speak, up her sleeve. "Fixed that window in the foyer," Patrick said, wiping his hands on a towel as he walked into the room. "It opens now." Margaret stopped setting one of the tables in what would be her dining etiquette room and looked up. His broad shoulders, loose-limbed stride and the way his jeans hung low on his hips made her heart momentarily trip over itself. The man had a devilish air, the kind she remembered boys having back on the streets in Philly. The kind of boys she'd sworn off long ago when she'd decided having the better life meant ridding herself of the baser elements. "Thank you." She straightened, blew out a breath. "Can't believe the owner didn't install air-conditioning in this old place. Must be eighty degrees outside." "Ninety-two." He shrugged. "Temperatures can be deceiving at this altitude. When you go outside, make sure you wear lots of sunblock." "I don't go outside." "Not even for a walk?" "In this neighborhood?" He gave her a double take. "Afraid a homeless person might invade your personal space by asking for a quarter?" He was talking down to her, something nobody had done in years. "Desperate people do desperate things." He paused, his blue eyes glittering. "And I'm sure you'd know." Jerk. She might look soft and pretty, but he had zero idea what she'd been through to get to this point. This had nothing to do with homeless people. She was referring to the looking-for-trouble types. Back in Philly growing up, she'd talked her way out of a lot of tough situations — a skill she hadn't lost. But she was sharp
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enough to know that being a five-three blonde wearing designer clothes in a bad neighborhood was like wearing a sign that said "mug me." Speaking of which, she made a mental note to put up a sign reminding the girls of the house rules; number one being no one was to leave the premises without Margaret's permission. "Women must have been miserable a hundred years ago," she said, changing the subject. "I read once they wore heavy skirts and long-sleeved blouses even in summer, which must have felt unbearable in this heat." "The ladies lived in this house one hundred and twenty-four years ago, to be exact." "A hundred and twenty-four years," she murmured, looking at the peeling wallpaper, the cracked molding. "They should have condemned this place long ago." He paused, swiping the back of his hand across his brow. "Sorry you feel stuck in this old building, but you know the saying if you get lemons, make lemonade?" She was drained, stressed and tired of being polite. "Please, spare me a lecture." Patrick looked around the room, imagining how it'd looked in Lillie's day with its rich oak paneling and gold leaf accents. Just the kind of place he'd long dreamed of buying and restoring, but not for profit. No, he'd live here, raise a family, pass it down to his kids. "This isn't some old eyesore that should be razed," he said, walking around the room. "This is a piece of history. Back in the 1890s, it was the most famous gentlemen's club between Kansas City and San Francisco. Lillie even had a crystal chandelier for her bedroom shipped all the way from Paris to this club, where she entertained senators, judges, lawyers. Her girls were not only reputed to be beautiful, but they could discuss everything from politics to art." He stopped next to Margaret at the table. "Your etiquette campers could probably learn a thing or two from Lillie's girls." The last was a jab, but the word "etiquette" grated on Patrick. Always had. Reminded him of all the rules and expectations his family imposed on him for most of his thirty-two years until, fed up with the charades and games, he dropped out of law school and made an old hobby, carpentry, his profession. His parents were sorely disappointed, but that didn't stop them from trying to matchmake him with available high-society types. He glanced at the neatly laid out table setting with its silver, crystal and china. Screw all this pomp. He'd take a woman with tomboy genes who could wield a mean fishing rod any day over one who knew where to place a dessert fork.
*** Margaret stared at Patrick, trying to hold on to her sense of injustice. After all, she was busting herself to set up an etiquette school under trying circumstances and she didn't need his attitude. He infuriated…and fascinated her. He saw more to this old place than met the eye, which made her wonder what was more to meet the eye with him. He came across as rough and tumble — a man who worked with his hands — and yet he had a deep appreciation, even a sensitivity, for history. Rough, yet sensitive. Just as beneath the coarse fabric of his shirt, she sensed a powerful, but elegant physique. Or his mouth. Firm, full — yet sensual in shape and promise. Really, quite a specimen of a man… The kind a woman fantasized about tumbling into bed with after barely a hello. She fanned the open collar of her blouse; a futile attempt to temper the fires skittering across her skin. He looked at her, his eyes shadowing with concern. "You all right?"
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"Yes." No. "You should sit down, rest a minute." She sank into a chair. Protective, too. He looked around the table. "Got any water here?" She shook her head. He started to move away, but she reached out and touched his arm. The warmth of his skin triggered a rippling of sensual awareness she felt all the way down to her toes. "What?" he asked. She withdrew her hand. "So, what happened to that chandelier?" He paused, as though surprised she asked. Or that she cared? "It disappeared sometime after Lillie's death in 1907." For the briefest of moments, Margaret swore she heard music. The sweet trill of a violin. She looked up, swearing it came from somewhere upstairs. As suddenly as the music had started, it stopped. The silence filled only with the hum of traffic from the street. "I think the heat's getting to me," she whispered.
Chapter Three Patrick looked down at Margaret where she sat slump-shouldered and pale in the chair. She'd said the heat was getting to her, but he guessed it was something else. After all, she'd seemed fine until she suddenly started, looked at the ceiling, after which he could literally see the blood drain from her face. He looked up at the ceiling. Nothing odd about it, except it needed a good plaster and paint job. "What is it?" he asked, meeting Margaret's green-eyed gaze. She ran a tongue along her bottom lip before releasing a deep breath. "Right after you told me Lillie's chandelier disappeared after her death —" she peeked skyward "— I, uh, heard…" "Music?" She gasped. "You heard it, too?" "No. But others have." "Others?" She stopped, shook her head. "Oh no, here we go again. Ghost stories." "They've surrounded this place for generations." "No." She gave her head a deliberate shake. "I don't believe in ghosts. What frightened me was the shock of hearing music in the house, wondering if someone had sneaked inside." "Sneaked inside so they could play music upstairs?" She stared at him for a long moment. It didn't make sense, she knew, but still…
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"Let me get that water," he said, breaking the silence. "Mind if I borrow two glasses?" Not waiting for her response, he picked a few crystal glasses off the table and exited the room. Margaret watched him leave, feeling, for the first time since she'd arrived here a bit, well, spooked. She meant it when she'd said she didn't believe in ghosts, but it was unnerving to hear music so clearly. It played from somewhere directly overhead. "Where my bedroom is," she whispered. For a moment, she swore the light in the room shifted, coalescing in a corner by the settee. And for the briefest of moments, she swore she saw a hazy form — a woman in a blue satin evening gown, fanning herself with a black lace fan. The woman looked at her, then faded into thin air. A chill skittered down Margaret's back. Patrick walked back into the room with the filled glasses. "Thank you," she said, accepting a glass. She took a long drink, then scanned the room. Sunlight, buttery and hot, sifted through the tall windows. In the corner sat the same old red couch with its sagging cushion. No shifting of lights. No hazy forms. Everything in its place, looking as it had ever since she arrived. Maybe that's all she needed upstairs, too. A reality check. "Let's go to the second floor and look around." He quirked an eyebrow. "Let me guess. For the source of the music?" She nodded. Under pain of death, she'd never, ever mention she saw that misty image of a woman. "Margaret," he said slowly, "others have heard it, too." "What did they hear?" He shrugged. "Some said a symphony. Others, a string instrument. Violin, I think." "The violin —" she swallowed, hard "— is what I heard." Before now, Patrick had felt irked with her black-and-white worldview that left little room for gray. Rules for this, rules for that — exactly the mentality that had driven him away from his family. But looking at Margaret now, the way light washed into her eyes, the forest green dissolving into the color of a churning sea, something within his chest constricted. He stood, held out his hand. She placed her hand in his, her fingertips like ice. He almost told her that despite all the ghost stories in this house, no one had ever been hurt or ghoulishly frightened. The hauntings had been benign, really, more a Do Not Trespass sign than out to do harm. He had thought the mysterious strains of a violin rather cool — wished he had just heard it himself. But he had to keep in mind that until the girls arrived tomorrow, Margaret would be here alone. Far better to make light of unusual occurrences so she wouldn't be overly frightened. One of the first things he'd done yesterday, after checking the questionable faucet, was to ensure all the locks on the doors and windows were solid, so he knew she'd be physically safe. But he wanted to ensure she felt psychologically safe, too.
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He rubbed her cold fingers with his to try and warm them up. Maybe he'd try to distract her, coax a laugh, anything to get her to relax a little. He glanced down at the table. "Hey, I think you've got your dessert spoons in the wrong place." She looked at the settings, frowned. "No, it's correct." With his free hand, he moved one of the spoons. "It should go here." "That's where the soup spoon goes." "Next to that funky knife?" "That's a fish knife." "What's that one next to it?" "Service knife." "That's the problem with table settings. Too many knives and spoons. One fork should suffice for everything, don't you think?" She looked at him as though he'd just landed from another planet. Well, so much for making etiquette jokes with an etiquette camp counselor. He gave her warming hand a squeeze. "Let's go check upstairs, shall we?"
*** As they walked out of the room, Lillie watched them. She'd been toying with rearranging all the silverware out of spite for that "miserable" reference Margaret had made about the lovely women's clothes of Lillie's era, or Margaret's comment that her home should be condemned. "Condemned," Lillie sniffed, adjusting the lace sleeve of her gown. "If someone cared to look below the surface of the walls in this very room, they'd find my original Lincrusta Walton wall covering, its silver and gold relief needing only a bit of polishing to come to life again." What had stopped Lillie from messing up Margaret's table setting had been that gentleman Patrick's reverential words about the beauty of Lillie's home, as well as his noting her impressive clientele and the class of her girls. Lillie had also been intrigued with something else. "That schoolmarm and the gentleman like each other," she murmured. If she was skilled at anything, it was recognizing when sparks flew between a man and a woman. If Lillie played her cards right, she could fan those sparks into flames. Which changed her goal from haunting them out of the house to keeping them in the house — together. Maybe it was time to take a cue from those ghostly gals up at Maiden Falls and play matchmaker. Snapping her fan closed, she levitated and glided after Patrick and Margaret. Who knew, maybe they were worthy of the ring.
***
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Twenty minutes later, Margaret stood in her bedroom and looked around. "This is where we started," she said, "and no clue as to where the music came from." She and Patrick had walked in every room on the second floor, and found nothing. "Maybe it was from outside. A car radio." She didn't believe it, but the idea sounded as plausible as anything. "Sure, car radio." She glanced around the room, suddenly aware of the bed and a camisole she'd tossed over the back of a chair. She toyed with tossing the piece of lingerie into a drawer before Patrick saw it, but judging from the ruddy glow underneath his tan he'd already gotten an eyeful. "You didn't mention that," Patrick suddenly said. He crossed to one of the vertical windows whose shade was ripped. "It's not important." She walked up behind Patrick, who'd pulled out his ever-present tape measure and was taking dimensions. "I mean, I'm on the second floor. Who could see in?" He put the tape measure back into his shirt pocket. "Your privacy is important. This is your bedroom." She wasn't sure exactly what happened next. He turned, caught her by surprise, and suddenly their bodies were touching.
Chapter Four Patrick had been measuring the ripped blind in her bedroom when Margaret walked up behind him to explain that he really didn't need to waste his time fixing it. After all, they had plenty of other things — sagging floor joints, stuck windows, a sticky doorknob — to repair before the girls arrived for etiquette camp tomorrow morning. But she'd barely uttered a few words when suddenly he'd turned and their bodies had accidentally touched… And at that moment, whatever she'd been saying dissolved into a sensual awareness of the warmth of his arm on hers, the length of his leg pressing against hers and the warm, summer breezes wafting through the window and mingling with his salty, masculine scent. A jagged strip of light seeped through the rip in the shade, streaking the side of his face, revealing a look of heated surprise in his eyes. Neither of them moved, their silence broken only by the twittering of a bird outside the window, the hum of passing traffic on the street below. "Should I apologize?" he finally asked. "For —?" A sensual smile curved his lips. "For liking this." She could hardly breathe for the way he was looking at her. "No," she whispered. "No?" "No, you don't need to apologize." Their eyes locked and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.
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"And to think we came up here to find ghosts," he murmured. "To find the source of the music," she corrected, her voice barely audible. "What I'm getting at is…" For a breathless moment, she thought he was going to pull her into his arms. "It appears what we found is each other." With a subtle shift of his body, he moved closer and gave her a long, heated look that she felt all the way from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. She'd been comfortably celibate for months; a result of long work hours and lack of dating prospects rather than some premeditated state of self-denial. But now, looking into those blue eyes darkened with need, long-suppressed desires flooded every cell of her being. Her mouth dried; her heartbeat accelerated. She ached to be held, to know the taste of Patrick's mouth, the caress of his hands. So when he touched her, ever so gently cupping her cheek, it was like a jolt of electricity. Her breath caught; her gaze dropped to his mouth. He's going to kiss me.
*** Patrick watched Margaret, mesmerized by the passion he saw on her face. Her perfume, fragrant and sweet like wild roses, wove through the air like an invisible lasso, reeling him in. He could fall into those eyes and be happily lost forever in their green — bright and full of promise like the verdant hills in spring. When her lips parted, inviting him, the need to possess her swept hot through his belly. He toyed with the possibility of a lost afternoon where two people could ease their loneliness, escape into each other. He indulged a fantasy of her sweat-slickened skin sliding against his — the heady tang of her scent, the breathless sound of her moaning his name. The light in the room suddenly dimmed. He glanced at a far window, its shade darkened. Distant thunder announced another afternoon thunderstorm rolling in, ready to tear apart the genteel Colorado afternoon. Inside the room, the air grew thick and heavy, sparked with electricity. He glanced back at Margaret, watching the questions swirling in her eyes. He was tempted, so damn tempted. But one taste wouldn't be enough, and more than that would be disastrous. She represented exactly what he'd turned his back on, swore he'd never return to. "Another afternoon storm," he murmured, dropping his hand. "I should check the windows downstairs, make sure they're closed." And for a moment he hated himself as he watched the light of anticipation fade from her sparkling green eyes. She'd wanted to be kissed — hell, he'd wanted it, too, and he hadn't done it. For a painful moment, he questioned which of them had been the loser. The first drops spit against the window as she lowered her lashes, turned and left the room.
*** "Welcome to St. George Girls' Finishing School," Margaret repeated to the man and woman as they headed up the porch steps with a teenage girl who had the same lanky walk and dark brown hair as the man.
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"This is our daughter, Leslie McCutcheon," said the father. Margaret exchanged pleasantries as she'd done with all the new arrivals. After checking off the girl's name on her registration sheet, Margaret would walk them inside to the dormitory room; the spacious room that had once been Lillie's ballroom on the ground floor. Parents were invited to help their daughters unpack, select a bunk bed, or to peruse the historical house before the welcome luncheon commenced in an hour. And every damn time Margaret walked to the ballroom, she had to pass Patrick who was fixing a buckled floorboard in the foyer. Not that Margaret wasn't a pro at putting on a "best face" under difficult circumstances, it's just she'd never had to test those skills with a man whom she'd been ready to make hot love with just yesterday afternoon. And who, after teasing her and leading her on, had flat-out rejected her. Bastard. She was certain that under these particular circumstances, that word was not only appropriate, but procedurally correct. And if it wasn't, she'd write up the damn communications protocol herself. As she passed Patrick for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, she thought again how the man was downright evil to be wearing those tight jeans and that blue chambray shirt that matched his sinfully blue eyes. Minutes later, she again took her station on the porch, reminding herself that despite her inner turmoil, she needed to stay focused on her goal to perform well these next two weeks. Because, bottom line, all that mattered was nailing the position of executive director. A few minutes later, a woman and a teenage girl approached. As they got closer, Margaret was taken with the seeming role reversals. The woman looked hesitant, a little meek, while the daughter had a world-weary, edgy demeanor. After they reached the porch, and Margaret introduced herself, the woman gestured to the girl. "This is my daughter, Antoinette Washington. She won the 'Sisters under the Skin' literary contest." Antoinette rolled an I-don't-want-to-be-here look at Margaret, who pretended not to see it. Antoinette, fourteen, was an at-risk teenager from a suburb of L.A. who'd written an award-winning essay whose prize was this etiquette camp. And from the look on Antoinette's face, this was no prize. A few minutes later, after showing a sullen Antoinette and her smiling mother the girls' dormitory, Margaret headed back to the front door to close it. As she stepped into the foyer, Patrick motioned her over. "All fixed," he said, testing the floorboard with his foot. "Thank you. That about covers it, correct?" When he nodded, she continued, "I'll give a good recommendation to the board of directors about your work." Patrick looked as though he wanted to say something, but didn't. "Thanks," he said, leaning over to pick up his toolbox. "Good luck with the camp. I'll be leaving now." Her insides felt as though they were caving in, but she held her head high and walked him to the door. "Thank you again." Crash.
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"Good Lord!" Margaret jumped, looked around. The swinging door that led into the dining room, where she'd set the tables yesterday, hung at an angle. "Hinges must be loose," Patrick muttered, heading to investigate further.
*** Lillie, hovering nearby, watched Margaret as she marched back toward the girls' dorm room. "Yes," she said sweetly, glancing at Patrick as he opened his toolbox and retrieved a tool. "He's staying." Smiling to herself, she glanced around the place. "And I'm sure I can find many other things to break, too, during the next two weeks…"
Chapter Five "Antoinette," Margaret said, "please don't put your elbows on the table when food is present." Antoinette lifted her elbows and held them midair. The girls, eating their lunch at several tables in the dining room, giggled. It had been one week, four days since the etiquette camp had begun, although with Antoinette's ongoing angry antics it felt like one year, four months to Margaret. It was difficult enough dealing with Antoinette's disrespect, but Margaret's heart broke a little more every time she saw Patrick. It seemed every day something else was malfunctioning and the handyman had to be called again. Since that afternoon last week in her bedroom when they'd almost kissed, she and Patrick hadn't said more than a few business-related words to each other. As though that sizzling moment they shared had never happened. Meanwhile, Antoinette was still holding her elbows over the table, invoking more snickers from the girls. "Antoinette," Margaret said, keeping her voice level, "please put your hands in your lap." Antoinette kept her elbows airborne. "Why?" "Because," Margaret said, addressing the room, "as we've discussed over the past week and a half, all societies have etiquette rules. A society in which people make up their own etiquette rules wouldn't work any better than a society in which people follow only those laws they personally like." A flash of movement. She looked back at her table to see Antoinette popping an unlit cigarette between her teeth. Here we go again. "Antoinette." "Yes, Miss Logan?" she said around the filter. More laughter. Keep your cool. "Smoking," Margaret said calmly, "is a dangerous and highly addictive habit." "What if I choose to?"
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"Even if you were sitting in the smoking section of a restaurant, only after everyone has finished dessert is lighting up acceptable." "Yeah?" Antoinette looked around the room. "Don't look like no restaurant to me." Someone quietly clapped. Wonderful. Mutiny at the Etiquette Camp. "Antoinette," Margaret said, standing. "You've just lost your movie rights tonight." The girls had looked forward to this outing for days, a night on the town to eat pizza and see a movie that was the hottest teen flick of the summer. A chorus of dismay rippled across the room. Antoinette tugged the cigarette from her mouth, looking momentarily crestfallen, although she quickly put on her too-cool face when her gaze met Margaret's. "Give the girl a break," said a familiar male voice. In the doorway stood Patrick, slouched against the frame. He'd been outside all morning fixing a sagging porch rail. His face was dark with sun; a shock of hair fell over his sweaty brow. The girls erupted in applause and squeals of "Patrick rocks!" Margaret's heart plummeted, as it did every single time she saw him.
*** Patrick leaned against his green Ford pickup, folded his arms across his chest and stared down at Margaret. They'd decided to go to his truck, parked on the street outside Lillie's home, where the girls wouldn't overhear their discussion. "You don't teach people respect by punishing them," he said. "You teach them respect by giving them respect." She folded her arms over her daisy-yellow dress. The afternoon sun dripped down on her like honey, highlighting her shoulder-length blond hair and giving her an overall golden haze that irked him because she looked so damn good. "You give people respect when they've earned that respect," she countered. They glowered at each other for a moment, the only sound a fly buzzing past. "Look," he finally said, "I'm not a bad guy. I just hate seeing a kid punished for not following silly rules." "Silly rules? Even though it's not illegal in Colorado for a teenager to smoke, just illegal to sell them cigarettes, that doesn't mean it's silly to confront the issue and, yes, make an example of it." He dropped his arms, puffed out a breath. "I'm sorry, Maggie." She started. "Sorry, Margaret." He raked a hand through his hair. "I can't even abbreviate your name without it being an affront to you. Here we go again, back to your rules. If they're not adhered to, the full shebang with no exceptions, then a girl's a failure." "I don't need to defend the value of this camp —" "Value?" He made a derisive noise. "What value are you giving girls like Antoinette? You're so focused on manners that you fail to see the bigger problem. You are clueless what that girl's world is like, what she really needs to get ahead. You're acting as though etiquette can save her." She glanced over her shoulder. Faces were pressed against the living room window. "Wonderful, they're witnessing all this."
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"For your edification," she said quietly, stepping closer, "the value of etiquette is that it offers advantages, opens doors." "Advantages? Opens doors?" He laughed. Her green eyes were as pure and bright as the waters he'd once seen in the Caribbean. For a moment, he was taken aback, realizing how serious — and sincere — Margaret was on this topic. "Patrick," she whispered, "this isn't about following rules for the sake of following rules. Even studies by Harvard show success in business is fifteen percent technical knowledge, eighty-five percent people skills. These girls will gain a competitive edge in the world by practicing protocol and etiquette. I'm empowering them for the future." He looked at her, his mind going back to last week in her bedroom when they'd stood this close and he'd smelled that enticing rose perfume; lost himself in those sparkling green eyes. Her lips were as full and inviting as then, too, but if he leaned down she'd turn away. He'd had his chance and he'd blown it. Speaking of rules, fool, you rejected her because you decided she's one of "them." Maybe if he explained himself, he could bridge the damn gap he'd torn between Margaret and himself. "Look," he said, "you want to give advantages. I grew up where rules were about gaining the advantage. My father did it. Used his civilized rules and lawyer's skills to win a case against a teenage boy who ended up in jail when counseling could have saved him." Patrick didn't add how, after that, he'd dropped out of law school and turned his back on his family and their world of rules. And, fool that he was, turned his back on this woman, too. Suddenly, he realized he had to stop reacting to his past if he wanted his own future. "Margaret, let's —" "My job is on the line here with these girls. I'm concerned Antoinette, maybe others, will act out even more when you're around because they see you as championing their side." "When I'm around?" He frowned. A pained look darkened her face. "Please, stay away."
*** Lillie, squeezed between two girls who didn't know she was there, perched her arms over the back of the couch and stared out the living room window at Patrick and Margaret talking next to his truck. "Patrick's telling Miss Logan what's what," said one girl, snapping her gum. "Yeah," said another, "he's on our side." But Lillie knew better because if she knew anything, she knew men, and from the look on Patrick's face, he was getting his heart good and broken. If she wasn't afraid of scaring the bejeebers out of these girls, she'd materialize and tell them that thanks to their antics, Patrick was being given the boot. She floated off the couch and looked around the room. There were plenty of things to still break. Only problem was Margaret wouldn't call him unless it was an absolute, can't-go-on-unless-it's-fixed-immediately emergency.
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Lillie tapped open her fan, thinking she'd simply have to do an extraordinary job breaking things these next few days because no way she was letting that man leave without making Margaret his betrothed. With Lillie's ring.
Chapter Six Two days later, on Friday night, Margaret sat on a chair in the foyer drinking coffee. Her third cup. It was almost midnight and Antoinette was still unaccounted for. Ever since their confrontation at lunch Wednesday, Antoinette had become increasingly more unruly. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe in Margaret's zeal to do the right thing, to better her own career, she'd been wrong in her handling of Antoinette. Too stringent, too determined to be in control, too ready to impose her rules. As though, in the grander scheme of things, the placement of a fork truly mattered. All that mattered right now was Antoinette's safe return. Margaret glanced at her wristwatch. Midnight, on the dot. Where was she? A floorboard creaked. Margaret started. These last few days, the house seemed to be falling apart more than ever. Plaster cracking — even several pieces of furniture breaking! But she'd worked around the problems, too full of pride to call Patrick. Another creak. And another. From the living room. Relief surged through her. Antoinette. Margaret walked into the darkened living room. Curtains fluttered over an open window, through which lavender-scented breezes wafted inside. In the center of the room a shadowy form wavered, then froze. "Antoinette?" A weighty huff. "Yeah, Miss Logan?" Margaret blinked back a rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. She took a moment to ground herself. "Let's go out on the porch," she finally said, "and have us a girls' talk."
*** A few minutes later, they sat on the top step, looking up at the star-splattered sky. "Almost a full moon," murmured Margaret. Somewhere in the night, an owl hooted. "When I was your age, I could sneak into a house and not get caught." Antoinette fired a match, lighted her cigarette. "Where'd a fancy lady like you learn such tricks?" "Philly." "Philadelphia?" "Yes. Grew up in a subsidized housing development. You know what that is?"
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"Hell, yeah — I mean, yeah." "I grew up with only my mom, too." She could sense the girl was listening — watching. Probably a bit stunned she'd been invited outside for a chat, and doubly stunned she wasn't being chastised. Now wasn't the moment, but soon, Margaret planned to have a heart-to-heart with the girl about her smoking. "What do you want to be when you grow up, Antoinette?" The cigarette flared bright orange as the girl took a drag. She blew out a stream of smoke. "Animal doctor." "I'd like to help you get there." Silence. "How?" Margaret pretended not to hear the girl's cynicism. "Don't know yet. But I want to support you; help you and girls like yourself fulfill their potential." Antoinette flicked her cigarette; shot a look at Margaret. "How you gonna do that and run a finishing school?" "There's not going to be a finishing school to run. I didn't get the job." Two of the St. George board of directors had made a special visit that evening to inspect the house after hearing stories about "vandalization." Margaret had walked them through, explaining that yes, things had broken or stopped working properly these past few weeks, but the girls weren't at fault. The man and woman had just stared at her. Afterward, they'd discussed their concern over reports of "confrontations" and informed Margaret she'd failed the interview. She'd felt bad. Then Antoinette had turned up missing. In the hours during which Margaret sat and worried about the girl, she'd realized that teaching etiquette was only a small part of the picture. That her past uniquely enabled her to help girls who were labeled "at risk." "I'm sorry," murmured Antoinette, stubbing out her cigarette. Margaret started. "For?" "Screwing things up." Margaret put her arm around Antoinette and hugged her close. "You didn't. As difficult as it might be to believe, everything happens for a reason." Words her own mother used to say, but a younger Maggie had scoffed and refused to listen. The older Maggie was a bit wiser, ready to accept that sometimes being resilient was stronger than fighting for what you wanted. Or thought you wanted. The snap of a twig snagged their attention. In the yard, just beyond the circle of light from the porch lamp, stood a gray form. Her heart stuttered. Patrick. "I'm going to bed," Antoinette said, casting a shy look between them. "See you in the morning, Miss Logan." "Call me Margaret —" she paused "— or Maggie." "Cool."
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As the front door clicked shut behind Antoinette, Patrick stepped into the light. Light fell hard on him, deepening the lines in his face, making her wonder if he'd been having trouble sleeping, too. He wore a polo shirt, khaki pants and wing-tip shoes. Dressed up, like a gentleman caller. "I came back because tonight's the last night of your camp and I wanted to say goodbye." He paused. "Overheard your conversation with Antoinette." He took several steps toward her. "You're really something, Maggie." She wasn't an emotional woman, never had been, yet she couldn't have stopped the tears from filling her eyes if she tried. Maggie. She'd had to travel far from home to finally realize that the streetwise, gangly girl wasn't a part of her past to hide, but a part to honor. She stood, started to walk down the few steps to the ground, when suddenly Patrick was there. "I need you," he said hoarsely. He stood on the bottom step, meeting her at eye level. Light from the porch lamp spilled down on them, its silvery edges bleeding into the night. And for the timeless span of a heartbeat, there was nothing in the world but the two of them and the velvet dome of the sky and the knowing in each others' eyes. A secret smile played along his lips. She nodded. Without a word, he took her hand and led her back inside.
Chapter Seven Patrick double-checked Margaret's bedroom door was locked then crossed the room in long strides to where she stood next to her bed. He took a moment to scan her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Then he tunneled his fingers into her hair and gently urged her forward until their lips almost touched. "Finally," he murmured huskily. It was the first word either had spoken since they'd stood outside on the porch stairs. After silently telegraphing their need for each other, they'd scurried up the stairs like two secretive teenagers and slipped into her bedroom, breathless and eager. And now, their breaths mingling, he finally, finally kissed her. Her lips parted and he deepened the kiss, his tongue probing the moist warmth. She tasted like coffee and fruit, hot and sweet. With a guttural moan, he slicked the tip of his tongue along the sensitive underside of her lip, reveling in her gasp of pleasure, before crushing his mouth to hers, possessing her. A jolt of pleasure ricocheted through her and she opened her mouth wider, tangling her tongue with his. A low groan rumbled up from his chest and his arms tightened around her. He pressed his hand against the small of her back, molding her against his arousal. He positioned himself against her aching center just so and thrust once, twice… Two weeks of suppressed desire exploded.
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Gulping air, she pulled back and tugged off her top, unzipped her skirt and wriggled it off her hips. He yanked off his shirt, damn near ripped off his pants. She kicked off her sandals, he his shoes. When she started to unclasp her bra, he grabbed her hands. "We need to…slow…down," he said between pants. Realizing their near-desperate urgency, they started laughing. "Shhh." Margaret pressed her forefinger to his lips. "The girls." He kissed her finger. "Good thing they're downstairs, at the other end of the house." "We still need to be quiet." He winked. "I can if you can." His cocky grin faded as his gaze grew heated, traveled over her body. "Take off your bra," he murmured. With suddenly trembling fingers, she undid the clasp and removed the lacy, pink item. "Beautiful," he murmured, tracing a fingertip around a pebbled nipple. She gasped, her skin burning where his fingers had touched. He gestured that her panties were next. She slipped them off, nudged them aside with her foot and stood naked in front of him. "You're…so…beautiful," he whispered. He'd seen naked women before, but with Maggie, it was as though no one else had ever existed. With her, he was rediscovering the wonder — and fire — of passion, as though it were the very first time. The first kiss. The first touch. The first time he'd ever been in love. It was now, with Maggie. And intuitively, he knew it would always be Maggie. Rocked with sudden emotion, he slipped off his briefs and gathered her silky warmth into his arms.
*** Margaret melted into Patrick, wanting to memorize every moment. How he smelled of summer, how it felt to drink in the hot taste of him, how his body was a wonder of strength and tenderness. She wanted to always remember the night they became lovers. Eventually, they eased onto the bed, a tangle of limbs. His hands, rough and skilled, explored and stroked and teased her until, aching for release, she opened herself to him. He positioned himself over her, his smoldering blue eyes meeting hers. "Maggie…" "Yes?"
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He didn't answer. Instead, he eased his hardened arousal into her, smothering her cries of pleasure with his kisses as they tumbled off the edge of the world.
*** Margaret wasn't sure what awakened her. She blinked open her eyes, gradually aware that a man's arm lay draped across her chest, the two of them naked under a light blanket. Patrick. She smiled sleepily, her body thrilling at the memory of their passionate lovemaking. The man was wickedly sensual; too skilled for his own good, and she couldn't wait to tell him so in great detail. She became vaguely aware of the faint, sweet notes of a violin. The tune familiar, so near… Violin? A cold foreboding rinsed through her. Burrowing under the covers, she nudged Patrick. "Hmm?" "Listen," she croaked. After a moment, he bolted upright. The man was a hell of a lot braver than her. She'd stay here huddled underneath the blankets with her eyes squeezed shut, thank you. "It's her," he whispered. "You have to see." "I'll pass." "Maggie, I thought you could handle anything." "On the earthly plane, yes. High woo-woo stuff, no." "And you, who didn't believe in ghosts." "I didn't. Now I do. Goodnight." He took her hand, gave it a squeeze. "Trust me." "Like I've never heard that line before." He chuckled softly. "It's safe, I promise. Part of the magic of our first night, Maggie. Something we'll always remember." Always remember. The man was a dog to tug at her sentiment like that. But, to be honest with herself, she'd always wonder what she'd missed. Slowly, she inched into a sitting position, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her breath caught. Across the room, a vapory form was taking shape.
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"D-do you see…?" she whispered. "Yes." The form — forms actually — materialized fully. It was the woman she'd seen lying on the settee in the dining room last week. Porcelain skin, red lips that matched the gleaming curls piled on her head, her curvaceous body encased in a blue gown whose hem was trimmed with fur. She was cranking an old Victrola, nodding in time to the music. Finally, she stopped and turned to face them. "Good evening," she said, picking up a black lace fan. The violin played in the background. "Lillie," Patrick said, "how are you?" Good grief. He's socializing with a ghost. "Not so bad," she said, "considering." Her violet eyes twinkled. "You?" "Never better." Lillie laughed softly, an infectious sound that made Margaret smile despite her semi-frozen state. Lillie motioned to the Victrola. "Brahms violin concerto in D major," she said, "my favorite." Margaret prayed the three of them wouldn't spend the rest of the night playing "Name that Tune." Suddenly Lillie gestured with her fan to the ceiling. "Have you noticed it's lower than the other ceilings in the house?" Margaret and Patrick looked up. After a beat, he murmured, "Drop ceiling." With a secret smile, Lillie faded, the notes of the violin lingering in the air.
Chapter Eight Saturday morning, Margaret stood on the porch of Lillie's old house, waving goodbye to another girl and her parents as they drove down the street. It was the end of etiquette camp, a two-week period that had profoundly changed Margaret's life. It was funny to think back and recall that her sole reason for traveling to Denver had been to land a job, which she'd lost. But, oh, what she'd gained. The trust of a girl — the heart of a man. And, after years of hiding her past as though it were a dirty secret, she'd learned to value her roots. "Goodbye, Maggie." Next to her stood Antoinette and her mother. Mrs. Jackson shook Margaret's hand. "My Antoinette told me she learned so much from you, Miss Logan. Thank you."
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"I learned even more," she said, hugging the girl. When they pulled away, Margaret reminded her, "I'm going to help you fulfill your dreams. That's a promise." As Antoinette and her mother walked down the sidewalk to their car, Margaret blinked back her tears. "You're really something, Maggie." She turned, wiping a corner of her eye. "Oh, Patrick, that girl so reminds me of myself. When I was her age, I was ready to break any rule, fight any fight because I thought the world was against me." Patrick was wiping his hands on a rag, his khaki pants and polo shirt streaked with dirt. "I have a feeling Antoinette is going to face the world differently now. She knows she has an ally. You." He laid the rag on a porch railing. "And I mean to make my promise good." She checked out his dirt-streaked clothes. "Fixing things?" "No." He stepped over to Maggie and kissed the tip of her nose. "I checked out the drop ceiling Lillie showed us last night." A breeze fluttered past, and for a moment Margaret swore she heard the high, sweet notes of a violin. "And?" Patrick cocked a grin. "Remember that chandelier I told you about? It's up there, hidden all these years in that dark, dusty space between the false ceiling and the real one." "Amazing!" She paused. "Wonder why she wanted us to know it's there?" "Because we're special?" Margaret laughed, although a part of her wondered if that wasn't far from the truth. After all, Patrick had told her last night that despite all the documented hauntings in the old house, no one had ever seen Lillie. Or her Victrola — the source of the mysterious music. So, obviously, no one had ever had her point out the drop ceiling with its secret. Patrick took Margaret's hand. "I want to buy this place, Maggie. Restore it. I contacted the gentleman who owns the property and he's interested in selling it." Patrick blew out a nervous breath. "I'm so nervous, I'm shaking." "Nervous to buy it?" "No, to say what I want to say next." He gave her hand a squeeze, emotion shining in his eyes. "I love you, Maggie. Don't go back to Philadelphia. Stay here, with me. Whenever the world feels difficult, you'll have me on your side. I make that promise to you, for the rest of your days." Her heart fluttered in her chest…and sank. "Patrick," she whispered, "I love you, too…" "But?" "But…I need to return to my life in Philadelphia and figure out what I'm doing next. My only business reputation in Denver is as someone who failed. I have no other business contacts here; what kind of work could I get?"
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"You don't have to work." She laughed, mostly from surprise. "And what would I do?" He gestured to the house. "Help me fix it up, raise a family." "I didn't come this far, work this hard, to give up my dreams," she said softly. The pain in Patrick's eyes devastated her. "What dreams? To run an etiquette camp?" She drew a deep breath. "No. To fulfill my potential. I have ideas I want to work on, plans brewing in my head. That's who I am, Patrick." The sudden silence was so edgy and absolute, she heard the drone of a bee nearby. "You said you wanted to be on my side," she said quietly, "yet you don't seem to accept who I fundamentally am." "That's bull —" They stared at each other, shocked by their anger and how far apart they suddenly were. There was nothing more to say. For a long, long moment, they stared into each other's eyes before they turned and departed in separate directions.
*** Lillie stood in the doorway, fanning herself. She understood a woman pursuing a business career; after all, Lillie was quite the business woman in her day. Stacked up more gold than most of the gents in the city of Denver. And she'd have bet that money, too, on Margaret and Patrick spending the rest of their lives together. Which was why, after one hundred and twenty-four years, Lillie had finally divulged the whereabouts of the ring to them! Patrick would undoubtedly find it embedded in the chandelier, but there'd be no Margaret to give it to. Lillie sighed deeply. "For all my talents at matchmaking, I failed with these two." In all the decades she'd been haunting this place, she'd never felt this miserable. And lonely. She missed the girls who'd been her visitors these past few weeks. All the laughter, pranks and camaraderie reminded her a bit of the old days… A thought hit her. Patrick loved this house, would no doubt still make an offer on it. And while he was around, fixing things, she'd plant a few ideas in his head. Things he could suggest to Margaret over their numerous long-distance calls because Lillie had no doubt these two would stay in touch… Smiling to herself, she floated back into the house.
*** Six months later, Patrick stood on the lawn in front of Lillie Tremont's former home and admired the sign he'd just hung over the porch. The purple lettering complemented the crisp plum, gray and white paint job that had taken Patrick and his buddies a solid month to complete. Ever since buying the house five months ago, Patrick had put his heart and soul into restoring it, and his efforts had paid off. From behind, a pair of slim arms circled his waist. "Guess who," whispered a sultry voice. "Lillie?"
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"Very funny." He turned and pulled the woman into his arms, letting his hands drift down to a soft, round tushie that knew how to fill a pair of jeans. "Do I get another guess?" "One more, so make it good." "Mmm…" He ran his hands down her sides. "Feels soft, yet stubborn. Smart, too." "How can you tell?" He lifted her hand, on which sparkled an antique diamond ring. "Because she said 'yes' when I asked her to marry me." He pulled back and stared into Maggie's sparkling green eyes. "Like the sign?" She looked over his shoulder and gasped, then read the words out loud. "School for Extraordinary Girls. Oh, Patrick, it's perfect." After returning to Philadelphia, Margaret had worked at her old job while mulling over ideas for how to help girls like Antoinette. Then, a month later, Patrick called and told her he'd purchased Lillie's place. The calls continued. He'd listen to Margaret's emerging ideas for a non-profit organization that would offer courses like leadership skills and career planning to at-risk teenage girls. He'd pitched in additional ideas (which, he claimed, always came to him in dreams). "Won't Antoinette be surprised at how the place has changed," said Patrick, his arm around Maggie. "Wonder if Lillie knows," she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder. A breeze ruffled the air, carrying the faint, sweet notes of a distant violin…
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Ill Met by Moonlight by C.E. Murphy More than sixty years ago, as she was about to make her Hollywood debut, young starlet Sophia Robinson vanished without a trace. While many speculated about the cause of her disappearance, few could have even guessed what really happened to her. For she is still alive after all these years, clinging to the hope that she may one day be freed from her prison…in a mirror.
Chapter One I'm the thing you think is watching you in the mirror. I can see you all the time — when you brush your hair, when you change your clothes, when you climb into bed with a lover. When moonlight falls on the mirror, I can whisper secrets from the future into your ear. And sometimes, when the time is right, I can step through and rejoin the world for a single day. Sophia turned her back on the mirror frame, leaning against it with a soft sigh. "At least I could," she whispered, putting a trembling flutter into the words, "until my mirror was hidden from the light." That phrase sounded better than until my mirror was put in a closet. It could also more believably be filled with regret and sorrow as she spoke in a voice she'd once nurtured so magazine articles would refer to it as dulcet. They would never do so again: her throat had largely recovered from the screaming some decades ago, but there would always be a rough burr left in her words. Her voice was almost all that had changed. The years had taken no toll on her figure or face, and her wheatblond hair had gotten no longer. She still wore it coiffed, with permanent waves that fell around her shoulders and down her back in a deliberate homage to the great Veronica Lake. The late, great Veronica Lake, Sophia corrected herself. She'd watched the blond siren pass through the valley of death, just as every other giant of her time had. All of them. Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn, Marlene Dietrich — everyone but Sophia Robinson, whose disappearance had been the topic of brief, titillating gossip and speculation, and who had then been forgotten as quickly as any starlet whose first film failed. Ironically, of course, her film hadn't failed at all. It had done spectacularly well, thanks to Sophia's disappearance. It was the stuff of legends. It was the stuff, better yet, of movies. But after a month or two, the topic of conversation at parties on the other side of the mirror ceased to be her, and Hollywood soldiered on, brave and lonely, without its brightest rising star. Sophia tipped her head back against the mirror frame, tracing the fine line of her jaw with her fingertips. Slow, elegant movements, the kind that she'd studied and learned in order to impress upon her public that she was more than just a flash in the pan. She was Sophia Robinson, Movie Star. Her hair brushed along her spine, a soft reminder that the glittering, backless gown she wore was for a premiere party. It was to have been her first great moment in the public eye. She had, as they said, been unavoidably detained. I'm the thing you think is watching you in the mirror, she began again. In sixty-some years, she'd pared down the script to its essentials, leaving it cool and, she thought, ever so slightly dangerous. She would, of course, star in the movie. It was, as it had always been, all about her. The rougher voice she'd acquired would suit a vocal overlay well. It would tell the audience that the woman who spoke those words had been through
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something — been through a certain kind of hell, and came through again, braver, more beautiful, and full of an untouchable light. The woman who spoke those lines would be an icon. Sophia shook her hair over her shoulders again and gave the silent shadowlands a coy, sideways smile, careful to not let it crease deep lines in her still supple skin. Youth was beauty, and beauty was power. She'd been a little girl the first time she'd seen a film starring Greta Garbo, and she'd understood in one glorious moment what youth and beauty could bring a woman. Immortality. "I'm the thing you think is watching you in the mirror," she purred, and for the first time in years, light flooded a rectangle in the plainscape. Sophia lurched around, forgetting elegance and grace, and slapped her hands against her side of the mirror. "Hey!" she bellowed. "Let me out!" A voice from the other side of the mirror said, "Holy shit, look at this."
*** The light was far too bright. Sunlight, its intensity blinding, not moonlight's pale, freeing touch. Sixty years of habit asserted itself and Sophia lifted a hand to her brow, palm out and fingers curled delicately to shade away the worst of the light without forcing her to resort to squinting. The light had a purity she barely remembered, molten gold pouring in without warming her, the mirror's silver backing keeping anything that smacked of life just beyond reach. A figure separated itself out of the astounding light — black and slender, shadow cutting through gold. The block of torso came first, then sunlight winked around shoulder-length hair and gave the figure a head. Finer details, the arms and legs, blurred into visibility an instant later, until a silhouette stood between Sophia and the world outside. "Holy shit," the voice said again, and the figure put his hand on the mirror, fingertips pressing against metal that Sophia knew from experience was cool to the touch, even after long days under stage lights. "Hey, Terry! C'mere and check this out!" "What?" A woman, impatient, appeared in the filtered light, and her presence was enough to change everything. Shadows sprang fully formed into shapes and forms; so much to look at that Sophia suddenly couldn't choose where to look. Sunlight behind the pair flooded in from a picture window so broad and bright Sophia couldn't see its frame. The sun itself flared red even as she watched, half astonished she could still remember what colors looked like. Sunset. She put her hands against the mirror again, matching her fingertips to the man's, and whispered, "Put me in the moonlight." He wouldn't hear her, couldn't, unless the mirror was placed in moonlight, but she whispered it with all her heart, anyway. The tremble in her voice bespoke of desperation and loneliness. That was perfect, she thought; she would have to remember it for her movie. "Right, that's pretty damned cool," the woman — Terry! What a ridiculous name for a woman — agreed. She was pretty, in a pixieish way, with short cropped brown hair and wide green eyes, but her shoulders were much too broad. She would never be a Hollywood glamour puss. Sophia indulged in a disdainful sniff and turned her attention back to the man, who flashed a grin over his shoulder at the ill-named Terry. His hair was as ridiculous as the woman's name. Shoulder-length and wavy, practically feminine, though the still grinning face he turned back to the mirror was strong-jawed and indisputably masculine. He had dark eyes and a sensual mouth, the sort that every leading lady hoped her leading man would possess. Sophia leaned against the glass, lower lip caught winsomely in her teeth as she studied his mouth. If something could be done about his hair, he just might do. It would help, of course, if he Was Somebody, but the eerie story of her life would bring in the fans even if her hero was an unknown.
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"What do you think?" he asked. "Center stage behind us? C'mon, give me a hand with it." He moved to the side, wrapping beautifully shaped fingers around the mirror's frame. Terry groaned and came forward. "How do I end up being the one helping with the heavy lifting?" "You're always around. Ready? One, two, three —!" They hefted and Sophia leaned forward, pressed against the inside of the mirror as they staggered out of the closet bearing her prison. Hard glass turned to the viscosity of quicksilver. Sophia tumbled forward with a shriek, wincing even as the raucous tone escaped her throat. Dulcet, my dear, dulcet. The reminder, spoken in a man's voice in her memory, scolded her even as she somersaulted across a marble floor. She landed entangled in her skirts, hands spread before her face, fingers open so she might look through them with an ingénue's wide-eyed distress. The man lurched forward, trying to catch her, leaving the mirror's weight largely in Terry's hands. Sophia's distress turned sharply real, panic sending a cold knife through her belly. "Don't drop it!"
Chapter Two "Holy Jesus — what the —?!" Nonsensical curses burst from both Terry and the nameless man, the latter wrenching himself back to re-catch the mirror's weight. While he couldn’t articulate it, his question was obvious: Who was this woman…and how had she just fallen from a mirror? They both stumbled, then set the mirror against the floor with a resounding clang, letting its weight pull it forward so they could rest it facedown on the floor. "No!" Sophia surged from her faint, deftly rolling her hip under so she might support herself on one hand, the other stretched forward in desperate supplication. "The surface must face the sky!" Oh, yes, she thought: that would do nicely, as well. She cast a searching glance upward, as if the stars might provide the answer she sought. Not the stars, but rather the moon. In defiance of the still blazing sunset, its pale form shone through skylights as encompassing as the picture windows that surrounded the room. Sophia brought her outstretched hand back in, delicately resting it against her breastbone as she breathed, "It's Halloween," in understanding. Halloween, the anniversary of her entrapment, and even more, the night the dead could walk among the living. Sophia wasn't precisely dead — but it had been decades since she had been one of the living. She brought her gaze back down to the mirror, for a moment ignoring the bewildered pair who propped it up in favor of studying the reflective surface that had become both prison and preserver. Its ornate gilt frame hid secrets she'd learned to unlock. Even now she could see the crimson incantations written into the intricate swirls and whorls, and found herself mouthing them despite knowing the dangers. It had been a prop in the single film she'd made, but there had been whispers that it'd been spirited out of Germany, even as Hitler's Nazis had searched for it to add to the Kaiser's own occult collection. The Occult. Sophia pressed her eyelashes shut, feeling them flutter against her cheeks. "I remember…" The words drifted out in a whisper and she gave a tiny shudder. You ought not trifle with such things, Sophia. They're dangerous and beyond your knowledge. Her director, Jeremy Claussen, had warned her time and again. These are dangerous days to express interest in things beyond this world. Be careful, my darling Sophia. Be cautious. He had been so many things that a young woman wanted. Handsome, in a hawkish, dangerous way, his appeal from his presence as much as his looks. And, yes, mysterious: how could she resist eyes that
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glittered so knowingly about dark secrets? She had been drawn in, and in, and in, until she awakened one day trapped like a fly in amber. Sophia shivered, opening her eyes to look beyond the mirror and her erstwhile rescuers. A familiar ballroom spread out around her, enormous picture windows overlooking Los Angeles. She had begun her entrapment in the mirror in this very room, one room among dozens in the mansion that had belonged to Jeremy Claussen. It was perfect, she thought again: though the mirror had been moved many times during her captivity, she had come back to where she'd started. When she had been trapped, the room had been set for the premiere party for her movie. Now, decades later, a stage was assembled against the windows at one end of the room, clear preparation for a performance of some kind. Sophia drew in a shaking breath, reveling in the warm scent of old dust, and finally heard Terry's voice, rising with protestation. "Alan, is this some kind of insane practical joke?" "Ter, I'm not cool enough to come up with something like this. Help me put it down." "Please." Sophia's voice was a trembling whisper again. "Put it down face up. As soon as the moonlight no longer touches it, I'll be pulled back in." She lifted her eyes, beseeching, to meet Alan's. Blackness ensnared him, thin wisps of darkness whipping out of the sunset to wrap him in their embrace. He gave no notice, smiling at her with open fascination as he and the woman gently set the mirror on the floor, its surface reflecting the distant moon. Sophia's vision tunneled, spirits darting and dancing around Alan. Spirits, but not the dead: Sophia knew them well after sixty years on the mirror's cold side, and these were specters of life and the future. Alan's future. A thousand reflections of him, toned with sepia and leaping in the narrow field that Sophia could still see. It was the mirror's gift, the exchange given for holding her hostage behind it for decades on end: precognition. It had not at all been the gift she sought when she crossed through the looking glass, but at least it had given her something in return. More than something, Sophia Robinson, she whispered to herself. Death has passed you by. But it would not pass Alan. A schism lay before him, a deep void that on one side held a world Sophia both could barely recognize and at the same time knew and coveted in a place beyond words. Brilliant lights shone down on him and swept over a crowd of unimaginable size. They raised their hands, holding fire and swirling sticks of neon into the air, and they screamed his name. Terry, with her pixie-cut hair and a guitar, stood behind him, one of four who supported Alan as he sang. All of them filled with passion so bright it burned in their smiles and in the way they threw themselves around the stage. Variations played on that future as quickly as the music Alan made changed, but all of them were lifetimes of glory, and lasted beyond the mere span of years a man could claim. And the other side of that chasm was as unrecognizable and as easily known as its antithesis. Weak lights and a noisy bar, beer bottles thrown at the cage surrounding the band. Alan's long hair no longer healthy and styled, but lanky with grease, and the light in his eyes burned out. Only Terry was still with him, from the band Sophia had seen in the first vision, and she was as weak and haggard as Alan. Passion no longer drove them — not even desperation. It was habit, bleak and dulled with time. Those futures shattered into darker and darker places, drugs and drink and a life that had ended years ago, without the body catching on. Sophia's breath caught and she pressed her fingertips to her lips. Alan and Terry finished putting the mirror on the floor and he turned, still in a crouch, to give her a smile filled with fascination and confusion. Even his question, "What the hell is going on here?" seemed to hold no rejection, but rather the impulse to delve into Sophia's story and learn the answers. He put his hands on his thighs and stood, stepping toward her and offering a gallant hand. Oh, yes. He would do. He would do perfectly. He Was Somebody, or would be, just as Sophia had hoped. A hero to star in her story — strong, silent and stalwart. Together they would rise out of the obscurity of garage
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bands — the phrase filtered up from her consciousness, a term learned while the mirror had been in a television room during the MTV years — and B-films, making the bright future she'd seen for him come true. "Sophia." She put her hand into Alan's. “Sophia Robinson." He drew her up, bringing her in close with his warm grip, and slipped a hand into the small of her back to steady her. She smiled through her lashes, feeling outrage pour off Terry as Alan's smile deepened. She whispered, "Sophia," like it was a gift, and his smile turned fatuous. "Jesus Christ, Alan," Terry said, voice strained with a combination of disbelief and confidence. "That's the chick who disappeared from a film set in, like, 1942."
Chapter Three "An actress who disappeared in 1942?" Alan brought Sophia up against him even as he glanced toward Terry. "That's impossible. Besides, how do you know?" "She just fell out of a mirror and you're telling me it's impossible?" Terry demanded. "Haven't you ever watched any of your grandpa's movies? It's her. She disappeared the night the movie opened. It was a big scandal. For about five minutes," she added pointedly. "She's right," Sophia cooed, ignoring the dig. She could afford that, with Alan's arms around her. She tilted her head up, pressing herself against his chest. "I was the star of The Maiden in the Mirror. I've been trapped in the mirror all this time, by —" Her head snapped around, gaze suddenly fixed hard on Terry as the woman's words caught up to her. "His grandfather? Jeremy Claussen?" "Yea-aah." Terry accompanied the drawn-out word with a head waggle. "Alan, she's simpering on you. Ew." Sophia fought the impulse to thrust Alan away, though she could see the drama of the gesture in her mind's eye: the dark-haired hero at arm's length, the heroine's fingertips outstretched, barely touching his chest — quivering with rejection that was only meant to be denied as he caught her in his arms again and crushed her against him. It would be a wonderful moment in the film. But in a film he would have direction to return to her, whereas if she pushed him away violently in real life he might become more aware of Terry's objections. Sophia clung to him, atremble in his arms, and whispered, "Then you may be the only one who can break the spell that holds me." "Spell? Like magic?" Alan laughed. "There's no such thing." Sophia arched a rounded eyebrow at the mirror, then looked back up at Alan, who twisted his mouth in acknowledgement. "Okay. It's totally impossible, but okay." He set her back a few centimeters, looking down at her. "How the hell did you get trapped in a mirror?" Sophia trailed her fingers down Alan's chest. "You have magic in your blood, Alan. Whether you know it or not." "Oh, for God's sake," Terry said. "Alan, you're not falling for this, are you?" Alan blinked at her, a sheepish grin starting to form. Sophie set her teeth together, abandoning theatrics for direct action. "Jeremy Claussen asked me to marry him the night the film opened and when I said no, he trapped me in the mirror so no one would ever have me. I've been stuck there for — what year is it?" "Two thousand five," Alan said. "God." For a moment the vapors Sophia suffered from were real. "For sixty-three years. I can be heard when moonlight falls on the mirror, and I can be free of it on Halloween — the same night I was trapped — but only while the moon is reflected in the glass. If you're Jeremy's grandson, you really are my only hope."
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"Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi," Terry muttered. Alan shot her a glare over Sophia's head, sending a quick thrill of triumph through the starlet. "What do you want me to do, Teresa? Turn my back on her?" "How about we put the mirror up on the roof where the moon'll be on it all night, and then get ready for our gig?" Terry demanded. "You remember the gig? Biggest break yet? Make-or-break moment? Any of that ring a bell? Cinderella here can join the party and we'll see if we can figure out how to keep her from turning into a pumpkin after the gig." "You're a mercenary bitch, Terry." Alan said the words easily, as if they were oft-repeated, but there was a coolness to them that Sophia sensed wasn't usually there. Cords stood out in Terry's throat. "Fine." Her voice was thready with hurt. "The guys and I will set up. You have a good time with your fairytale girlfriend, Alan. Try to get your head in the game to perform, though, huh? The rest of us kind of need you." She turned on her heel and stalked away, hissing, "At least for tonight," under her breath. "I'm sorry." Sophia gave Alan her most sincere, sad-eyed smile. "I didn't mean to cause you and your girlfriend distress. Maybe you should just —" She drew a quavering breath. "Just forget about me, and go on. I'll be fine," she added bravely. "Girlfriend? Terry? No way, it's not like that." Images cascaded through Sophia's vision, the breach of Alan's future. Some of the brighter possibilities faded away, leaving cold nights and too much alcohol raining down in their place. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, and Alan stepped forward to put his hands on her shoulders. "It'll be all right," he promised. "How did this happen? I'm sure we can find a way to undo it." The urge to slip into drama, to turn away and whisper, hopelessly, "You wouldn't believe me," siphoned through her. Alan would capture her in his arms and promise that no matter how terrible it was, how unlikely, he would believe her — but no: it could be saved for the movie of her life. In sixty-three years there'd been no chance at freedom like this one, and the minutes were too precious to waste in pageantry. Besides, such protestations might send her dark-eyed hero back to his own pixielike lead guitarist, and that would never do. "The mirror spoke to me," Sophie said instead, abruptly. "During filming." She stepped away from Alan, crouching to put her fingers against the mirror's heavy frame. "Every time I looked at it, it promised me my reflection would always be the same. Eternally young, always beautiful. It was like a prophecy whispered in my ear." Sophia laughed — a soft humorless sound as she watched her image in the mirror. "And it was." She traced the ornate border, not quite touching the faint red lines deep in the heart of gold. "It told me how to read the grimoire in the frame, and said that if I spoke them on Halloween night, under the light of the moon shining on the mirror, I would be able to pass into the land of the deceased and bargain for eternity with the Lord of the Dead." "And you believed it?" Alan's voice was strangled. Sophia looked over her shoulder at him, arranging her skirt to fall more artfully against the floor. "I was young, and vain, and brash." Confessing the sins went against her nature. A film star was meant to be mysterious and remote, not brutally honest about her flaws. She smiled, feeling an ache of years in the expression, making it far more real she was accustomed to presenting. "And the mirror was talking to me," she added quietly. "That made it easy to believe. "I thought the night of the premiere, of all nights, I was at the height of my perfection. The mirror was here, at Jeremy's mansion, part of the decorations for the party afterward. I slipped away early to come read the
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spell, and Jeremy — your grandfather — joined me just after I'd completed it. He proposed, and I — I ran into the mirror. When I turned back, his face was full of darkness, and he was shouting. There was a flash, and when it faded…I was forever captured." Sophia lifted her chin, eyes moist with tears. Alan stepped forward to offer her a hand up again, and she slipped her fingers into his, smiling gratefully. She drew a shuddering breath to speak. Metal crashed against stone, shrieks of sound that drowned out anything Sophia might say. Cursing erupted. Alan swore, dropped her hand, and bolted from the room.
Chapter Four "Don't panic! Nothing's broken. Holy Christ, mate." A burly bald man appeared in the ballroom doorway, hands lifted in supplication, though they dropped as he saw Sophia. "I thought nobody was here yet." "Nobody was," Terry said from behind him. "She fell out of the mirror." "Right. Alan, give us a hand here, mate. You can flirt with your bird later." The big man jerked a thumb over his shoulder and disappeared back out the door. Alan shot Sophia an apologetic look and ran after him, leaving her alone and stunned. White light shattered through her vision, the intense heat of spotlights warming her skin. The adoring crowds were spread before her again, this time as if she stood on the stage beside Alan herself. She could hear his name chanted, lifting him to the skies as if he were a god, and then the brilliance faded. Sophia pressed her lips out, aware it made her look like a duck, but allowing herself to revel in the unattractive expression for just a moment before she squared her shoulders and marched after the men. Equipment she could only recognize as industry-related littered the marble-floored mansion lobby she entered. Lights, enormous black boxes, musical instruments — she cast an overwhelmed gaze around at them before flexing her arms, reminiscent of an early Rosie the Riveter, and smiled at Alan. "Well, I'm here. I might as well help out." "In that outfit?" the bald man asked dubiously. Sophia glanced down at her chiffon gown, then spread her fingers dismissively. "Never mind that. It'll be fine." She put pluckiness into her voice, a don't you mind me Pollyannaism meant to make the menfolk insist she sit down and be decorative. "Okay. Help Terry with the speakers." Sophia blinked, completely taken aback as the large man turned to his own task. Terry gave her a sharp, knowing grin and lifted an eyebrow in challenge. Sophia narrowed her eyes and rose to the occasion, clicking across the marble floor in her heels to lend a hand. Within moments, her hair fell out of its permanent waves, sweat sticking it to her forehead as she put herself to utterly unaccustomed physical labor. To her surprise, she found herself enjoying hefting speakers, even when she knocked herself on the chin with one. For a few minutes there was camaraderie in doing heavy work, and Terry's smile turned briefly approving. Sophia returned it, fully aware she'd been out-played. Before either could acknowledge it aloud, the bald man dragged a dolly into the ballroom after him, narrowly missing the mirror. Sophia gasped in horror, leaping forward in rescue as he did an awkward dance around it. "Why's there a mirror in the middle of the fecking floor?!" "It's Sophia's," Alan mumbled. "Look, Terry, maybe you were right. We should put it on the roof."
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"You want to put a mirror on the roof," the big man said. Sophia found herself exchanging glances with Terry and Alan, none of them quite willing to explain. "Please," Sophia said after a moment, and the big man sighed. "Have it your way, then. Alan, grab the other side." They lifted the mirror, turning its face away from the skylights. Sophia yelped and slid inside.
*** She exited on the roof with considerably more dignity than her first appearance. Alan waited for her, grinning lopsidedly. "Rick bolted. He's kind of freaked out now." Something happened to his smile, making it more wistful. "You really did come from the mirror." Sophia sighed and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. It had reverted to its former perfection the moment she was caught in the mirror again, as had the dress. Beauty in stasis, she thought. The price of immortality. "Yes. And you're the only one who can help me break the spell." "The way you say that makes it sound like a fairy tale." Alan offered his hand. Sophia took it delicately, gathering her skirts as she stepped forward. "I hope so. Fairy tales have happy endings." That would make another fine line. Spoken with sadness and regret, as if her belief in fairy tales had died long ago. Sophia looked across the rooftop at Los Angeles, so much busier and brighter in the early stages of evening than she remembered, and thought the sorrow wouldn't take much acting. "So what am I supposed to do?" Alan drew her closer, smiling. "Does true love's first kiss awaken the princess in the mirror?" Sophia softened, turning a limpid gaze back up to the dark-haired musician. Stars in her eyes, she whispered, "We can only see," and let her lashes tangle together. Premonition, the mirror's gift, crashed into her again. Demons scoured her eyelids, black and red streaks of shaking death, as if a movie camera were being yanked back and forth violently. Alan's face appeared in the discolored streaks, gaunt, haggard, his eyes bloodshot. The hands he lifted to cover his face with were all bone, and shook with effort. Sophia jolted back, breaking the kiss before it began, and stared wide-eyed up at the startled man who held her. "Let's…" Her eyebrows drew down, a perfect tiny frown making a wrinkle between them. "Let's go back downstairs. They — they'll need you." "Okay." Alan's own frown was deeper, more confused, but he stepped back and led Sophia across the rooftop, their fingertips still tangled together as she struggled to erase the line that creased her brow.
*** Being useful was slightly better than being ignored. Sophia plugged things in where she was told, and climbed a ladder despite her skirts to adjust a spotlight's fall. The room below was both so familiar and so alien she hesitated there a few moments, watching the band setting up. Sunlight had faded, leaving electric lights blazing, cutting out the view of the city beyond the windows. The last time she'd seen the room so clearly was the night of the premiere; since then, she had been shifted from one room in the mansion to another. She thought it'd been sold — Jeremy Claussen hadn't been there in
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decades, and new people had come in and out through the years. But now a Claussen was in the house again. Sophia found herself watching Alan, trying to see the grandfather in the grandson. Jeremy's intensity seemed to have faded into a lower-key charisma of potential smoldering glances and sly smiles. "Cute, isn't he?" Sophia tightened her hands around the ladder to keep herself from falling, looking down at Teresa, whose gaze was very deliberately on Alan. "Kind of a space cadet, but he's cute," she went on. "A real romantic, too." "The kind to be besotted with women caught in mirrors?" Sophia asked. Terry's mouth thinned. "I just don't want him to get hurt." "I don't want to hurt him," Sophia answered. "I only want out of the mirror." She paused. "How did you know who I was, Teresa?" "I watched all of the old man's films when Alan and I got together." Terry shot Sophia a look and amended, "When the band got together," through her teeth. "I thought being up on family history —" She broke off, knowing she'd betrayed herself twice, and went on tightly. "The point is I saw your movie and checked out IMDB to see what else you'd been in." "IMDB?" Teresa cast another glance at her. "Never mind. Anyway, I found out it was just the one movie, and I read all the stories about you disappearing. I thought it was kind of cool, but Alan's not into old movies, and Mr. Claussen won't talk about it." "Mister — he's still alive?" Sophia took two steps down the ladder, clutching a rung with white-knuckled fingers. "Jeremy Claussen still lives?"
Chapter Five Sophia's heart hammered in her throat, making her too dizzy to dare stepping further into the ballroom. Her every breath seemed too short, the fingers of one hand fluttering at the hollow of her throat. "The man who trapped me in that mirror is still alive?" "Sure," Terry said, oblivious to the impact of her words. "He's ancient, but he's still alive." She shrugged. "Maybe when he kicks off, it'll break the spell you're under." She curled a lip and shoved her hands into her jeans pockets, destroying her pixie-ish projection. "Spell. Man. That's just not cool. I mean, you see a lot of weird shit when you're playing small concert halls and venues, but magic just isn't part of the gig." "Are you certain?" Sophie breathed. Her focus was on Alan, but she looked beyond the young musician, seeing his grandfather's angry face as she rejected him and ran for safety inside a mirror whose gateway had been opened through the reading of the spell worked into its frame. "You live in Hollywood," she went on, still softly. "Wouldn't it make sense, sometimes, if some of the things you saw here were simply…magic?" "Are you serious?" Sophia finally dared unlock her fingers from around the ladder rung and climbed all the way down to the ballroom floor. The spotlight she'd adjusted fell perfectly on center stage now, where Alan would be performing. She stopped shoulder-to-shoulder with Terry, finding herself equal in height to her. "After six
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decades trapped in a mirror, do you think I'd joke about magic?" The line delivered, she brushed by curtly, chin lifted.
*** The script had failed her. Sophia stood against a window in the round ballroom, not quite letting her shoulder press against the cool glass. Her fingers were gathered in her skirt, body turned away from the business behind her; it would make her look frail and waifish to anyone who glanced her way. A lost soul, in need of saving. In sixty years of rehearsing and repeating, she had never clearly envisioned how it was her dark-eyed hero would rescue her from the glass. It would be — and she lifted her hand in a delicate flutter — magic. The same magic that had trapped her, incantations read beneath the light of the moon, but she'd never had the chance to teach anyone to read the frame's grimoire as she'd been taught. Perhaps she'd expected her hero to simply know what to do: that was how it worked in the movies. There were no questions, no uncertainties, only a preordained happy ending, the curtains closing on a kiss. And that was all the stuff of dreams. Sophie curled her fingers against her breastbone, a soft clutching motion as if she caught sorrow and held it still. She had wanted the mirror's magic to be true, had thrown herself into studying what it offered. She had dared the realm of the dead for an eternal future, and had come to believe in a quiet magic that lay beneath the surface of the everyday world. Alan, for all his heritage, had no reason to believe in that magic himself. "Figure it out yet?" His voice, a smooth warm tenor, startled her. Sophia's fingers tightened at her breastbone before she lifted her head and turned gracefully, offering a smile to the leader of the band. He stepped closer, his body heat warming her after her sojourn by the window. "You're done setting up?" she asked, rather than answer his question. Alan shrugged a glance over his shoulder. "They can handle the rest without me. I want to help you. What can I do?" Sophia smiled without humor and turned her gaze back out the window. Her reflection was mussed, delicate tendrils making ringlets at her temples. They highlighted her heart-shaped face and full mouth, and for a brief moment Sophia wished she could wear her hair that way, with a nod toward the twenty-first century world she found herself in for a few hours. "I suppose you could telephone your grandfather and ask him to come over here and break the spell." Alan chuckled, a quiet sound. "Grandfather hasn't been near this place in sixty years. He met my grandmother here." He broke off, frowning at Sophia. "The night of the premiere for The Maiden in the Mirror, in fact. She used to tell me about it." Sophie looked back at him, catching the line of her cheekbone in the reflection as she did so. Fragile, delicate, ethereal: another excellent shot. "Who was she?" "Her name was Lorena Quinn. She did a lot of movies with Grandfather in the '40s and early '50s, before they got divorced." Sophia's eyebrows drew down. "I didn't know her. Why was she at the premiere?" Alan flashed a grin. "Isn't that what people do, turn up at premieres for the party? She used to tell me she was new in town just that day. Grandfather said once she was really old-fashioned." A trickle of familiarity slid down Sophia's throat and she put her hand against the window. "Old-fashioned?"
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"Yeah, like she'd walked out of the nineteenth century. He said she wore her hair in one of those pompadour things." He made a vague round gesture around his head. Sophia's eyebrows rose. "A Gibson girl?" Alan snapped his fingers. "Gibson girl, that's it. Grandfather said that was what caught his eye about her in the first place." Sophia wet her bottom lip, drawing it into her mouth. "Do you have a picture of her?" "Sure, I carry one around all the time." Alan pulled his chin in, one eyebrow shooting up with playful sarcasm. "Doesn't everybody haul around pictures of their grandparents?" "Of course not." Sophia felt her shoulders drop and gave a little sigh, turning her gaze down. "It was a silly question." "Look, hey." Alan touched her shoulder apologetically, then wheeled on his heel to call, "Hey, Rick, you got your laptop? Can you get a signal up here?" The burly man looked up with a flinch, eyes skittering off Sophia. "It's in the foyer, mate. All set up." Alan slipped his hand down to Sophia's. "Come on. I can get a picture."
*** "This is the Internet Movie Database." Alan crouched in front of Rick's laptop, which was, unexpectedly, a flat box with a screen and keyboard. Sophia touched the screen. "IMDB. Teresa told me about it. She said I was in it." "Yeah, I'll pull you up in a second, but…here." The screen changed again, bringing up a page with the name Lorena Quinn printed in bold letters, and a photograph of an austere, dark-haired woman who looked not in the least old-fashioned. She was broad-cheeked with handsome eyes and a proud expression. She would be well-cast as a villainess, Sophia thought. "I don't know her." She shook her head. "I don't know why I thought I might." Alan heard the discouragement and gave her a regretful smile that was temporarily banished by hope. "Maybe this'll help. There are a couple of film clips linked in." He clicked on an underlined set of words and the screen changed again, becoming a shot from a film. The dark-haired woman flowed into action, hurrying across a set to catch a man's arm. "Donald, no. You mustn't go. This war — it'll be the death of you. It'll be the death of all of us." Ice shivered over Sophia's arms, recognition making her cold. "Alan, that's the mirror's voice. That's the woman who taught me how to read the grimoire."
Chapter Six Sophia swayed, clutching Alan's shoulder for support. "I'm sure it's her," she whispered. "I listened to that voice for hours, Alan." She watched the movie clip unfurl on the laptop screen, no longer hearing the words the dark-haired beauty on the screen spoke, only the rise and fall of her voice. "How could the mirror be a living, breathing —"
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She caught her breath, stepping back with her hand pressed against the hollow of her throat, eyes wide. "It was a trap. A trap!" Outrage mixed with humiliation in her voice: sixty years a prisoner inside a mirrored shadowland, and never once had it struck her that the gambit to have her enter the mirror's scape might have been trickery. "Sophie." Alan got to his feet, leaving the laptop behind as he gave her an uncomfortable smile. "You can't be serious. That's Lorena Quinn. She's my grandmother. You can't really think she stuck you in a mirror somehow. Look, I'll stick with you and we'll find a way to undo this, but —" He pushed his hair back, the shoulder-length waves settling into place again as if he hadn't touched it. Sophia could see the strength of jaw and the line of brow that Lorena Quinn had lent him across a generation as easily as she could see his grandfather in the shape of his nose and mouth. They had conspired, however unwittingly, to make a moviestar handsome grandchild. A chill swept Sophia again, wrenching away her own thoughts in favor of the mirror's gift: premonition. Premonition and eternity, paired together at the cost of an immortality spent hidden on the wrong side of life, watching it from beyond death's gate. Movie-star handsome. Those were her terms, Sophia's way of seeing the world. Rock-star handsome fought its way into her mind, a by now familiar vista cropping up in her vision. Alan on stage, hands lifted in the air as he grinned and accepted adulation from the masses. But black rain began to fall down around him like acid melting rice paper, until his good looks were streaked with ill health and the weight of poverty. Misery washed off him in waves, sucking everything it touched down with him, until it created a whirlpool of malevolent emotion that seemed to grasp at Sophia's feet, trying to drown her in it. Sophia gasped and staggered back, putting a hand out for a wall to support her. Alan surged forward, catching her around the waist, eyebrows crinkled with concern. "Are you all right? That's the second time you've gone all pale and freaky." "I —" Sophia turned her gaze away, afraid to meet Alan's worried eyes. "I'm all right. You should get ready for your show," she added in a whisper. "I just need some time to think." "Are you sure?" Alan demanded. "You look sick, Sophie. I don't want to leave you alone." Sophia closed her eyes against another onslaught of dark images, ink staining cracks into the marble floor beneath her feet. "I'm sure." She put determination into her voice and dredged up a smile. Not a brave smile, designed to tell her hero that she was terrified and desperate for his reassurance but unwilling to hold him back. She knew that smile, had it in her repertoire, and the leading man would recognize it and refuse to go on his mission. No: Sophia's smile had to be a genuine one, soft and brief. "I'm sure," she murmured again. "Go, Alan." Her smile grew stronger for a moment and she put her hand against his arm. "The show must go on. Do they still say that?" As if despite himself, Alan cracked a wry grin. "Of course they do. Freddie Mercury even wrote a kick-ass song titled that. I'll sing it for you later." His grin faded into anxiety again. "Look, Sophie, if you need anything…." "I know." She put her hand on his arm and smiled again. "Let me just think a while, all right?" "Okay." He touched her chin briefly, like he might steal a kiss, but then turned and jogged back into the ballroom where the evening's performance would be held. A shower of starlight followed him, bright promise for a future that changed every few moments, and that only Sophia could see. She sank back down next to the laptop, hesitantly brushing a finger over the pad Alan had used to navigate. Lorena Quinn's film clip began to play again, and Sophia folded an arm around her own ribs, lifting the other hand to bite her knuckle, a habit she'd deliberately ousted from her quirks as a young woman. There was nothing elegant or movie star about gnawing on her own hands, though even as she noticed it she didn't stop. It was old comfort.
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Old-fashioned, she thought, and played the clip a third time, though she no longer saw it at all. Instead, she saw the script of her own life in a way she'd never envisioned it. The story of another woman captured in a mirror beyond death's door, caught for…decades. Not centuries, despite the inherent drama in the lengthier time span. Sophia closed her eyes, seeing beautiful, youthful Lorena Quinn standing before the gilt-framed mirror, hearing another woman's voice promise her immortality and eternal youth just by reading the spell worked into the heavy frame. That Lorena Quinn would be corseted, with her thick dark hair worn in a Gibson girl pompadour, the sleeves of her dress fashionably puffed. She would be at the height of her beauty and her vanity, things Sophia Robinson knew all too well, and she would chant out the spell under the light of the moon. And find herself trapped forever, as the mirror's voice was finally freed to live her life again, years or decades or even centuries removed from when she'd begun. Sophia lowered her head, eyelashes pressed together against tears. Sixty ageless years of blaming Jeremy Claussen had been time wasted. Worse still, if her one-time director hadn't captured her, then it was unlikely that Alan Claussen, his grandson, would have the power to free her at all. One trap after another, Sophia thought, reveling briefly in bitterness. There was no way out. "Sophie?" Terry — Teresa, pixielike despite her broad shoulders, and the girl Alan said it's not like that about — appeared in the ballroom doorway. "Look, I know it's Halloween and you look pretty much totally in costume to us, but I thought maybe since you'd been stuck in that dress for pretty much forever, you might want to borrow some jeans and a shirt or something and be in costume for yourself. I could do something with your hair," she offered. Sophia lifted her gaze slowly, unshed tears making the light around Terry glitter until she might well have been the pixie Sophia was reminded of. It refracted into spotlights, and the rush of voices cheering filled Sophia's ears as it had with Alan when visions of his future came over her. A future that Sophia saw Terry sharing with him. A future that could be Sophia's own. Sophia pushed to her feet very slowly, focusing on the other woman. "Terry?" She put light curiosity in her voice, like the cat eyeing the cream. "Would you like to learn how to read the mirror's grimoire?"
Chapter Seven Terry laughed, startled and uncomfortable. "You want to teach me magic?" Sophia smiled again, feeling like the milk was curdling. "I don't know very much," she said lightly, "but it seems like a shame to let it disappear back into the mirror." Terry's smile went more strained. "I don't think Alan's going to let that happen anyway, Sophia." She shoved her hands in her pockets and looked away, shrugging. "He's in there jabbering about you like you're a muse or an angel or something." "Then why are you being nice and offering to lend me clothes and do my hair?" The question was too blunt, carrying no refinement, but for an instant Sophia's desire to know overrode her usual flair for drama. Whether Alan thought it was or not, Sophia could see clearly that it was "like that," at least from Terry's side. Teresa gave her a sharp look, then knotted her fists in her pockets. "Because there's no point in rocking the boat. Alan's a rock star, or he's going to be. Rock stars have groupies, not girlfriends. Getting bent out of shape over it just makes me look like the big B."
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"The big B?" Terry sighed. "Bitch. The big bitch. You really are from a different time period, aren't you?" Sophia glanced down at herself, at the backless chiffon gown and the wheat-pale permanent waves that fell over her shoulders, all precisely chosen to make her look like the model of an era now sixty years gone. "What," she said, more to herself than Teresa, "it shows?" The humor of the question was self-deprecating, a wry acknowledgment that would play beautifully to the cameras. The script that played in her mind, the one that had told the story of her life for six decades, knew exactly what lines she should say. They would speak to Terry's vanity, even play into the feelings she obviously had for Alan, and would lead to the pixie-haired woman reading the mirror's spell aloud under the moonlight. A camera would pick up the subtle play of emotions across her face as she, the heroine of her own story, struggled with the choices she had to make. The price of betraying an innocent against the cost of her own freedom. The sorrow of sixty years spent alone with almost no contact with the world beyond the mirror. A thousand thoughts played across her expression inside a moment, and then Sophia drew herself up. She was the heroine, not the villainess, and she put a smile on. "Do you really think you have clothes that would fit me?"
*** Jeans. Sophia had never worn jeans before. Barefoot, she'd proven three inches shorter than the musician, but between Terry ruthlessly shortening the hem and Sophie's curves balancing out Terry's height, the jeans rode a noticeable distance below her belly button, which Terry promised was how they should fit. She also offered a cropped T-shirt that said, in sparkling rhinestones, Movie Star. Sophie found herself torn between horror and delight at wearing it. She had to wear her own shoes. Terry had been astonished at Sophia's tiny feet and hadn't even tried coming up with a pair, but the strappy, sparkly forties sandals, she assured Sophia, were perfect with the outfit. They pulled her hair into a sleek, high ponytail, leaving it otherwise unadorned. When they made their entrance before the performance, Alan said, "Holy sweet shit," which made Terry flash Sophie a grin that was both smug and resigned. That had been hours earlier. There were two opening acts before the main event, and the mansion that Sophia had once known as a Hollywood glamour home seemed to fill that role again — vampires and ghosts, witches and warlocks and an endless variety of other costumed party-goers flooding in the doors to drink and dance and play. An ape wearing a name tag that said "You can call me King" asked what she was, and Sophia shrugged, yelling, "I'm a forties movie star wearing modern-day clothes," in return. The ape gave a thumbs-up and disappeared into the party. Alan appeared at her side to join her for a series of spasmodic dances as the opening bands played, their music piped through the entire house. As they closed, he took her hand to pull her toward the ballroom. "C'mon, you have to watch us play!" Sophia laughed, allowing herself to be dragged through the rooms. This wasn't a movie she was familiar with: it was modern and quick-paced, frenetic instead of deliberate, and to her surprise it was every bit as enjoyable as the more stylized manner of production that she tended to view her life in. Alan left her on the dance floor, making his way up to the stage, where the rest of the band already waited. He had no opening comments, no method of drawing attention to himself or the band. They merely went from silent preparation into sudden pure music, literally stopping the crowd around Sophia with their first notes. Then voices raised in screams and shouts of appreciation and the entire mob surged forward, getting closer to the young gods on stage. Sophia lost track of time and of songs, wholly caught up in dancing and the purity of music as it pounded through the mansion. Even without much knowledge of modern music, she could tell the band was good,
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maybe better than good. A flash of brilliance, spotlights and dreams, washed over her, and she knew they were better than good: the futures she could see told her. Abruptly and for the first time since he'd taken the stage, Alan lifted his hands, leaning into the microphone to speak instead of sing. "All right, y'all listen up now. I've got a friend in town, one night only, and I want her to come up here with us. Sophie? Sophia Robinson, you're the next contestant on the stage of life!" Dismay and excitement swept Sophia as she elbowed her way through the crowd, laughing, and then yelping as she was simply lifted up and passed forward toward the stage. The sheer tactile sensation was overwhelming and thrilling at once, her heart hammering as she trusted strangers to not drop her to the floor. Then she was tilted forward and Alan offered his hand, pulling her on stage. "I can't sing!" Alan laughed. "You don't need to," he promised as he returned to the microphone. "This song's for Sophie," he told the crowd. "I just didn't know it when I wrote it." He stepped back, pulling the microphone free of its stand and raising his hands above his head to clap out a rhythm. Sophia found herself glancing toward Terry, who gave her a brief, tight smile before striking the opening chord. All alone, I walk along an empty shore Friends wave me down, but I'm looking for something more Haunted steps pull me to the sea And all I need is one chance to set me free 'cause we were Ill met by moonlight First kiss, stolen late at night Captured hero, and you, my fairy queen Dreams and dancers with nothing in-between The battle's over, and no one really won The gods are waiting until we know it's done But I can't stop searching for the world I knew The one that started and ended all with you 'cause we were Ill met by moonlight Can't give up, not without a fight And you, Titania, you're my fairy queen Dreams and dancers, with nothing in-between Dreams and dancers, with nothing in-between In Sophie's eyes, black rain fell down around him as he sang.
Chapter Eight “Ill met by moonlight, and you're my fairy queen." Sophia sang the words under her breath, watching behind her eyelids as images of disaster unfolded. Addictions, regrets: a lifetime of sorrows were carried in the lyrics of the song that had been written for her, but the sorrows weren't her own. They were for the musician who had written the song. For Alan Claussen, whom Sophia had thought might be her leading man. Sophia had escaped the stage where he'd sung to her, fully aware of the irony. She, who had spent a lifetime trying to achieve the spotlight and who had cast her lot into a mirror filled with dark magic to obtain immortality and eternal youth, now ran from it. Instead, she ran for the mansion's roof, where the mirror that had been her captor lay in the moonlight, keeping her free for the few hours left in the Halloween night.
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She could still hear the band in the ballroom below, Alan calling out names over the crowd's cheers. One of those names brought with it its own wash of premonitions, centered on Alan, just as the ones involving Sophia herself were. But with this name, rather than black acid trickling over his future, Sophia saw film crackling away in a burst of heat and light. Alan walked out of that brightness, a guitar lifted in one hand as if he stood in the spotlight, grinning as fans screamed their adoration. Half-a-step back, holding his hand and sharing the spotlight while acknowledging him as the leader of the band, came Terry. Teresa, pixie-haired and broad-shouldered, unlike any of the women Sophia had known six decades earlier. She didn't flutter or vamp to get Alan to do what she wanted — simply stood by him regardless of the apparent bumps in the path they walked on together. It was the double-edged sword that being trapped sixty years out of time carried for Sophia: the ability to sense the future. “Dreams and dancers, and nothing in-between.” The mirror with its grimoire worked into the frame responded not at all to the half-vocalized song, but the repetition of the lyric sent a cold wash of darkness through her again. "You got the words wrong." Sophia startled, lifting her head to find Terry standing a few feet away, studying her. "It's, ‘dreams and dancers with nothing in-between.’ What're you doing up here? Alan wanted you to come take a bow." "He's very sweet," Sophia murmured. Terry arched an eyebrow and sat down on the mirror's far side, looping her arms around her knees. "Sweet, huh? What, you decide he was too young for you? I mean, you must be like eighty-five by now, right?" "Only eighty-two." Sophia cast a brief smile at the mirror, reaching out to touch its moonlit surface. "It struck me that I don't know him at all. All I see when I look at him is my leading man." She gave the mirror another faint smile. "The hero in my story. But he isn't." "He'd like to be." Sophia looked across the mirror at Terry, shaking her head. "That would be a mistake. He already has a leading lady, and his own story to tell." Her smile turned quick and wry. "Even if he doesn't know it yet. He will." Terry tilted her head, a wary motion. "Okay, now why are you being nice to me?" Sophia felt her smile become fuller, a real, depth-filled expression that would lead to lines at the corners of her mouth, and let it turn all the way into a grin. "Because you're going to be famous, and I want you to keep playing that song Alan wrote for me." Terry laughed. "Of course. It's all about you. I should have…" She trailed off, laughter reversing itself into a slow frown. “You're not staying. You figured out how to get out of the mirror, didn't you? But you're not staying." Surprised guilt colored Sophia's cheeks, the heat enough that she knew it was visible even in the moonlight. She glanced away, and Terry leaned forward. "You weren't even going to tell us, were you? That's why you're up here. You were just going to vanish again. Poof." "Poof," Sophia agreed quietly, still watching the skyline rather than meet Terry's gaze. "The mirror doesn't just keep me young," she said to the horizon. There was no drama in the delivery, none of the drawn-out tension she felt the moment should hold. Instead it was an admission, sacred as the confessional. "I see glimpses of the future. And I can see that I don't belong here. Not here, not now. I —" she glanced back at
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Teresa, exhaling "— complicate things. For you and Alan, and for your band." She gave Terry a fleeting smile. "I know what it is to want the world on a silver platter. I'm not going to get in the way of you and Alan achieving that." Terry rolled back to sit on her tailbone, absorbing what Sophia said. "On the one hand," she said slowly, "it sounds like you're telling me the band's going to be a huge success, so all I want to do is dance around and yell bonus! On the other…" She pursed her lips, studying Sophia. "You weren't going to say goodbye because…?" Sophia lifted a shoulder and let it fall, a motion that the camera would read as world-weary and resigned. "I thought Alan wouldn't understand." "Alan wouldn't understand what?" he asked from behind her. Sophie lost her world-weary facade and frowned at Terry, who gave her a quick, unapologetic smile. "You disappeared on us," he went on, coming around to crouch beside Sophia. "I thought maybe the moon had set. We don't have a lot of time left to figure out how to get you out of there." "It's all right," Sophia said. "I'd just like you to do one thing, really." She lifted her chin, the brave, tearglimmering look of a woman about to face her worst demons. Terry snorted and Sophia, taken off-guard, broke character with a laugh, then got to her feet, stepping up to the mirror's edge. Alan stood with her, eyebrows drawn down in distress as he took her hands. "Of course. Anything." My dear, Sophia added silently; that was how the line would be scripted. Anything, my dear. She loosened her hands from Alan's and touched his cheek lightly, changing her weight so she could vanish the instant her words were spoken. It would be dramatic that way, she thought in pleasure. Heart-wrenching. The heroine sacrificing herself so that another's true love might conquer all. It was perfect. "Put the mirror somewhere so I'll be able to talk to people on moonlit nights, please," she murmured. An unspoken promise flooded Alan's face as she stepped backward into quicksilver viscosity. The world vanished around her.
*** I'm the thing you think is watching you in the mirror. I can see you all the time. When you brush your hair, when you change your clothes, when you climb into bed with a lover. When moonlight falls on the mirror, I can whisper secrets from the future into your ear. And someday, when the time is right, I'll step through and rejoin the world again for… …ever.
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Asylum Hunter by Erica Orloff Kate Atwood knows the fortress-like grounds and secret passageways of Silver Hills better than anyone. After all, she grew up there before the family estate was sold and turned into a psychiatric hospital. This is why a hypnotically handsome stranger needs Kate's help to get inside the facility. Damian Strauss claims the hospital is a front—the manor is really a haven for the undead, vampires who are locked up by day and let loose to feed at night! And as a dhampir, a vampire hunter, Damian must find a way in—even if it means kidnapping Kate to lead him through the nearly impenetrable maze that leads to the heart of the estate…
Chapter One Kate Atwood tended to the orchids in her greenhouse. She whispered to them in a soothing, absentminded way. She supposed if she were a cat person, she'd chat with her cats—but she was a plant person. A garden architect, Kate had been pressed to finish a series of sketches for a new client in the Hamptons, and she was exhausted. Her specialty was complex mazes comprised of tall Siberian elm, a fast-growing hedge. Mazes could be simple enough, but the client wanted an intricate one with only a single definitive route through it. Kate left the slipper orchids she was tending and wandered over to her bonsai. She clipped a single branch. This was her haven. Suddenly, she felt a cool blast of air. She whirled around to face a tall man in silhouette by the door. "Who are you?" she asked, eyeing her pruning shears, in case she needed a weapon. "I just need a moment of your time, Ms. Atwood," the man said as he stepped into the greenhouse. In the dim light, she saw he was dressed in black, about six feet tall with curly black hair and intensely eerie gray eyes. She backed up, putting her hand on the shears. "I wouldn't do that, Ms. Atwood," he said, his accent vaguely European, perhaps Slavic. Kate uncurled her hand and tried to measure her chances for escape. She cursed herself for never bringing her cell phone into the greenhouse. "What do you want?" she asked accusingly. "Don't worry," he sneered. "My intentions have nothing to do with what's likely crossing your mind right now." He took about five steps toward her. "I want you to get me into Silver Pond." She blinked slowly. Silver Pond. She hadn't heard the name in years. "Why don't you simply march up to the front door?" she asked him. "Why indeed? Why would a psychiatric hospital be locked so tight during the day that not a living soul is seen coming or going? Why would it only appear operational at night?" Katie brushed a stray blond hair from her face. This man was delusional, and she was trapped. "Who knows? I don't see how I can help you." Clearly he needed to be admitted to Silver Pond himself. She'd just have to talk her way out of this. "You don't?" He took a few more steps until he was right in front of her. He smiled, revealing deep craggy dimples, but his eyes were still eerily pale.
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"I haven't been to Silver Pond since I was a girl." Kate thought back to the last time she visited her grandfather. The estate, poised on the rocky Connecticut coast, had been in the family since 1929. Her great-grandfather had built the house with twenty-two bedrooms, eleven fireplaces, a ballroom and, as Kate found out when she was a little girl, enough hidden staircases and secret passageways to play hide-andseek forever. When her grandfather had first inherited it, he had the original maze planted, which only got more and more complex with each passing season of the Siberian elms' growth. Kate knew every turn, every leaf in the maze, a hiding spot from her parents' bitter divorce. But when her grandfather died, and her own father showed no interest in the estate, the family trust had decided it would be best to sell Silver Pond to a private hospital foundation. "That's all right," the stranger said to her. "Not much has changed since you were a little girl. A few padded rooms, a lot more locks and shutters to keep out all light, but the maze, the hidden staircases, the underground passageways…they're all still there." "Look," Kate said soothingly, "I'd like to help you, but …" "I'm not insane." He reached out and brushed another stray hair from her face, his fingertip lingering on her cheek. She stiffened. "If you're not, then let me go." "I'm afraid I can't. We need to go now, Kate." And with one swift movement, he pricked her skin with a needle, and Kate's world went black.
*** Kate woke up in darkness, her mouth dry, head pounding. She was lying on a mossy bed near a tree. Suddenly, she remembered the stranger and in a panic tried to sit up. The sudden movement made her retch. "Rest, Kate," he whispered, his expression one of concern. She scrambled backwards. Was he going to rape and kill her out in the woods somewhere? She looked around, trying to get her bearings. "We're at Silver Pond," he whispered. "My name is Damian Strauss." Looking closely at him, Kate saw he was handsome and his voice was calm—for a kidnapper. "What do you want?" she asked, her own voice raspy. "I told you. I want you to get me into the heart of Silver Pond. And then you can sneak out the same way. I'll give you the keys to my car." He gestured toward the SUV parked nearby. "And you can leave. You can call the police if you want. It won't matter as long as I'm inside." "If you're that desperate to get into the hospital, I'm sure a doctor would be happy to help you." He shook his head. "I'm afraid that Dr. Max Wolfe, who runs Silver Pond, has no interest in admitting anyone except …the undead." "The undead?" She raised one eyebrow. He nodded. "Vampires. It's a haven for them. He locks them up by day. They wake at night to hunt and feed."
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"Hunt and feed?" This guy was clearly over the edge. He looked over at her. "Get me through the maze, and I'll prove it." "Who are you?" "I'm a dhampir." When she looked at him quizzically, he said, "My father was a vampire who attacked my mother. I'm human and vampire. And now, simply put, I hunt the undead." Kate weighed her options. He was clearly disturbed. She could get him inside the gates of Silver Pond and then find a nurse or doctor to help her, a phone. If she didn't cooperate, there was no telling what he would do. "All right. I'll get you through the maze." She stood slowly, still feeling a little woozy. "At the back of the property, there's an iron and stone gate. We always hid a key under a rock nearby. It's probably still there. Come on." She walked along the hedge for some time, Damian following her, until she reached the gate built into the bushes. She knelt down and reached her hand beneath the bush, feeling around for the stone. It was there, smooth and worn, just as she had remembered. She turned it over and felt for the key. "Here," she said, handing it to him. He took the key and unlocked the padlock. He put the key in his pocket. "Now the maze." Creeping stealthily, she led him to one of the maze entrances. Her grandfather's maze was renowned for its size, complexity and the height of the hedges. "Come on," she whispered. She hoped she could eventually take a few shortcuts and rights and lefts, and lose her kidnapper in the maze. She started running and heard him following her. The maze was so much a part of her that she found herself easily following her favorite route. Ducking left and right, then sneaking through a hidden break in the hedges, she soon found herself alone. And then she saw it. On a fourth-floor balcony of Silver Pond. A man, a thing, clutching a woman to his chest. Mouth on her neck. When he had his fill, he dropped her body over the balcony as if it were trash. Kate covered her mouth, feeling as if she would be sick. She turned around, hoping to see the dhampir, because with horror she realized he had told her the truth.
Chapter Two Kate felt tremors pass through her entire body until her very teeth chattered. This was all a nightmare—or at the very least something induced by whatever Damian had injected her with. This couldn't be real. And yet, when she bit the inside of her cheek, she felt pain and then the salty-sweet taste of blood filled her mouth. This was real. She was awake. And she was in grave danger. She rushed back the way she came, hoping to exit the maze and get off the grounds of Silver Pond. She would race down the road and try to flag a passing car. Anything but stay here with a kidnapper and bloodsucking…what? She didn't even know what she was dealing with. Vampires? Impossible. Insane. Racing back through the maze, heart pounding, she rounded a corner and ran right into a creature of the night.
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She heard her own shriek as if from down a long tunnel. "Going somewhere?" the creature asked. He stood at least six foot four, and underneath his crepey, translucent skin, bluish veins pulsed. But Kate didn't focus on his skin, or his eerie, corpse-like eyes. All she could see were his fangs, long incisors that came to a point. She backed away. "Damian!" she screamed, praying he was as he said, and really intended to slay vampires. She cursed herself for losing him in the maze. The vampire took two steps toward her and grabbed her by the waist. "You look quite beautiful in the moonlight," he leered. His grip was crushing her. Kate struggled in his arms, feeling like her ribs were breaking and the life was being squeezed out of her. "Let her go," a voice commanded from behind. The vampire turned, his undead eyes narrowing with hatred. He dropped Kate to the ground with a spinejarring thud, and in two superhuman strides reached Damian. Kate rolled onto her side in pain, and watched Damian pull an immense knife out of its sheath. In one lightning-fast motion, he jammed the knife into the vampire's stomach, and twisted it up to the beast's heart. The vampire collapsed, mouth open, fangs gleaming in the moonlight, eyes fixed upward. "Dead. Again. This time permanently," Damian said wryly. "I…" Kate was out of breath. "I can't believe what I'm seeing." "Believe it, Kate. Though I'm sorry to have brought you here now. I just wanted to get into Silver Pond. I really thought we'd be undetected." He helped her up and put his hand on her arm and squeezed it gently. "I really am sorry." Kate shook her head, fury replacing terror. "You drugged me to get me here!" He stepped closer to her. "I know." He replaced the knife in its sheath. Next to it was a gun. "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't know innocent lives were at stake." "What's wrong with calling the police?" "And what do you propose I tell them?" Damien's mouth twisted slightly into a smirk, She stared at him. "Surely, if they saw what I did tonight, they would believe you." "First, they'd have to get onto the grounds. And to do that, they'd need to believe my claims in the first place. Second, they wouldn't understand how to kill them." Damian turned and kicked at the vampire's body with his boot. "How do you kill them? Seems to me that information would be useful right about now." Kate glared at him as she spoke. "Pierce the heart. Used to be the old wooden stake. Now…more expedient to use the blade. Mine is a Japanese tanto with a carbon steel blade—and a pure silver tip. I coat it with hawthorn oil. Gun has silver bullets—I don't find it kills them, but it does slow them down. Fire's useful. But dragging them out into bright sunlight is most useful of all."
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"You had no right to bring me here." She felt numb, shock spreading through her body. "Come on. Let's get out of the maze, and you can go. Here's the key to my SUV." He handed it to her. She looked up at him, and started walking, if only as a way to do something, to calm herself. They moved through the maze, Siberian elm leaves occasionally brushing up against her face. "Why do you do this alone? Why you?" "Because I see them." "I see them. I saw that one on the roof. The one who hurt me," she said softly, acutely aware of the pain in her ribs. "No, I see them where you don't. I see them on the subways and in the shadows. I see them eyeing the homeless and leering at children. I see them where ordinary people don't. It's the curse of the dhampir." "But still, why? Why be a hunter?" "Because I will avenge my mother." He glanced over at her. "I really am sorry, Kate." Kate tried to focus and attempted to assimilate the night. She took Damien's hand and led him through an arch into a short tunnel. "Turn left here," she whispered. They crouched low as they moved through the tunnel. It was dark, and the leaves were still all around them. "Where are you taking me?" he asked. "Don't you trust me?" she asked in a voice edged with anger and grudging respect. "Ironic, isn't it?" She squeezed his hand tighter as the tunnel grew narrower. Soon, they were forced to crawl as the hedge became more overgrown. "Kate!" He pulled on her hand. "What are we doing?" "Hush." They crawled along, and finally, they were inside a small room. The walls were made of leaves, and when they sat down, their heads almost touched the ceiling of Siberian elm. "What's this?" "My fort. And this," she moved aside the overgrown brush lining the floor to reveal a metal hatch, "is our way into Silver Pond. It's a tunnel into the heart of the house. My grandfather loved surprises and secrets." She smiled at the memories of them eating picnic lunches here in their hiding spot. If he could see what had happened to his beloved estate, he would have been devastated. "Thank you," Damian whispered. "I will kill them all—most especially Max Wolfe. He is evil incarnate." "I'm coming with you," she said resolutely. "That's insane." "I can't forget what I saw here tonight. I can't go back to my hothouse flowers and my old life and not be involved. I'm going in there. More importantly, you need me. I can get you to any room, to anyplace in there, using hidden staircases and false walls." He shook his head, then kissed her forehead. "No, Kate. I was wrong to bring you here. You're sweet— courageous and sweet—to even offer, but no."
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"I'm going." She lifted the hatch and peered down. Blackness greeted them, and, echoing from far off, the sounds of screams. She stared at him. "We have to do it together. Come on. Someone needs us." Without waiting for an answer, she clambered down the metal ladder attached to the tunnel wall. "Damn!" Damian cursed as he followed her into the tunnel.
Chapter Three The tunnel was claustrophobic and darker than any night, any place, Kate had ever experienced. She tried to not let the sheer blackness of it terrify her into turning back. Ahead of her, from somewhere deep in the house, she heard screams. And worse. Kate heard animal-like screeches and grunts. Every part of her, every cell in her body, wanted to turn back. But she thought of the woman on the roof, of Damian's belief that children and the homeless were being targeted, and from deep within, she summoned courage that she didn't even know existed. They walked, their footsteps echoing on the dank stone floor. Something furry ran across the arch of her foot, and she screamed slightly. Damian drew up beside her. "Rats," he said. "I hate rats," she whispered. "I hate vampires more. Come on." He grabbed her hand tightly, and they forged on ahead. At the end of the tunnel, they encountered a stone stairwell leading up to a door. They climbed the steps, hearing scurrying. At the top, Kate reached a hand out to turn the knob—and again touched something furry. She shivered, feeling squeamish. "This will be the second floor," she said to him in the blackness. "Let me go first. And if anything goes wrong, fire this gun," he said, slipping it into her palm. The cold metal felt foreign to her. "And," he whispered, his breath in her ear, making her shiver for another reason entirely, "if at some point it goes even more horribly wrong, don't wait for me. Exit the way we came." "No." Kate's voice was urgent. It was a combination of fear of being in the tunnel without him and admiration for him. She felt his lips brush hers, giving her an electric jolt of fearlessness. "Be a good girl. Just leave this place if it gets crazy in there." She nodded. A scream pierced the silence. Damian grabbed her free hand, the one without the gun, and they opened the door the slightest crack. "We're on the locked ward," he told her. "And? Now what?"
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"Now we find Max Wolfe. And kill anything between us and him." He led her down what was clearly intended as a hospital ward. The rooms were equipped with heavy-duty locks and small windows centered on the doors allowing an attendant to check on the patient inside. Each room was equipped with a bed, and what looked like Velcro and canvas straps. A simple metal chair. A sink. But there, all resemblance to a real hospital ended. Kate felt as if the walls were closing in around her. As they crept down the hall, she could see each room had spattered blood stains, sights and smells she was certain would haunt her forever—if she lived until morning. "Where are they all?" she asked him. "Out in the night. Re-creating hell." They clung to one wall, moving stealthily, and heard a moan coming from one of the rooms. Quickly, Damian urged her along, and they found the room the sound emanated from. A nearly dead victim was splayed on the floor, his throat a bloody mess. Kate half-closed her eyes as Damian knelt by the dying man's side. The victim looked young, perhaps a college student. He sputtered and coughed, blood coming up from his throat. Then there was a final gasp, and his eyes opened wide, fixed on the ceiling. Damian gently shut the lids, crossed himself and stood up. "This place is like Hades itself. Let's search for Max. I think his office is off to the right, in that wing. I guessed this was the hospital wing by the vampire activity I saw at night. But that wing appears to be administrative." "That used to be where my room was. The children's wing. I know it really well. There's a shortcut over in the library at the end of this hall." Running, now, they reached the end of the hall and, sure enough, there was still a library on the right. Kate and Damian walked in, surprising a vampire who was opening the French doors to the balcony. He wheeled around, on hearing them. The vampire hissed and bared his fangs, which were covered in blood. Kate shrank back slightly, horrified. Damian pulled out his tanto and was at the vampire in three strides, waving his blade from side to side. The vampire shot out a hand and grabbed Damian. Kate watched Damian avoid its grasp, but then in the blink of an eye, as if in some sort of fast-forward, the vampire spun and delivered a vicious kick to Damian's stomach, knocking him against a wall. Damian bent over, struggling to find his wind again. Now the vampire turned to her, grinned lasciviously, yet with a dead-eyed coldness. He was suddenly in front of her, as if he had just flown across the room. Kate raised the gun and fired, just as Damian had told her. The bullet pierced the vampire and it shrank back, hissing, nearly falling to the ground. Then it screeched like some kind of rabid animal. Kate's bullet bought Damian just enough time. He regained his breath and stood over the vampire and plunged his blade into its chest cavity, killing it. "We've got to move quickly, Kate. They have to know we're here." Kate took him to a panel in the library's rich walnut wood wall. She lifted the crown molding precisely to reveal a hidden passageway. "After you," she said. The passageway was as dark as the tunnel—only not as dank and damp. "No rats," Damian offered. "I suppose, on a night like this, I should be grateful for small favors."
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At the end of this passageway was a half door. "This used to be the children's nursery," she told him. They quietly opened the door and entered an empty office, which was lavish and decorated with antiques. "Ol' Max has done well for himself," Damian mused. He walked over to a painting on the wall. "This is an original Goya. And that," he pointed at a vase on a shelf, "looks like Ming dynasty." "How do you know so much about art?" "The vampires." She narrowed her eyes questioningly. "They plunder as they go through their existences. A lot of them amass wealth. None of them fully appreciate beauty, but the money buys them security." "Look." Kate nodded toward a filing cabinet. "Maybe you can find some information in there." Damian moved over to the cabinet. Above it hung a large portrait of Wolfe himself. "There's the bastard," he said, looking up at the oil painting. Kate stared at it. "Evil incarnate." Damian nodded and opened the metal cabinet and began rifling through the files. Kate strode over to Dr. Max Wolfe's desk. "Oh my God, Damian," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "What?" He turned from the cabinet to face her. "This picture." She lifted a five by seven in a silver frame. "This is Max Wolfe." She pointed at a smiling man in the frame who looked just like the portrait on the wall. "And this man," she pointed at the man next to him, the one Max's arm was slung around in a gesture of friendship, "is my grandfather." "No!" Damian said hoarsely. Kate heard a noise behind her and turned. Then she dropped the picture frame to the floor, shattering the glass.
Chapter Four "Dr. Wolfe," Damian said wryly. "How nice of you to join us. Isn't the gun a bit of overkill when you've got hordes of blood-sucking vampires at your beck and call?" Kate stared at Max Wolfe as he waved the gun, gesturing for her to go stand beside Damian. Max looked to be about seventy years old, yet he was still muscular and dressed in expensive tailored clothes. His eyes were a steely gray and murderous. Kate moved over to Damian's side, and instinctively grabbed his hand. He squeezed back, imbuing her with a bit of courage.
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"My patients will be so glad for fresh blood," Max said. "And to think, you've come right to them and made it all so easy." "What is this place?" Kate asked. "My grandfather owned Silver Pond. He'd be sickened to see you ruin it this way." Kate looked toward the desk where she had found the photo of her grandfather and Max Wolfe together—and where she'd put down Damian's gun. She wondered if Damian or Max had spotted it. "Your grandfather?" Max said. "Oh, Damian, I have to give you credit. Let me guess. Little Kate. We met once, you know." "I don't recall," Kate said frostily. "You were a tiny little thing in your riding breeches, leading your pony around the grounds. Your grandfather thought you were simply charming. He didn't want to leave you, Kate. You know, all this was your grandfather's idea." Kate wanted to lunge at him. "How dare you speak ill of him!" Damian shook his head. "Low, even for you, Max." "But it's true. He was facing death…Parkinson's, coupled with aggressive tumors in his lungs. I offered him immortality. I told him about my studies on the rejuvenating effects of blood, of vampirism. That it was far more than fantasy and I was very close to making it reality. He funded my studies in the hopes it might buy him eternal life." "But surely he had no idea it would come to this! Feeding on innocent lives? He couldn't have known!" Kate thought of her gentle grandfather. Yes, he was a captain of industry, and she didn't doubt in a boardroom that he could be tough, but not like this. "Don't listen to him, Kate. Ol' Max here is a master manipulator, aren't you?" Kate glanced at Damian. She was getting the impression that he knew Max very well. That they had crossed paths before. Damian's face, even in profile, was startlingly handsome, but she could see his eyes had turned dark. She looked over to Max, whose face was smug. "You know, Damian, we could have left you for dead. Who knew you'd come back to haunt me all these years later?" "Well, I like thinking of myself as a thorn in your side." "Not for long." Kate shook her head. "So have you found the keys to immortality?" Max pursed his lips. "I'm in the final stages of creating a vaccine against death and aging. That way I may live forever without the rather nasty little habit of drinking blood." "Yeah, but the Hippocratic oath never came between you and your victims, did it, Max?" Damian sneered. Kate could feel rage radiating from Damian. "And do you think you can control them forever, Max?" he snarled. "Sooner or later these soulless ghouls will happily drink your blood, too. Even I might applaud them for that." "Don't worry about me, Damian. Fresh meat like you and your girlfriend here will keep them satisfied until I perfect my vaccine. Come along, you two. I thought we'd go out into the garden for a little fun in the moonlight. Why not send you back through the maze with all my precious patients hunting for you?"
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Damian looked over at Kate. "This guy is really getting on my nerves." "Mine, too," Kate replied with a bravado she didn't feel. Nothing could be worse than running for her life, hunted like a field mouse with a dozen hungry cats on her tail. Max gestured toward the door. "Come along then." Kate started walking, and at that moment, Damian suddenly lunged for the desk and grabbed a letter opener. In the same instant, she saw him palm the gun, while he waved the letter opener in a gesture of defiance. "Put the letter opener down, Damian," Max said. Damian stared at Max with hatred and fury in his eyes. Max trained the gun on Kate. "Put it down or your lady friend will start the maze with a bloody wound. It'll slow her down, and leave a nice trail." Kate watched as Damian feigned defeat and fell in step beside her, Max still behind them aiming his gun at them. She felt a surge of hope. Damian was fearless. Still, Kate was desperate to ask Damian if he had a plan. Why didn't he just pull the gun on Max? A run through the maze would only prolong the inevitable…unless they could reach the gate and get to the car. She tried to envision the maze in her mind to devise a route in her head. Max marched them down the long, dark hallways, down the main marble staircase and out into the stone courtyard. Its large, granite slabs formed an immense chessboard, and according to legend, Kate's greatgrandfather and a neighboring steel magnate used to play chess together, using their household staff as the pieces. Max waited until the vampires on the rooftop spotted them. Soon, the creatures began making their way to the courtyard, their snarls and hisses sending icy shivers up Kate's back. She turned to face Damian. "Whatever happens, don't lose me. I don't want to die alone in there." "I have no intention of losing you," he said. Kate looked around the edges of the chessboard. She wished she could be so confident. They were seriously outnumbered.
Chapter Five When the vampire horde had assembled, Max gestured toward the maze. "Even B. F. Skinner himself knew the only way to train rats through a maze was to give them a reward." "Hmm," Damian smirked. "I never pictured myself as a rat treat. You, on the other hand, are lower than a rat." "Why so hostile, Damian?" Kate watched this exchange, thinking Max's eyes were utterly devoid of sanity, yet coldly cunning. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because when my mother worked for you years ago, she was raped by one of your pets and you urged her to have the child. She respected and trusted you."
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"Would you have rather I told her not to go through with the pregnancy?" "But you knew I would be a dhampir. And you were the one to place her in harm's way." Kate listened, horrified. "I had hoped, Damian, that being a dhampir might bring with it elements of immorality. Like my friends here." He gestured to the vampires, who stood, leering, around them. "It's only brought me pain." Damian's voice was filled with loathing. "Well, then, good thing we're going to end it tonight." Max started toward them. Kate and Damian backed up. The maze was behind them. "Here's how it's going to go down, Damian. You and your girlfriend are going to run into that maze. I'm going to give you maybe a thirty-second head start. Then my very hungry pets go into the maze and find you, feast on you and end this tonight. Kate…it's a pity you were brought into this. But you have only Damian to blame." Kate felt the anger coursing through her. "You're psychotic. This isn't his fault. You are responsible for this. For all of this." Max began laughing—a cackle that shot through her like fingernails scratching along a blackboard. "I'm not psychotic, Kate. I haven't lost touch with reality. This is my reality. And it will soon be yours. Go on you two, into the maze." Kate felt the night air on her face. The moment was utterly surreal. She was going into the maze and to her death. She glanced over at Damian. He didn't look frightened at all. He squeezed her hand as they backed up right to the entrance. "Go on," Max said. "I'll count to twenty." Damian just stood his ground. "1…2…3…" Damian squeezed Kate's hand. Then, without warning, he pulled the gun out from behind his back and shot Max square in the chest, sending him reeling backward. He collapsed onto the ground, an expression of shock on his face. The vampires began screaming, a horrible, keening sound as they stood over Max's body, blood seeping out from his chest. "Come on!" Damian pulled Kate into the maze. "Take us to the tunnel. We have a few seconds while they freak out, then they'll be after us." Heart pounding, both from nerves and running, Kate found herself operating on instinct. She cut left, then right. Then left. She tried to glance over her shoulder. "Don't look for them. Just run!" Damian shouted. "Take us to the tunnel."
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The tunnel? What could he possibly be thinking? In the darkness, elm branches brushing her face, Kate fought against the urge to exit the maze on the other side and make a run for the car. Instead, she placed her trust in the mysterious man next to her, and relied on memory and intuition to find the tunnel pathway. Then, she heard them. The monsters were in the maze now, their shrieks and howls filling Kate's ears along with the pounding of her own heart. They had clearly gotten over their shock at seeing Max shot to death in front of them—perhaps they had even fed on his bloody body. "This way," she urged, grabbing Damian's hand. Now they crawled on hands and knees, as fast as they could. "Down here." They descended the ladder and returned to the tunnel—the hellish black tunnel that would give her nightmares forever, she was certain. If she lived to have nightmares, of course. "Damian…do you have any idea what you're doing?" "Oddly enough, Beautiful, I do. Faster." Again, Kate ran through the tunnel, trying to ignore the scurrying of rats. They came to the door on the other end, opened it, and once again emerged in the house. Damian turned and locked the door to the tunnel. "Help me," he said to her. He started moving chairs and then a mattress and bed frames from the ward up against the door. "Now what?" Kate said. "Now comes the tricky part." "Yes?" She raised an eyebrow and almost laughed out loud. As if the night hadn't been complicated enough! "We set fire to the whole damn place, hopefully burn them in the tunnel, and alert the police. Let them figure the entire mess out." Damian pulled Kate along by the hand, and they ran down the hall to a nurses' station and smashed a cabinet behind it. He handed her bottles. "Rubbing alcohol. And I don't know what's in these ones, but let's hope it's flammable." He started pouring the rubbing alcohol on the carpets. Then furniture. "Go grab some books from Max's office. Kindling." He stopped for a second and winked at her. "Poetic justice, don't you think?" She nodded and ran to retrieve books. While in Max's office, she took the photo of Max and her grandfather. Though part of her wanted to forget this night, she knew she would still be driven to find out more about her family's role in this hideous conspiracy. She returned to Damian, who took a lighter from his pocket and started pages of the books she handed him on fire. One after another, books began blazing. Then he threw them on the alcohol-doused furniture, carpets, and curtains. The flames started timidly at first, then grew stronger, the blaze licking and curling as it crept up the walls. Kate felt the heat blast her face. "Come on, Damian, we need to get out of here." "One minute," he said, taking her hand. She wondered what he was waiting for. But then she heard them—the vampires clawing at the door. She heard their screeches and panic. She guessed smoke was curling through the tunnel. "Now we can go."
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He led her back down the hallway, which was on fire, and they both coughed and squinted their eyes. Acrid smoke filled Kate's throat. At the end of the hall, Damian picked up a flaming book by its unlit corner, then raced down the stairs and started fires there. "Now all we have to do is get to the car," he said, as if that was a simple matter. "Is that all?" "And call 911 and get out of here before the cops come and think we're murdering arsonists." The ran out the front door and down the steps, running across the lawn to the wrought iron gate they'd passed through what seemed like ages ago. They made it out and to their car. They stood there a moment, watching the beautiful halls of Silver Pond in flames. From far off, they heard a siren. "Guess we won't need to call 911," he said. He turned to face her. "I had no idea…about Max and your grandfather. I'm sorry." She nodded. "It's all right." "I better get you back to your orchids." She stared up at him, and used her finger to wipe away a smudge of ash. "I can't go back to them…my plants." "Why?" "Because after tonight, it's rather meaningless. I need to stop this. Obviously there are more of these things out there somewhere." "Everywhere," he said solemnly. "But this is my fight." Suddenly, Damien's mouth was on Kate's, hungrily kissing her, then pulling back and gently biting her lip, then kissing her fiercely again. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him, then moved her lips up to his ear, kissing him there, and delighting in the shiver it caused. Then, thinking of the photo in her pocket, she whispered in his ear, "Now it's my fight, too." His bravado returned. "Okay, Beautiful." They climbed into the car, and he held her hand as they pulled away from Silver Pond. Kate nestled against Damian, watching the fire in the rearview mirror. The home of her childhood was now gone, but somehow, from its ashes, she and Damian would continue to unravel its mysteries.
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Miss Independence by Susan Meier Independence is Constance Muldoon's middle name — for real. Indy, as she's nicknamed, is used to making her own way in the world, never depending on anyone else to get what she wants. Armed with her hardearned degree, Indy is out to be somebody — but first she needs to get experience working in the business world. When an awkward first meeting turns into a golden opportunity to learn from a business genius, Indy is eager to jump in with both feet. Now if only she can stop fantasizing about making love with her gorgeous boss!
Chapter One "Mom! What are you doing here on your day off?" Constance Independence Muldoon, a.k.a. Indy, asked her mother as she entered through the back door of Lloyd's brownstone. "Mr. Winters asked me to come in." Her mother, Lloyd's full-time housekeeper, slipped off her sweater to reveal her gray uniform. "He wants me to make breakfast for him and an overnight guest." "Only Emily stays overnight!" Indy gasped, referring to Lloyd's daughter, who was also Indy's friend. "I'm going upstairs to say hello!" Dressed in jeans and a pink tank top, Indy took the steps to the second floor two at a time. She wasn't insulted that Lloyd had requested her mother make breakfast. Indy's job was as more of a cleaner than a cook. That's why she didn't have to wear a uniform. She couldn't make a meal to save herself. In fact, she wasn't much of a cleaner, either. The CEO of Boston's booming software company Wintersoft had actually hired Indy to help her mom. After her mother had mentioned to Lloyd that her daughter had gone to school for six years to complete three years of college, he'd offered Indy the weekend job so she'd have weekdays free to attend classes full-time, and Indy happily accepted his kindness. But she hadn't agreed because she was tired of the hassle of part-time schooling. She'd accepted Lloyd's generosity because she was eager to fulfill the promise of the nickname her mother had given to her. Indy was short for her middle name of Independence, and if anybody ever felt independent, motivated and ready to take her personal bite out of life, it was Indy. She didn't merely want to get out into the world to prevent herself from becoming dependent upon a man then burned, as her mother had been. She wanted to make a mark. She wanted to be somebody. Which was why Indy was so glad Emily was here. She'd finished her final classes in summer school and as of September first she had her degree in business administration. Now she needed a job, and she was certain Emily, a senior vice president in her father's company, could help her find one. After scrambling down the hall, Indy knocked once on the thick oak bedroom door, but Emily didn't answer. Not wanting to waste a precious second before Emily had to join her dad for breakfast, Indy burst into the room and ran to the window. With one quick twist she had the vertical blinds fully open and sunlight poured into the room. "What the hell!" The man who'd yelped jumped out of the bed as if a fire alarm had blasted. Dumbfounded, Indy just stared at him. Not only was he not the person she expected to see but, also, he was naked. Tall, lean, supplemuscled and bathed in the golden beams of light, he was blissfully, beautifully naked.
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He was also gorgeous. Deep-set blue eyes complimented a strong-boned face. His dark hair was cut so short it barely tickled the top of his suntanned forehead. His tan extended down his neck, to his strong chest and flat stomach, and cruised his — she swallowed as he seemed to awaken and turned in search of cover — perfect behind, before tumbling down his legs to his toes. Somewhere, at sometime, this man had sunbathed naked. As Indy thought that, Lloyd Winters's guest grabbed one of Emily's passion-purple heart-shaped pillows from the bed. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
Chapter Two "I'm Indy…Connie…Indy." Indy stuttered saying her name as she answered the stranger's question, absolutely positive she was going to get fired. Lloyd Winters was a fair, reasonable man, but the expression on his guest's face was anything but understanding. She began backing out of the room. "I'm Mr. Winters's weekend help," she said, taking another backward step toward the door. "I'm sorry. The only overnight company Lloyd ever has is Emily. I thought you were…" Her gaze fell to the pillow he'd covered himself with. "Well, clearly you're not." The visitor's expression became absolutely pained. "Clearly, I'm not." Neither said a word as Indy forced her eyes from the pillow, trying to put her gaze anywhere more appropriate. But because Lloyd's guest was naked, everywhere she looked she encountered sinewy muscle and sleek flesh. When her gaze was finally high enough, the man caught it with narrowed, knowing eyes, and a current of sexual awareness arched between them. She didn't even have time to gasp before he said, "I have to be downstairs for breakfast in twenty minutes, so unless you'd like to give me a good reason for being late, I suggest you scram." "Right!" Indy said, turning and scrambling out of the room. When she reached the hall, she pressed her burning forehead against the cool wall. Dear Lord, she was going to get herself fired!
*** But twenty minutes later Parker Taggert was thinking he was the one in trouble. When Indy/Connie/Indy accidentally brushed his arm while serving him coffee, he thought he would go through the roof from the thunder of desire that rumbled through him. He'd never had such an intense, automatic sexual reaction to a woman he'd just met…but, then again, he'd never met a woman when he was stark naked before. Not only that but with her big green eyes, classic high cheekbones and plump red lips, Indy was one of God's gifts of beauty. Add low-riding jeans and an acceptably tight pink tank top to her natural good looks and Lloyd's weekend help was one sexy woman. Still, had Parker known who she was right from the beginning, he was sure he would have been properly respectful. But she didn't look like a maid, and he couldn't seem to stop his body from buzzing with sexual sizzle. Lloyd Winters, a white-haired man with expressive blue eyes, closed his newspaper. "What's your pleasure for breakfast, Parker?" Parker unwittingly glanced at Indy. He knew exactly what he would like for breakfast this morning. Because of his work schedule, it had been months since he'd even had a date. Forget about sex. He couldn't
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remember the last time. And Lloyd's weekend girl had knocked him for a loop. Of course she wasn't really a "girl." In fact, Parker guessed her age to be somewhere around twenty-five…. And suddenly Parker knew their problem. They were contemporaries! Though he was close to thirty, and she had probably just turned twenty-five, they were within a suitable dating age range. That was why his reaction had been sexual, rather than routine. He almost laughed with relief. His continued odd feelings around her were nothing but the result of meeting an attractive contemporary. "Toast, eggs and bacon." There, he thought, that wasn't so difficult. He firmly believed he could handle being around her — until he glanced up and found himself caught in those big green eyes again. She was gorgeous and he was horny, and that was trouble.
Chapter Three Parker decided this situation did not have to be trouble. Not only was he a mature man who had resisted plenty of women in his lifetime but Indy had said she was the weekend help. That meant he'd see her tomorrow, then by Monday she'd be gone. Plus, he was leaving for his meeting immediately after breakfast. So he had only a few hours of this unexpected attraction to control. Piece of cake. Returning his attention to his newspaper, Lloyd nonchalantly said, "She's a very pretty girl." Parker resisted the impulse to squirm. He'd hoped Lloyd hadn't noticed him gaping at his young, sexy weekend help. "Yes," Parker replied, proud that his tone was casual, almost matter of fact. "She's a very pretty girl." "Indy's twenty-five. Just finished college. And desperate to be independent." "Good for her," Parker said, wondering why Lloyd was suddenly so talkative about his maid. "But I think you're a better match for my daughter Emily." Parker almost spit out his coffee. "Aren't you done with that yet?" "Done with what?" Lloyd asked innocently. "Fixing up poor Emily!" Lloyd laughed. "I want grandkids." "Well, forget it. Emily's like a sister to me." Lloyd said, "Hum," apparently accepting the truth of that. Indy returned with a breakfast cart. As she served Lloyd juice and pancakes, Parker steadfastly would not let himself look at her. Lloyd picked up his fork. "Are you ready for your meeting this morning?"
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"Absolutely. The numbers have been crunched. I know the exact value of the business," Parker replied. As Indy set his dish of eggs and bacon in front of him, he automatically inhaled the gentle scent of her fragrance, then caught himself. He was supposed to be ignoring her! "Raymond Enterprises can be mine for a cool million." "I wasn't talking about the money end. I was referring to staff. Did you bring an assistant?" Parker said, "No." "Well, you're going to need somebody, and our little Indy, here, is eager for some experience to put on her résumé." "No, Mr. Winters," Indy quickly said. "Thanks, but that's okay. I was going to call Emily today. She offered to help me." "Nonsense," Lloyd said, brushing off her argument. "You need some experience. Mr. Taggert needs an assistant." Indy stared at her boss wide-eyed with dread, and Parker almost groaned. Her reaction proved she felt the unwanted attraction as much as he did. "Are you telling me you don't want experience?" Lloyd chided playfully. "No, sir. You know I want this." "Yes, you do. That's what I love about you. You remind me of myself when I was young. You're going to be somebody someday, but it all starts here. At the bottom. So, go put on one of Emily's pretty suits and get ready to help Mr. Taggert…." He stopped abruptly and looked from one to the other. "I'm sorry. I never formally introduced you." Parker caught Indy's gaze. The shiver of attraction worked its way through him again, causing his stomach to quiver while other parts of his anatomy tightened with need. "Oh, we've met." And now they were going to work together. And most of that time they would be alone.
Chapter Four Indy didn't waste a lot of time rummaging through Emily's closet. She knew exactly what she wanted to wear because she had admired Emily in the soft green silk suit so many times. But before she took the liberty of wearing it, she called Emily and got her permission. "Of course!" Emily said. "Wear anything of mine that you like." "Thanks. I can't believe your dad did this." "What? Tried to find you a job?" Emily said with a laugh. "I'm surprised it took him this long to hook you up with someone." "Don't say it that way!" "What way?" Emily asked innocently, then she paused and apparently thought through what she had said, honing in on the words hook up. "Oh, my gosh. You like Parker!"
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"I don't like him," Indy mumbled. "Okay, let me rephrase that. You lust after him." "I just met him!" "That doesn't matter. We're talking about lust here. Parker Taggert is a gorgeous man. You should see him in swim trunks. He's all ripply muscles and strong thighs." "Uh, I don't have to see him in swim trunks. I walked in on him this morning, thinking you were the one sleeping in your old bedroom, and he jumped out of bed naked." "Oh, my gosh!" Emily said, laughing with glee. "No wonder you're panicky. You have darned good reason to be in lust. You've seen the merchandise!" Emily laughed again. "This is rich." She paused, then added, "Does Daddy know?" Indy said a silent prayer that he didn't. "I don't think so." "Oh, you'd know it if he knew. But I bet he picked up on something." Indy wouldn't doubt it. The sexual heat that shimmered from Parker Taggert and unerringly found her was nearly unbearable. She thanked God she was able to leave the dining room several times to refill the coffeepot. Otherwise, she was afraid she and Parker would have spontaneously combusted. "Indy, honey, let me give you a piece of advice," Emily said, breaking into Indy's disturbing thoughts. "You're twenty-five and, though I know you've had dates, maybe even a few one-night stands, there's got to be one guy in a girl's life who stands out from the crowd. Somebody you'd never marry in a million years, but somebody you just want to…well, have a few hours of fun with." "I can't believe you're telling me this." "Every woman should have a wild, passionate affair to remember, and Parker Taggert is the guy to have it with. No strings, no commitments, great sex." Unable to believe what she'd just heard, Indy stared at the phone receiver then put it back to her ear again. "You're serious." "I have two friends who had flings with him. They said he's the memory they keep tucked away for cold Boston nights." Emily paused a second, then said, "Indy, you gotta go for this. After all those years of attending school and working, you deserve a break. A delicious Parker Taggert afternoon. I've heard it's the stuff legends are made of."
Chapter Five "All set?" Parker asked casually, as he walked into the foyer where he had been told Indy was waiting for him. While Indy had changed clothes, Lloyd had sung her praises to Parker as if she were his second daughter. Parker knew he had to be careful with her. The best way to do that would be to treat Indy as he would any other temporary secretary. Forget about the fact that she was gorgeous and she'd seen him naked. But when Indy turned to face him, Parker's heart stopped, then jumped to double time. The simple green suit she'd chosen wasn't overtly sexy, but the jacket outlined the swell of her breasts and exaggerated the dip of her waist. The skirt was short enough to showcase her great legs. She'd also removed her severe bun and let her long brown hair cascade around her. His first thought — his only thought — was how much he'd love to feel that delicious bounty of straight, silky-looking locks tickle his bare chest.
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He instantly stopped that fantasy. From what he'd gleaned in his conversation with Lloyd, Indy had worked hard to put herself through school, she was desperate for a job, and she had plans for her life. Parker had to respect that. He ignored the tightening of his groin and pasted on a professional smile. "Ready?" She drew a quick, happy breath that probably exaggerated her chest but Parker resolutely forced his gaze to stay on hers. "As ready as I'll ever be." "Great," he said, directing her to the door. They stepped out into the bright September sunshine and he immediately jumped to the subject of business as they walked toward the gray Mercedes that Lloyd had lent to Parker for his visit. "Here's the deal. I'm in Boston to buy a company. I've actually cleared my calendar for the month to dedicate myself to this project." "You're in Boston for a month?" "Yes," Parker replied as he reached for the door handle of the Mercedes and opened the door for her. He knew exactly why she had asked. Just brushing past her to get the door, he felt the prickly sensation of sexual heat. He knew she wondered, just as he did, if they would be able to keep their hands off each other if they spent so much time together. Indy hesitated. "Will we be working together for a month?" His eyes met hers. "That's the plan. Unless you think it might be better for me to hire a temp." With their gazes locked, Indy felt the current of male/female awareness that she always felt with Parker, but she needed the money this job would provide. More than that, she needed the experience. Now that she knew this wasn't a quick, one-afternoon task that really wouldn't mean much on a résumé, that it was a real opportunity, she couldn't easily dismiss it. At the same time, Emily's words rang in Indy's ears. A passionate afternoon with this man was the stuff legends were made of and she had worked nearly nonstop for seven long years. She would love to make love to Parker Taggert. She would love to feel all the flesh and muscle she had seen. She would love to relax, really relax, for one afternoon or evening with someone who was attractive, intelligent and fun. Gazing into blue eyes brimming with promise, Indy suddenly realized that what should have been a quick, easy decision wasn't so simple anymore.
Chapter Six No matter how tempting Emily's suggestion to have a fling with Parker Taggert, it was Indy's mother's words that rang in her ears. Get yourself established before you have your fun. Besides, right now Parker wasn't asking her to make love with him. He needed an assistant. And she needed experience. "I'm sure I'll learn a lot in the next month." Parker studied her for a second, then smiled. "You are learning from the master."
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He handed her in the car, slammed the door and rounded the hood. When he was settled behind the steering wheel, she said, "So you're the master?" "Bought sixteen companies in the past five years." He grinned at her. "So, yeah. I'm the master." "And you were born with that talent?" He laughed. "Sort of. My parents had a friend with a company poised to explode, but he was too old to handle the expansion. One night he was talking about it at a party and I suddenly found myself brokering a deal. I told him we would finance my parents' dependable but stale company to get the down payment on the purchase price for his, and tacked on a percentage of the profits for ten years to make up the difference, and he bit." "Cool." "Incredibly," Parker said, then grinned again. "Everybody got what they wanted and we were all flying high." "And you implemented the plan to expand your friend's company, made tons of money and did it again?" "Nope. I hired somebody to do the expansion and make us all tons of money because I had found another company that could grow, but the leadership was all wrong. I talked Mary Burroughs into the same deal I gave my dad's friend. At first, she was reluctant to leave the business she'd built from the ground up, but when I suggested that she start a new one with the down payment I would give her, she saw what I saw. That she was good at beginnings, but lousy at keeping things going. She actually started two other companies that I bought from her over the years. We're now friends." "That's great!" Parker glanced at Indy. Pretty and sexy in another woman's suit, she looked like a fledgling sitting on the brink of life, and he suddenly realized that though Lloyd had given him bits and pieces of her plans, he knew nothing personal about her. Right from the beginning, his thoughts toward her had been the most intimate thoughts a man could have for a woman, yet he really didn't know her. "So what do you want to accomplish?" She laughed. The throaty sound echoed through the car and resonated through Parker like the sweet strains of a mating call. "Everything. My dad left my mom before I was born and we struggled just to make ends meet. So, I want the kind of job that will allow me to buy my mother a house, take her on vacations." Guilt tiptoed through Parker. Indy would work her adorable behind off to get half of what he had been handed just because of being born into the correct gene pool. "That won't happen overnight." "My mother and I are both incredibly patient." Patient and resilient, Parker thought. Her last comment pounded one more nail into the coffin of any sexual thought he had toward Indy. Life had not treated her kindly and Parker wouldn't add to that by involving her in a torrid affair that would end and potentially leave her brokenhearted. But, dear God, if he could have a quick, uncomplicated affair with her, he would make it the memory of her life.
Chapter Seven To Indy's surprise, Parker drove them to a Cape Cod house, not an office building, for their meeting with the owner of Raymond Enterprises. Because they had established a businesslike relationship in their
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conversation on the trip over, she didn't wait for him to open her car door and instead jumped out of the Mercedes and onto the sidewalk before he even got to her side of the vehicle. Unfortunately, walking to the wood plank porch she caught a whiff of his aftershave and her heart did a somersault. He smelled good. He looked good. She was also beginning to understand his personality, and with Emily's suggestion hovering in her brain, she couldn't help but imagine what making love with Parker would be like. Warmed by the visions of muscled flesh and wet kisses that came to mind, she realized that even if she didn't sleep with him, thinking about it was a decent second, and she decided that maybe she wouldn't actually have to make love with him to create her own memory of a lifetime. Parker knocked on the door. A short woman in her early forties answered. "Oh, Parker, hi." Her expression turned regretful. "We forgot all about you. But even if we hadn't, Jim's not up to meeting anybody today." "Not a problem, Amy," Parker said. "Tell Jim I'm in town for the month. He's my only project here in Boston, so I'm at his disposal day or night." Parker smiled beguilingly, adding sincerity to his kindness, and Indy's heart tumbled again, as she suddenly understood why he was so irresistible. He was an unusual combination of sex appeal and virility mixed in with being an actual nice guy. Any woman worth her salt could withstand the temptation of a great body and sex appeal, but most were hard-pressed to resist someone so sweet. Someone — she felt sure without even experiencing it — who would cuddle in bed. While Indy added another piece of her fantasy about Parker, Amy visibly relaxed. "Thanks." "You're welcome. I'll be back Monday." Indy waited until they were on the sidewalk, completely out of Amy's range of hearing, before she said, "What just happened?" "Good PR. Brokering a deal is about making people comfortable enough that they tell you what they want so you can give it to them." "His not being available wasn't a ploy?" "If it was, by not arguing I just told him several things. First, he's my priority. Second, I can wait him out. Third, I'm not going to push him." "And you think this will make him tell you what he wants?" "And you think it won't?" Indy considered that. "I don't know." "Hasn't your mother ever told you that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?" "Only when dealing with Lloyd." Parker laughed. "That's a good example. If you treat everybody with the respect you treat Lloyd with, everybody will trust you, everybody will help you and everybody will like you."
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As he said the words everybody will like you, they stopped at her car door, but neither one of them moved. Instead, their gazes tangled as the words wrapped around them, and Indy had a sudden, intense feeling he was telling her that he liked her. But he couldn't…. Could he? He hardly knew her. Actually, that wasn't true. In a few short hours they had gotten to know each other very well. By talking about anything else but their sexual attraction they'd filled each other in on bits and pieces of their lives and even touched on their life philosophies. But more than that, by skillfully steering them away from their sexual attraction, Parker continually proved he was a respectful, considerate person. What she wanted more than anything else was to kiss him. Not to pretend-kiss him in her thoughts, but to really kiss him to thank him for teaching her and for being good to Jim and Amy, but most of all to thank him for being such a nice guy when a man in his position didn't really have to be. But looking into his smoldering blue eyes and feeling the sexual heat that had shimmered between them since first meeting, she knew that if her lips as much as brushed against his, she'd start a raging inferno.
Chapter Eight Indy quickly opened the car door and jumped inside, and Parker breathed a sigh of relief. For two reasons. First, he was glad she was smart enough to put distance between them. Second, he now knew what their real problem was. He liked her. Not that he didn't like all the women he slept with, but what he felt for Indy was different. He wasn't obsessed with her good looks, though she certainly had those. And he didn't just want to sleep with her, though he certainly wanted that, too! He supposed the best way to phrase it was that he was pulling for her. He wanted her to succeed. But even that was good because seeing her gumption and wanting her to succeed forced him to put his own thoughts into perspective and his own wishes on the back burner. No matter how tempting it was to wish for an afternoon of passionate sex with her — and because Jim had canceled their meeting, he and Indy now had their entire afternoon completely free — he could resist the urge. He liked her enough that he didn't want to ruin her plans. He liked her enough that what he wanted more than to make love with her was to help her accomplish the first step toward her goals. And he suddenly knew that Lloyd Winters was matchmaking again. "I think Lloyd had an ulterior motive in getting us together." Indy almost choked. After the episode by the car door when she wanted to grab his lapels and yank him down for a kiss, she didn't have to guess too hard to realize what he was about to say. "You do?" "Yeah." He squirmed uncomfortably on his seat, and Indy's chest tightened. It wasn't that she didn't want to talk about the fact that they were attracted to each other. It was more that she was afraid of the direction their discussion would take. If he suggested Lloyd set them up romantically but Parker wasn't interested, she would lose the daydream that had kept her happily occupied. If he suggested Lloyd set them up romantically and implied they should do something about it, then the ball would be in her court. If she rejected him, the daydream would again be gone. But if she accepted his proposal, she'd have one damn fine afternoon. The thought of it warmed her insides again and shot tingles of anticipated delight through her limbs. Adding his personality to the fantastic body she had already seen, she had no doubt they'd be dynamite together sexually. But then what? "I think he wants me to give you a job."
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All the air whooshed out of Indy's lungs. "A job?" He peeked at her. "Yeah." Paused. "Why? What were you thinking?" "I don't know." But she did know. And she knew he knew. Still, if she answered him honestly, they would lose the professional relationship they had built and she would lose her opportunity for a job. Because if they gave voice to their attraction she had more than a sneaking suspicion they wouldn't be able to stop with mere words.
Chapter Nine Parker didn't need to hear Indy tell him what she had been thinking. He knew. They both knew. But he also had a way out of this. There would be no danger of him sleeping with her, potentially slowing her plans for her life, if he gave her a job and made her career his next project. "I think Lloyd knew that a few days in your company would cause me to see how determined you are, and that I would hire you." "You would hire me on the basis of sheer determination?" "You have a degree, right?" "In business administration." "Good enough." She gaped at him. "Just like that, without even seeing my college transcripts, you would hire me because I have a degree?" "Lots of people have degrees. Not everyone has your motivation. And motivation is the bottom line. You have to want something badly enough to work for it." He caught her gaze. "You want it." "Yes, I do." "Then I want you." Again, the innuendo hung in the air, but Indy brushed over it by quickly asking, "What would I do for your company?" "That depends on what position needs filling. I'll have to talk to my office manager to see who we have where doing what so I can decide what's open." "How big is your company?" "Eight people, all based in San Francisco. After I successfully brokered my second deal, I decided to separate from my parents' conglomerate. All my group does is find companies with potential or companies that are in some kind of distress, figure out a way to make a deal, make the deal, and then hire new management." "You always hire new management?"
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"Yes. If a company is floundering or could explode but hasn't, poor management is always the reason." With no experience, Indy couldn't argue that. "So are you in?" Was she in? If she went to work for Parker Taggert, she'd never make love to him. Under normal circumstances — especially given that she needed a job — that wasn't such a big deal. But these weren't normal circumstances. She didn't know why she had such an intense attraction to him. She didn't know why the thought of giving up ever having a romantic relationship with him caused her to feel empty. She'd turned down gorgeous men before. She'd turned down nice men before. She'd walked away from plenty of sexual opportunities. This one wasn't going away so easily. Misinterpreting her pause, Parker groaned. "Sorry. I forgot to mention salary." He named a number that almost caused her to faint. She thought of her mother. She thought of their rickety house. She thought of taking her mother to the Bahamas. "I'll do it." And her daydream of making love to Parker floated out the window of her mind and smashed on the sidewalk. She couldn't — she wouldn't — take a boss as a lover. From Parker's faltering smile, she knew he felt the dream die as much as she had. She also sensed his disappointment. But she had done the right thing. They had done the right thing. So why did she feel so empty?
Chapter Ten Parker almost turned toward Lloyd's brownstone, but he remembered Indy didn't live there. "Can I take you home? Or did you leave a car at Lloyd's?" She hesitated. "I took the bus." "Then I'll drive you home," he said easily, forcing himself to get comfortable in his new role as boss and provider. It would be good to do something for someone, especially someone he liked so much. But as he got closer and closer to the address Indy had given him, Parker began to feel odd again. The homes weren't middle-class. They were the top of the lower-class. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, and in a sense, he wasn't. He supposed what he felt could best be described as a wave of respect for Indy. It hadn't been easy for her to climb out of this. According to Lloyd, money difficulties had forced her to use six years to complete three years of school. She'd borrowed a suit for her first day of work. Still, he'd never heard one word of complaint from her. "Here's your stop," he said, pulling Lloyd's Mercedes into a parking space in front of the old but neatly kept house she occupied with her mother. He didn't know if it was rented or mortgaged, but because it was where
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Indy lived, it was clean. Beds of auburn, peach and yellow mums bloomed in front of a porch that needed to be painted, but was swept. He turned toward her and she smiled at him. Not ashamed of her roots, not cringing that someone might see where she came from, just so damned honest and beautiful he genuinely believed she was the most incredible person he'd ever met, and he couldn't resist leaning forward to brush his lips across hers. Indy dropped the seatbelt she had unbuckled. Just the light touch of his lips on hers sent a bolt of lightning thundering through her, but the kiss was more than sexual. She felt emotion behind the meeting of their mouths, as if he was trying to tell her how he felt about her. Parker Taggert was a man who didn't simply kiss for entertainment. He kissed with emotion. The sheer pleasure of that melted her bones and when he grazed his tongue along the seam of her lips, she allowed him to deepen the kiss. She'd never known anyone who so easily liked her the way Parker did. Even seeing the truth of her life, her roots, her struggles, he liked her. He appreciated her. He respected her. Their lips mated, tongues twined. She wrapped her arms around his neck at the same time that he edged his around her waist and urged her closer. Their chests bumped. Her breasts tingled with awareness and need. Then Billy Cramer slammed into Lloyd Winters' perfect Mercedes with his skateboard and reality slammed into Indy. She had to get out of this part of town. Parker could teach her. He would give her the chance life hadn't precisely denied her but had made her work like hell for. She needed this man for a boss more than she needed him for a lover. She pulled away. Licked her damp lips. "I can't… If you're going to be my boss, we can't be personally involved. I'm sorry." For several seconds, he searched her eyes, then he drew a quick breath. "Yeah. Me, too." With that she scrambled out of the car and into her house. She knew Parker waited until she was inside, and for a crazy second she hoped he would change his mind about letting her go so easily, barrel across her front porch and declare that he could love her and employ her. But he didn't. Because the truth was, he didn't love her. Indy knew he'd never love her. This was not a fairy tale and she was not Cinderella. This was real life. And in real life, two mature, sexually attracted adults might be able to have an affair, but they would never really fall in love because they were too different. And if she didn't soon start remembering that, she was going to get hurt.
Chapter Eleven Parker hadn't intended to kiss Indy. Unfortunately, he had significantly underestimated his attraction to her, and before he knew it his lips were on hers. But Indy had gotten them out of the situation reasonably gracefully and, now that he was aware of just how strong their attraction was, he was sure something like that kiss would never be repeated. But on Monday morning, when Indy walked into Lloyd's study, dressed in another of Emily's suits and ready for work, every confidence Parker had about being able to resist her dissolved into a puddle of yearning in his middle. All he could think of was her taste when he kissed her and the feeling of the curve of her waist as he slid his hand down her torso to her bottom while his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth.
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He wanted to kick himself for being obsessed with a woman, but Indy was all business, eager to get to the meeting that had been arranged to make up for the one missed on Saturday. So Parker shifted into business mode, too, annoyed that he continually behaved like a randy teenager around her. They drove to Jim Raymond's house, and, determined not to let his attraction to her get the better of him, Parker chatted casually about things they would discuss with the owner of Raymond Enterprises. But Jim greeted them in his wheelchair and Parker could see he really wasn't up for company. So he and Indy left almost immediately. "Why didn't you tell me he was sick?" Parker glanced at Indy. Though he had thought Jim hadn't met with them on Saturday as a negotiating ploy, Parker now suspected that Jim's multiple sclerosis might be accelerating. "That's why he needs to sell. He knows that someday he won't be able to run the company and he's decided to cash in now while he can." "That's awful." "Don't worry. Mr. Raymond will be well taken care of." Indy heard the compassion in Parker's voice and her heart swelled. She'd only known him a few days, but in that time he'd proven himself to be more than a man with a fabulous smile and a great butt. He was more than smart and savvy. He was, quite simply, a nice guy. And that was more enticing than anything about his appearance — or the way he kissed. Just thinking of that kiss sent an avalanche of sensation tumbling through Indy. She remembered the way his lips felt on hers, the texture of his tongue as it invaded her mouth, the smooth way his hand glided along her curves as if it were meant to do exactly that, and she grew soft and tingly inside. But when she added the knowledge that Parker was a genuinely good person to the warmth and need he could inspire with a few seconds of kissing, Indy knew she was becoming lost. She wasn't just fighting a sexual attraction anymore. She was getting real feelings for him. And that was bad. Having real feelings ruined Emily's suggestion of a no-strings-attached sexual fling. Plus, Indy was pragmatic enough to recognize falling in love with him would be a mistake. They came from two different worlds and didn't belong together. Getting real feelings for Parker was wrong! Still, every time he did something wonderful, like what he was doing for Jim, the temptation to kiss him was so strong she could barely breathe. Parker stopped Lloyd's Mercedes in front of his brownstone. "So," he said, his fingers curling and uncurling on the steering wheel. "It looks like we have to work in Lloyd's study this morning." He caught her gaze. "By ourselves."
Chapter Twelve Not sure it was wise for her and Parker to spend the day alone when they were both still dealing with their attraction, Indy nervously glanced down at Emily's suit and was unexpectedly inspired. "Rather than work today, I'd like to go shopping." Parker gaped at her. "You want me to take you shopping?" She laughed. "No. I want to go shopping myself. You really did hire me, right?" "Yes." "Then I need some clothes. I can't borrow Emily's suits forever."
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"Oh, right," Parker agreed. Though he was glad she had again gotten them out of a sticky situation, he knew they couldn't go on indefinitely looking for ways to avoid each other. He had to be able to work with her or there would be no point to her moving to San Francisco with him.
*** When the stakes were high enough, Parker realized, he could be a rock. In the two weeks that followed, as he and Jim Raymond pounded out their agreement, he was in full control around Indy, as she took notes and gave her opinion in the car on the way home at the end of the day. It impressed him that she knew not to contradict or question him in from of Jim, but he was even more dazzled by her natural business sense. Unfortunately, every time she demonstrated her keen instincts, it made him want to kiss her. He never realized that intelligence could be such an aphrodisiac, but it was. Something about Indy being able to keep up with him, discuss things as if she were born to buy companies and argue without being offensive tripped every sexual feeling he had. Yet in the two weeks that had passed, he hadn't said one out-of-place word. For all he knew, Indy might actually think his attraction to her had fizzled. As they climbed into Lloyd's Mercedes after the meeting that resulted in what Parker suspected would be the final draft of the agreement, Parker said, "Insert the changes to the document we've been drafting from our meeting notes and print it out, because we'll be getting a signature tomorrow." "I think you're right." She said the words with such happiness in her voice that Parker reacted sexually, but that didn't surprise him. He never reacted normally to anything she said. When he parked the Mercedes in front of her house, he expected Indy to jump out so there would be no danger that he'd open her door for her, but she didn't and all of Parker's senses went on red alert. "I think that what you're doing is great." He almost groaned. That was another thing that got to him. She saw and appreciated his abilities beyond his ability to make money. She saw the side that other people didn't care about. And for some reason that made him want to strip her naked and show her the area in which he was really great. Instead he said, "Don't make a bigger deal out of it than it has to be. My whole negotiation process is built around win-win. It's very simple, and when the rest of the world catches on, I'll be out of business." "I still think what you're doing is great." Which, of course, made him want to kiss her. Damn it! He'd never dealt with an attraction that commingled business, pleasure and personalities before. Pleasures and personalities, yes. But not with business. Even after two weeks he still needed to use superhuman strength to control the attraction, and he suddenly wondered if he shouldn't just give in and seduce her.
Chapter Thirteen Sitting in the front seat of Lloyd's Mercedes with Indy, Parker almost shook his head at the inappropriateness of his thoughts. If he seduced Indy, she would start her job in San Francisco as both a new employee and the boss's lover. Even if they never made their relationship public knowledge, their
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connection was so strong that someone was bound to sense the intimacy between them, and Indy would be the object of gossip and speculation. He couldn't do that to her. He faced Indy, laid his palm on her cheek and said, "Go inside, Indy. Before I don't let you go." He watched her eyes cloud with awareness from his touch, then watched them clear as she began to fully understand what he'd said. And before Parker had a chance to say another word, she was gone.
*** Pressed against the foyer side of her front door, Indy realized she had made a great escape. She and Parker had spent so many weeks in reasonably professional behavior that she had forgotten that the attraction she was fighting wasn't one-sided. It was one thing to entertain her own amusing fantasies, but quite another to turn those fantasies into reality. And, from the fire in Parker's eyes, she knew that's exactly what would have happened had she stayed in that car. The next morning she said nothing as she and Parker traveled to Jim Raymond's house. After a few seconds of chitchat, Parker handed Jim the agreement Indy had created at Parker's instruction. He suggested Jim look over the document, then he asked Amy for a cup of coffee and a tour of her kitchen. Because Indy never thought to invite herself along on the kitchen tour, she found herself alone in the living room with Jim Raymond. She busied herself by looking at the pictures on the mantel of the fireplace. "You know, we always planned to get a big house when the business took off." Indy faced Jim with a smile. "You can do that now." "No," he said, shaking his head. "Every cent of this money will have to be invested very, very carefully to make sure we have plenty for medical bills and an income for the rest of our lives." Indy grimaced. "I guess you're right." "So what are your plans?" Surprised that he'd changed the subject to her, Indy said, "My plans?" He nodded. "I want to make a mark somewhere, someday, but right now I'm getting experience." He laughed. "I'll bet you are. Parker's a very smart guy." "And fair." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes, damn it. I was hoping he wouldn't be." Indy stared at him. "You were hoping he'd cheat you?" "Or try, so I'd have a reason not to sell." Indy gaped at him. "You don't want to sell?"
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He shook his head. "This business is what has kept me as strong as I have been until now. I'm afraid that when I have nothing to do, I'll regress." "Why didn't you tell Parker that?" "I didn't have a lot of leverage." But Indy suddenly realized she did. Parker trusted her opinion enough that he would listen to her. But, also, she now knew Parker well enough to believe that when she told him about Jim not wanting to sell, he would find another way to help him besides buying his company outright. Parker was good, kind, generous that way. She loved that about him. Realizing this, Indy squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn't just infatuated with him anymore. She had fallen in love with him!
Chapter Fourteen Indy wasn't dismayed when Parker and Amy returned from the kitchen and Jim immediately signed both copies of the agreement and handed them to Parker. She knew that once she told Parker that Jim didn't want to sell, he and Jim could void their deal, and Parker could come up with one of his master plans allowing Jim to keep a share of the company or become one of the project managers…or something. She waited until their car doors had slammed closed, cocooning them in the Mercedes, before she said, "He doesn't want to sell." Parker glanced at her as he started the car. In her inexpensive pink suit, not as fancy as Emily's silk, she looked more like an assistant, but that hardly helped Parker battle his growing desire for her. He reminded himself that she had the gut-level intuition and people skills that Parker needed in all of his employees to keep his company on top of the takeover game, but that only turned him on more. Intellectually, they were equals. Sexually, they would probably set the sheets on fire. And no matter what argument he gave himself, his male instincts could not understand why he was not permitted to pursue a woman who almost seemed to have been tailor-made for him. His only chance was to keep their conversation on business. "What makes you say that?" "While you were touring Amy's kitchen, Jim told me. He said he's afraid his illness will take a turn for the worse if he doesn't have something to occupy his mind." Parker sighed. "Indy, he signed the agreement." "Only because he feels he has no choice." "Maybe he doesn't. He needs money. I gave him money." "So, you're his knight in shining armor?" Because she said it sassy, not sweet, Parker glanced at her sharply. "You're so sure you're always right that I don't think you've looked at all angles of this deal." That made him laugh. This was the crux of their problem, or maybe the crux of his problem, the reason he always wanted to make love to her. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind. He held her future in the palm of his hand, yet she treated him as just a man.
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And if that didn't get his blood pumping, nothing did because when he was with her he just wanted to be a man. Stripped naked, rolling around in the sheets, forgetting about the fact that he controlled millions of dollars. He would love to make love to Indy just once before he died of frustration from this unrelenting, instinctive, overbearing natural urge. Something inside of Parker stilled. That was it! What they felt was a natural instinct. Which meant they were ignoring a call of nature. And like all calls of nature, when ignored, it got stronger. If they made love even once, it would probably go away. But if they didn't and their desire kept growing, they would arrive in San Francisco as two sexually charged people who couldn't be in a meeting without a sexual slip, and she would look like a foolish underling with a crush on her boss. In a sense, making love right here, right now, was the only thing they could do.
Chapter Fifteen Parker whipped Lloyd's Mercedes to a highway off-ramp and within a quarter mile turned into the parking lot of a neat, clean, middle-America hotel chain. Without wasting time on preliminaries and in spite of Indy's sputtering questions, he took off his seatbelt, undid hers, wrapped his hand around her neck and yanked her over to kiss her. Long and deep, like a man starving for the taste of her…because he was. He was out of control, but he was also absolutely convinced that once they made love this tempestuous instinct would lose its strength and they could have a normal working relationship. When she didn't break the kiss but responded, Parker deepened it. Holding her as close as he could in spite of being in the front seat of a car and having several layers of clothes separating them, he plunged his tongue into her mouth. Again, she didn't protest but responded as if she, too, didn't have any control over how she reacted to him. And Parker knew he had his answer. He broke their kiss and bumped his forehead against hers. "Indy, we have to do this." She said nothing. "We have some kind of chemistry that's killing us. If we don't make love, it's going to be obvious to the staff in San Francisco that there's something going on between us." She cleared her throat. "And if we do?" "If we do, nine chances out of ten, we'll satisfy our curiosity about each other and that will be the end of it." He paused, then added, "Something this hot can't go on forever. It has to burn itself out." Indy was stunned to realize that deep down inside she also had always believed that something this hot couldn't last. It was the real reason she didn't actually want to sleep with Parker. If all they had was chemistry, once they slept together, it would die. But she didn't want it to die. She liked the feelings he inspired in her. She loved the tingles, the anticipation and the breathlessness when he was around. At the same time, she had no illusions. She knew there was no way she was the woman of Parker's dreams. As it stood, all she really had were a few physical sensations and a daydream that wasn't coming true. Then there was Emily Winters's assessment. Spending the afternoon with Parker would be the memory of a lifetime. "Do you think I'm wrong?" She sighed. "No."
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He pulled her close again, nuzzling her hair. "Then what are you afraid of?" It was hard to remember all the good reasons she shouldn't make love to this man when she was in his arms and his warm breath was fanning across her forehead. She wanted the memory. She recognized she wasn't the woman of Parker's dreams, so she knew she wouldn't pout and fuss when it was over. She could handle it…. Or could she?
Chapter Sixteen Indy silenced her fears and agreed to make love, and Parker didn't waste a second. He jumped out of the car and walked into the hotel lobby. When he returned, he drove the Mercedes around the side of the building to where their room was located. Indy had plenty of time to change her mind, but she didn't. She knew exactly what she was doing. She couldn't pass up this chance, and she could handle the ramifications. She'd never had a lot of life's goods, so all her life she'd had to make the most of what she had. If Parker could give her only one afternoon, she would make the most of that, too. They exited the car and walked to the door, which Parker quickly opened. The minute they stepped inside, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, his tongue unerringly finding its way into her mouth as if there hadn't been a ten-minute break between kisses. Still kissing her, Parker reached for the first button of her suit jacket and it sprang from its loop. The two pieces of material separated, exposing a two-inch section of skin. As his fingers drifted lower to undo the second button, they skimmed her soft flesh, sending a frisson of joyful awareness skittering through her. This wasn't a daydream. He really was touching her. They really were going to make love. He repeated the process of undoing a button and exploring the exposed skin until Indy was immersed in sensation. Then he slid her jacket from her right shoulder, and kissed it, then ran his tongue along her collarbone as he slid her jacket down her arms. Response rippled through her, making her feel weak, almost drugged. Not wanting to become so lethargic that she'd miss any part of this opportunity, she reached for his tie. She loosened the knot, then slowly slid the strip of silk from his neck before reaching for the buttons of his white shirt. As she undid his buttons, he undid the closure of her skirt and it fell to the floor. She stood before him in nothing but a white lace bra and thong, and, clearly impatient, Parker caught her hands in one of his and finished unbuttoning his own shirt. When the buttons were undone, he shrugged out of the shirt, and she reached for his belt buckle. After his belt was gone, he grabbed his wallet from a back pocket and tossed it to the bedside table then gave his pants a shove that puddled them on the floor. He stepped out of them, pulled Indy into his arms and tumbled them both to the bed. His coarse chest hair skimmed the skimpy lace of her bra and tiny explosions of delight ricocheted through her. All thought that this was wrong or risky flew out of her head. This was what she wanted, and, for once, she was going for the pleasure. And making love with Parker was nothing but pleasure. Strong and sure, his fingers and palms caressed her body. His wet, wicked tongue teased her as he licked and tasted and touched every inch of her and Indy found creative ways to do the same to him. Greedy and hungry, their movements were quick and accurate until Indy was shivering with desire and sweat had beaded on Parker's forehead.
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Parker shifted away from her and Indy blinked, wondering if he'd changed his mind. When she noticed he was reaching for his wallet on the bedside table to get a condom, she relaxed, but a spurt of panic also hit her. This was it. In two seconds there would be no turning back.
Chapter Seventeen With their gazes locked, Parker hovered over Indy, giving her one last chance to stop him. When she didn't protest and her eyes sharpened with desire, he slid into her wet warmth and both of them groaned with delight. He lifted once, then twice, positioning himself so that she didn't merely feel the maximum effect of his shaft inside her but also felt the press of him against her sensitive nub, and ripples of radiance spread through him. The feelings she inspired were so much more intense than what he had been expecting that Parker had a moment of doubt that making love would extinguish their chemistry. But as every lift and thrust echoed through him, and she met his movements, any coherent thought he had fell out of his head. He growled deep in his throat and released the primal, natural part of himself that had been begging for freedom since the day he met her. When Parker let go, feminine pride rose within Indy and she joyfully bit his neck. He growled and returned the favor, turning their silent tryst into something more personal between them. Laughing with enjoyment one second and groaning with pleasure the next, they rolled and growled and half played, half fought their way through the most emotional, most fierce coupling Indy had ever experienced. Delightful energy coursed through her veins and gathered in her feminine center, until, in the final second, Parker caught her gaze again and everything stilled. The way he looked at her as he made one last push vanquished any sense of inadequacy she might have had. She hadn't simply pleased him — she had brought out something primal and wonderful in him. And he loved it. Knowing they were better than good together caused her to come with a ferocity that would have been frightening if she hadn't known that Parker's release was equally powerful. They both admitted their chemistry had brought them here, but as her body pulsed in completion and Parker collapsed above her, Indy felt a sudden sense of regret. Not that they had made love. She'd wanted the memory, the pleasure, and making love with him had been nothing less than spectacular. But no matter how good they were together sexually, she knew Parker didn't love her. He'd asked her to make love in order to try to vanquish their chemistry, but she loved him.
*** Indy shifted slightly to the side when Parker rolled away from her, but rather than let her go, he grabbed her arm and tucked himself against her. The orgasm that had thundered through him had been a phenomenon, but it was nothing compared to the connection he felt with the woman beside him. She was smart. She was genuine. She was quick and funny and compassionate. She was his equal in every way and making love to her had been like getting a drink of water after a long walk under a hot desert sun. With Indy everything was more intense, more clear, more fun. As he thought the last, the realization of cold, hard truth came to him as a flash of undeniable reality. Something so simple and profound it could not be argued. When a man found a woman like this, he married her.
Chapter Eighteen
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As Parker lay with Indy pressed against his side after making love, a thousand thoughts ran through his head. But the one that caught and held his attention was that he was a bachelor for a good reason. He didn't want an intimate connection with a woman because it would be unfair to the woman. He was a loner. An adventurer. True, he hadn't had time to spend amusing himself with adventures lately because his business had been taking all his time, but that didn't mean he had changed. He wasn't the kind of man who married. Indy lazily caressed his chest as she asked, "So, what are you going to do about Jim?" Without preamble, she had brought them back to the discussion they were having before they made love but, preoccupied with their personal dilemma, Parker didn't reply and Indy sat up. "Parker, he needs his company." And Parker needed to get out of this hotel room to think this through. He had been so sure giving in to their passion would eradicate their chemistry that it never crossed his mind that being intimate might make him feel things that were infinitely worse! But it had. Unless he got rid of these odd feelings he now had for her, he would never be able to work with her. Still, knowing he couldn't ignore her concerns about Jim, Parker slid out of bed saying, "Indy, Jim sold his company. And now he has to live with it." Without another word he gathered his clothes and slipped into the bathroom.
*** Indy fell back on the bed. Parker had said he'd wanted to obliterate their chemistry and she'd agreed to making love on those terms, so though it hurt to have him walk away without a backward glance, she couldn't complain. She would mourn privately. No one — especially not Parker — would know how much it hurt to have him, albeit only for one afternoon, and then lose him. But in spite of her own pain, she wasn't going to let Jim be the sacrificial victim. When Parker came out of the bathroom, she was dressed and ready to continue their conversation. "Look," she said as Parker walked to the bedside table, then simultaneously slid into his shoes and grabbed his car keys and wallet as if he couldn't wait to escape. "We made an agreement when we decided to stop here and make love." She held his gaze on the words make love because as far as she was concerned that was what they had done. "But I won't let you use Jim to start an argument so that…" "Our making love has nothing to do with my deal with Jim. He signed a contract. He is now bound." This time Parker held her gaze. "I want that company without Jim Raymond. If you can't deal with that, now is the time to tell me." Indy stared at Parker, realizing he wasn't using Jim to start an argument. This was how he really felt. Still holding her gaze, Parker coldly said, "I told you, I always hire new management." With those familiar words hanging in the air Indy recognized that Parker had been saying and doing straightforward, calculating things all along. But her mistake wasn't so much that she'd misunderstood him but that she'd fallen in love with a man who didn't exist. Parker Taggert wasn't anything like the man she'd built him into in her fantasies, yet the pain in her heart was very real. She smiled weakly. "Okay. I understand," she said, then walked out of their room and to the car. She didn't say a word until he stopped in front of her house, then she leaned over, kissed his cheek and pulled away.
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"You were right. Making love did do a number on our chemistry," she said, not really lying, just giving herself a graceful way out of this. She swallowed back the tears that suddenly formed in her eyes as she realized how desperately she wished he was the man she'd thought him to be. "I don't think we should see each other again. In fact, I'm not going to San Francisco with you."
Chapter Nineteen Parker didn't argue with Indy. Half of him desperately wanted to because he knew he'd never see her again, and that gave him a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. But the other half of him knew he wasn't the kind of guy to get married or be in any kind of committed relationship. If he called her back, even just to convince her to work with him, eventually he would hurt her. He packed and was out of Boston before nightfall, positive that Indy not coming to San Francisco with him was the right thing. But at his own desk on Monday morning, a place where he shouldn't even be thinking about a woman who had never been in his office, he missed her. Worse, he suddenly saw every business decision in terms of how Indy would see it, or how she could help him, or how damn cute she'd look intently focused on a new project. When he was still thinking about Indy the following Monday morning, he reviewed Jim Raymond's contract and the original business plan for Raymond Enterprises, hoping he was only obsessed with her because he had refused to listen to her observations about Jim. When he realized that Jim's ideas for expansion had been brilliant and that only his physical limitations precluded Jim from implementing his ideas, Parker saw what Indy had instinctively seen but couldn't yet put into words because she didn't have the experience. Jim really was the guy to take Raymond Enterprises where it could go. He simply needed help. Deciding that rectifying the situation with Jim would help exorcise Indy's ghost, Parker dictated a revised agreement, which allowed Jim to stay on as president of his company by hiring additional staff to assist him. When it was ready Thursday afternoon, he returned to Boston so he could get Jim to sign the updated version on Friday. Knowing Indy no longer worked for Lloyd Winters because Emily had found her a new job, Parker dialed Lloyd's number on his cell phone as he walked through the airport Thursday night. "Hey, buddy, mind if I stay the weekend with you?" "Parker, you couldn't have better timing! I'm having the guys over for poker tonight!" Though Parker said, "I don't want to intrude…" something inside his heart leaped. This was exactly what he needed. A night of doing the things he'd enjoyed doing before his company stole all his time. "Intrude! Don't be silly! It's poker, beer and pretzels. One more guy at the table just means more money I can win." Parker laughed, but an hour later, sitting at a poker table, cigar in his mouth, bourbon and water at his side and a sweet straight flush in his hand, he was bored. "I'm going for more ice," he said, not surprised when Lloyd followed him. He suspected Lloyd wanted him to ask about Indy, so he decided to address the issue head-on and get it out of the way. "Did you help her get her job?" "No. Emily handled it alone." He paused then said, "Indy's a bright girl." He smiled fondly. "She's very happy now."
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Pretending to be loosening the ice cubes, Parker snapped the tray, nearly breaking it in half. He'd never spent one minute bored in Indy's company, and she was happy without him. "Good." "Yep. We're all proud of our little Indy." He paused. "I'm thinking of matching her up with one of the guys." Parker's mouth fell open. "Which guys?" "The ones at the poker table," Lloyd replied as if Parker were dense for not knowing. "My sister reminded me I have a whole staff of senior vice presidents, most of whom are single. I want one of them to marry Emily. But that still leaves me with five…." Thinking of the handsome, educated, eligible men at the poker table, Parker only stared at Lloyd. The CEO of Wintersoft was smiling with glee, but to Parker there was nothing funny about the situation. The next time he saw Indy, it might be at a dinner party Lloyd hosted to announce her engagement.
Chapter Twenty On Friday afternoon, Indy drove home in the nice new sedan her new job had allowed her to buy and had dinner with her mother. But when her mother left to see a movie with a friend, Indy was alone. Just like she suspected she would always be. No one would ever fill the shoes of her fantasy version of Parker Taggert and she'd spend the rest of her life lonely, longing for a man who didn't exist. A persistent pounding on her front door intruded on her depressing thoughts and when she opened it and saw Parker Taggert standing on the threshold, she thought she was hallucinating. "I nullified the original deal with Jim Raymond and created a new one," he said, not bothering to say hello. "You were right. Jim was the right guy to continue running Raymond Enterprises." Not sure why he felt she needed to hear this and not enamored with the real Parker Taggert the way she was with her fantasy version, Indy said, "That's great," then tried to close the door. But he shoved his foot between the door and its frame and stopped her. "You and I have to talk. I know Emily helped you find a job, but I want you to quit and come to San Francisco with me." So that was it! She had seen something he missed in the Raymond deal, and now he wanted her on his team again. "I don't think so." She tried to close the door again, but he stopped her again. "Look, I know I said that making love would kill our chemistry, but it didn't work that way for me. In fact, it sort of made things worse." "And this is my problem because…?" "Because there wouldn't be a problem if you'd marry me." Positive she hadn't heard him correctly, she gasped. "You want me to marry you?" "I love you." He sighed and combed his fingers through his hair. "I knew it the day we made love. I fought it because I knew I was the kind of guy who liked adventure and that I'd probably end up hurting you. But last night when Lloyd started talking about fixing you up with one of his senior vice presidents I realized I was a much better match for you than any one of those guys. More than that, though, I suddenly saw that living with you would be fun and exciting and all the adventure I'd ever need. You're everything I want. Just the way you are. I wouldn't ever hurt you. I'm sorry it took me two weeks to figure that out." He caught her gaze. "Really sorry."
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Indy could only stare at him. Just as she'd always thought, there was a sweet sincere man inside that spectacular body. "Say you'll marry me." "I'll marry you!" Indy said, then leaped into his arms. "I love you, too! I can't imagine my life without you." "Good, because we make a good romantic team, but we make just as good a business team. We're going to be working together, living together, sleeping together. You might get pretty damned tired of me," Parker said, grinning. She stopped his words with a smacking kiss. "I doubt it." Holding her tightly, Parker sighed with relief. "Good. Now, would you like to find another cheap but effective Holiday Inn, or can I make love to you in your own bed?" "My bed is fine," she said, then took his hand and led him upstairs, absolutely positive they were both entering into the adventure of a lifetime.
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Bedtime Battles by Meredith Efken To: Readers From: eHarlequin.com Subject: Bedtime Battles Dulcie Huckleberry is desperate to get her stubborn three-year-old OUT of the family bed. Jocelyn Millard is desperate to get her sleepwalking, over-protective mother-in-law to GO HOME. Zelia Muzuwa is desperate to convince her penny-pinching husband that colorful murals in the bedrooms WON'T bring down the resale value of their home. And moderator Rosalyn Ebberly is desperately trying to keep them all on topic! Meet the women of SAHM I Am as they share their highs, lows and everyday woes via email in this exclusive prequel!
Chapter One From: Thomas Huckleberry
To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: Chance of a lifetime Hey, sweetheart! How would you like to go on an all-expense paid trip to Hawaii? All we would have to cover is your airline ticket. Here's the deal — work wants to send me to a one-week computer programming conference in Honolulu, and they said we could bring spouses. It's in a month. Wanna go? Love ya, Tom
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I get to go to Hawaii!!!! With Tom!!! He has to go to a conference for work, but I can hang out on the beach for a whole week! But wait — that would require me to wear a SWIMSUIT! As in, letting total strangers see parts of me I can hardly bear to look at in the privacy of my own bathroom. Do I even own a swimsuit? Omaha isn't exactly a beach town, you know. UGH, shopping for a swimsuit does to my self-image what a tornado does to a town. Not pretty! I'd do a workout blitz, but apparently my gym membership has expired. Would have been nice for them to tell me. I showed up one day just to check out a Pilates class, and they had the nerve to tell me I hadn't darkened the door since May of 2003. Is it my fault I've been too busy? Maybe I can find a suit that looks more like shorts and a tank top? Aloha to you all! Dulcie
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From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! My dear Stay-At-Home Moms, I just had to comment on dear Dulcie's email. Dulcie, how can you even bear the thought of leaving your babies for something so transient as a Hawaiian vacation? Trips will come and go, but each day with your children is like a little snowflake — no two are alike, and they vanish with each new sunrise. Cheerio! Rosalyn Ebberly SAHM I Am Loop Moderator “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: Hawaii I wish Rosalyn would "vanish with the sunrise," don't you? Seriously, so NOT fair, Dulcie-babe! Consider me officially jealous! I'm sitting here trying to convince Tristan that my idea of painting wall-size murals in the kids’ bedrooms is a great way to decorate the house. I want to do A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte and Starry Night, and he's being a total stick-inthe-mud about it. He’s a CPA, you know, and so it’s always about money, investments and the resale value of the house. Apparently, he isn’t convinced that people will consider hand-painted murals by the yet-to-berenowned artist Zelia Muzuwa a good selling point for the house. Never mind that he doesn’t want to move until we have the house paid off — three trillion years from now. Grrr… Z
From: Connie Lawson To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Dulcie, that's wonderful news! I wouldn't worry about the swimsuit — you should wear a cover-up, anyway. Skin cancer's a killer, you know. And don't think that just because you're Latino, you can skip the sunscreen. What are you going to do with your kiddos? Just thrilled for you! Wish it was me! Connie SAHM I Am Loop Mom
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From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Never fear, I'm well aware of the dangers of skin cancer for us "women of color." :) And the kids — we've got that all under control. Dulcie
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Thomas Huckleberry Subject: KIDS!!! Tom, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH THE KIDS???? The twins aren't sleeping more than five hours a night, and McKenzie refuses to sleep in her own bed. She's been sleeping with me the whole time you've been gone on this consulting gig. It just figures — I probably won't get to go anywhere romantic and exotic like Hawaii until I'm so old, wrinkled and sagging that I'd have to wear my bikini top around my stomach. Why didn't we wait another, oh, 500 years or so before we had kids??? Dulcie
Chapter Two
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Zelia Muzuwa , The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: Hawaii Good news! I talked to my parents, and they are willing to take the girls, IF McKenzie can be taught to sleep in a bed of her own. For whatever reason, my parents don't want McKenzie even in their room at night, much less in the bed. They act as if they needed privacy in case they have a "marital moment" or something. Ewww!!!! Bad visual! *shudder* But I got this book — Teach Your Child to Sleep Alone in 18 Days. It has a full schedule and checklists, and everything. I'm sure it will work out great. After all, it says it has helped over twenty-five thousand children learn to sleep in their own beds since its first publication. My child can't possibly be worse than twenty-five thousand other kids, right? We're starting tonight. I'll let you know what happens in the morning. Dulcie
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From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: Zelia Muzuwa Subject: Re: Hawaii She's optimistic, isn't she? Think it'll work? Jocelyn
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: Hawaii Are you kidding? Poor Dulcie. I predict a disaster in the making. Doesn't it just figure — so close to the trip of a lifetime, only to be thwarted by a three-year-old. Z
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: [SAHM I AM] The Family Bed Domestic Dears, Dulcie's post about needing resources for helping her daughter sleep in her own bed brought to mind a topic I've been meaning to address for a while. The Family Bed. LET THE CHILDREN COME, Jesus said! I certainly would never dream of REJECTING my children by refusing to welcome them into the warmth and security of sleeping next to me. Of course, your children may not find you nearly as comforting, but we can't all be equally gifted. Do you want your children to be scarred for life, beset with insecurity and lifelong baggage because you sent them a message of rejection, of being unworthy to share every moment of every day with you??? What is more important — privacy or your children's mental health? Be encouraged, dear moms, Rosalyn Ebberly SAHM I Am Moderator “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] The Family Bed
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Children scarred for life if they aren't spending every moment of every day with us? Rosalyn, dear, if that is true for you, I'd be very worried about what your older children have learned about how your younger children came into existence. Talk about scarred for life! Jocelyn
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] The Family Bed Jocelyn, dear, that was very inappropriate. We can't have these innocent young mothers corrupted by talk about procreation. Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: Zelia Muzuwa , Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: FW: Re: [SAHM I AM] The Family Bed THEN HOW DID THESE "INNOCENT YOUNG MOTHERS" BECOME MOTHERS IN THE FIRST PLACE??? Jocelyn
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: Dulcie Huckleberry , The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Decision Since you two gals are my best buds on the SAHM I Am email loop, and since we seem to need a way to vent about Rosalyn’s insanity on the loop, I'm hereby instituting the official "Green Eggs and Ham" email alias. I set up my email program so that all I have to do is type in "Green Eggs" and it will automatically send the message to both of you. If you do the same thing, then we can have our own little SAHM subgroup. What say you? Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: Zelia Muzuwa , Dulcie Huckleberry
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Subject: Re: Decision Sounds good, Z! But who is the Green Egg and who is the Ham? Jocelyn P.S. Oh no! My mother-in-law just pulled up in my driveway! What in the world? She lives in Arizona — what is she doing here? Gotta run…
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Decision Obviously, Z is the Ham. Joc, you and I can be the Green Eggs. What is your mother-in-law doing there? Okay, here's the plan for tonight — the book says that step one is Sleeping on a Pallet. All we have to do is put out a blanket pallet on the floor beside my bed and get McKenzie to sleep there instead of on the bed. That should be easy, right? I’ll be dreaming of Hawaii tonight! Dulcie
Chapter Three
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Mother-in-law Want to know why she showed up so unexpectedly yesterday? She had a DREAM! We were the Asparagus Family, like from Veggie Tales, and Tyler was Jr. Asparagus. He fell into a vat of hollandaise sauce and Mom woke up screaming that he was going to drown. Bizzare, huh? So she's convinced it was a sign from above or something, and she has come to keep an eye on all of us. Just great. I think it was more likely a divine sign that her cooking is the stuff of nightmares, but whatever. She's here to stay for a few days. So Dulcie, how did things go with McKenzie last night? Later! Jocelyn
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Mother-in-law
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Jocelyn, sorry to hear about your MIL. She obviously has deep-rooted issues about veggies. And, McKenzie? Well…you know, it was only the first night. These things do take time. I'm sure it will go better tonight. Not that it went badly by any means. Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Translation of Dulcie’s Note What Dulcie really means, Jocelyn, is that McKenzie didn't exactly kill her. I bet you that after our wise and gentle friend spent three hours coaxing and "patiently encouraging" her cherubic daughter to sleep on the luxurious pallet prepared for her slumber — meaning she probably had to do everything except sit on the child to make her stay put — she gave up out of sheer exhaustion and fell asleep, only to wake up in the morning to find said cherubic daughter had abandoned the pallet and lay cuddled in her arms. Right, Dulciebabe? Come on, admit it, my friend. You know I'm almost always right. Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Translation of Dulcie’s Note WRONG! You are SO wrong, Ms. "I'm always right." Let me delineate your mistakes for you: 1. On doing everything except sitting on the child — WRONG. I DID sit on the child! She kicked me in the crotch and I will probably never be able to sit down without pain again. 2. McKenzie did not abandon the pallet. She brought it with her and covered us both up with it. I wondered why I was drenched in sweat when I woke up, between her and the two sleeping bags, blanket and sheet on top of my regular comforter. So there! Face it, you were wrong. Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Translation of Dulcie’s Note Well, I did think she might bring the whole pallet to bed with her, but I thought mentioning it would make you sound too pathetic. Oops. Z
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From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: What Next? So what's next for the great Bed-dini?
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: What’s Next? What's next? I'm going to fly to Baltimore and short-sheet all Z's beds… :) Seriously, tonight is the Great Bait and Switch. I'll wait until she falls asleep in my bed and then simply scoop her up and carry her to her own room. Should be a piece of cake. Except I'm not letting myself even think about things like cake, anymore. Or food in general. I still have to go shopping for a swimsuit that won't make me look like a stuffed sausage. Oops — food metaphor. Bad, Dulcie. :( I'll be sure to tell you how the Bait and Switch goes. Wish me luck! Dulcie
Chapter Four
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: [SAHM I AM] Mother-in-Law My MIL is driving me nuts! She's on a mission to protect us from nameless Asparagus Peril! She's been calling security-system providers all day long, and when I said I was going to take Tyler to soccer practice, she clutched him to her and said, "NO! It's not safe!" From somewhere deep inside the cocoon that had become my MIL's embrace, I heard my son's voice. "Grandma, it's not safe to be smothered, either!" Jocelyn
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Painting murals
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My DH Tristan has NO creative vision! All I want is to paint two wall murals in my kids' rooms. Fine art! Cultural exposure at a young age. And what does he care about? RESALE VALUE of the house! Are we planning to move? No! So what is his problem??? Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Hey, you two! Cheerful today, aren't you? Well, let me pull up a chair and pour myself a glass of "whine" with you. It turns out that McKenzie is being a bit more of a challenge than I had expected. Last night's Bait and Switch wasn't exactly as successful as I'd hoped. I stayed up late, waiting for her to fall asleep. I crept up the stairs. Peeked into the room. Listened to her steady breathing. I tiptoed to the bed, cringing at every creak of the floor, but she didn't even twitch. I stared down at her, looking so sweet and peaceful. And I thought to myself… WHY CAN'T THEY ALWAYS BE ASLEEP???? Anyway, I held my breath. Bent over so slowly. Slipped one hand under her head, and one arm under her knees. No response. So I braced myself to lift her gently from the bed. As soon as her head left the pillow, she popped open both eyes, and wrinkled her little nose. Staring at me with suspicion, she asked, perfectly awake, "Whatcha doing, Mommy?" ARGGGGHHHHH!!!!! Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Hey, you two! Dulcie, darling, I won't say, "I told you so" because I'm a good friend who loves you. So even though I did tell you so, I won't remind you of that, out of mercy for you. So I'm not saying "I told you so" because I'm sure you remember I did. Hugs, Z (Your sweet, cuddly Ham)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham”
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Subject: Re: Hey, you two! Yeah. Thanks loads, Z. See if I send you even so much as a pineapple from Hawaii. :P I'll have you know, tonight is going to be a whole new approach. I have sitting here next to me a headband with furry brown bear ears attached to it, and a curly yellow paper wig. We are going to play "Goldilocks and the Perfect Bed" tonight. McKenzie gets to be Goldilocks, of course, and the point is to show her that her bed is the Perfect Bed. The book says this is a powerful role-playing game and often is the turning point in the sleeping-alone process. Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Goldilocks? Dulcie, babe, are you sure this book has been successful with twenty-five thousand kids? Maybe you'd be better off suing them for false advertising and then hiring a nanny to stay with McKenzie. Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Goldilocks? Just you wait. I was in theater in college. In fact, I played the part of the cow in Charlotte's Web. My "Moooooo" was a showstopper. Oh, wait, no, what stopped the show was when I stepped on my tail midmoo and fell over backward into the pail of water Lurvy was supposed to throw in Mr. Zuckerman's face. But I digress. I'm sure my experience playing a cow will be vastly helpful in role-playing the three bears. Cows and bears are very similar — four legs, fur, tails, etc. Okay, maybe I'm a little nervous. But it's just pre-role-play jitters, I'm sure. It will go great. Dulcie
Chapter Five
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: [SAHM I AM] Sleepwalking Is this dangerous? Jocelyn
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From: Zelia Muzuwa To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Sleepwalking Of course not! I've been doing it for years — ever since my kids were born. In fact, most of my sleep is done walking, or while cleaning the house or driving the kids to activities…or while listening to my husband talk. When else would I find time for it? Multitasking: It's a beautiful thing. Which kiddo is doing the sleepwalking, Jocelyn? Ciao! Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Sleepwalking It's not my children — It's my MIL!!! I'm serious — my nearly-sixty-year-old mother-in-law came downstairs last night and told Shane and I that "the mice in the crib were being too noisy!" I was like, "Huh???" What mice? What crib? She got very upset and insisted there were mice in the crib that were being too noisy. In the corner of my eye I could see Shane's newspaper, like a hot-air balloon, rise slowly until it stopped in front of his face and began to tremble like a leaf on a tree. I think I heard some snorting noises from behind said newspaper. So, struggling to keep a straight face, while my husband abandoned me to deal with his clearly irrational mother, I explained to her that there were no mice in the crib. Only baby Audra. She proceeded to STAMP her foot and say, "The mice are making a noise like this!" And then she wrinkled up her face and made the funniest squeaking noises. Even her nose wiggled. What I wouldn't have given to have had my video camera. Then, just as I was wondering how to get her to go back to bed, it was like a mist cleared, and she looked at me and said, "Why aren't you in bed, Jocelyn?" I stood there gaping at her until she shrugged, turned around, and went back to bed. Shane burst out laughing as soon as she was gone. He could hardly breathe! I was a little freaked out, but Shane said, "She's done that for years. Don't worry about it. Sounds like it was Audra's fussing that triggered it." "YEARS?" I screeched. "We've been married for ten years and you never told me your mother was a SLEEPWALKER! That's weird!" He snickered some more and said, "Well, usually, kids outgrow it, but she never did. It used to be a regular source of amusement when we were growing up. She never hurts herself." "You never told me!"
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"Yeah I did." So, of course, we ended up in the "Did not, did too" argument, like two five-year-olds. But don't you think I'd remember something as weird as that about my MIL? Jocelyn, who is tired and would like to LIE DOWN and take a nap.
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Sleepwalking Joc, Your MIL is like Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth! Rock on, Mrs. Millard! Or, should I say, “Walk” on? :) “I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.” (Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 1) Z
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: [SAHM I AM] LOOP MODERATOR NOTICE Sonambulant SAHMs, Please remember this is a loop focused on mothering, therefore the various extraneous comments about sleepwalking are in direct violation of that focus. Please stay ON TOPIC! Blessings, Rosalyn Ebberly SAHM I Am Loop Moderator “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Goldilocks I wish my daughter would sleepwalk — right out of my bedroom! You want to hear how the “Goldilocks and the Perfect Bed” went? Here you go… As soon as we got to the part about MY side of the bed being "too soft" and Daddy's side of the bed being "too hard," she froze, a look of sudden comprehension coming over her face. Then her little eyes narrowed, and she put her hand on her hip.
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"Mommy," she said, "You're sneaky." Then she crawled onto my "too-soft" bed and said, "This bed JUST RIGHT!" That little whimpering sound you just heard was not your dog. It was me. :( Dulcie P.S. WHY IS THERE WATER DRIPPING FROM THE CEILING? The only thing above here is…McKenzie's bedroom. Oh dear…
Chapter Six From: Zelia Muzuwa To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: [SAHM I AM] Good news, bad news Good News: Tristan finally decided he's okay with the idea of me painting a mural in the kids' bedrooms!!! Bad News: Seamus wants the Rescue Heroes on his wall, Griffith wants BARNEY! And Cosette? She said she wanted the ballerinas. I'm thinking she means Degas…. Finally, at least one of my children shows some cultural aptitude. But NOOOOO — she didn't mean Degas. She meant the little obnoxious ballerina mouse from England that's all the rage right now with girls her age. UGH! Where did I go wrong??? Z
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Good news, bad news Oh, Zelia, I'm so sorry to hear about your children's disappointing reaction to that fabulous idea of painting murals in their rooms. I guess I'm just very blessed — my children were able to identify paintings and artists from their little art flashcards when they were still practically babies! Suzannah's first word was "da Vinci!" Isn't that adorable? You have to remember, the key is exposure. Sure, if you let your children watch those poor quality, massmarketed television cartoons, their tastes will be less refined than, say, MY children. Obviously, there has been some damage done. But hopefully if you make changes now, you can still salvage at least some of their cultural awareness and sensitivity. I would recommend an immediate remedial program of art appreciation cards, a membership to your local art museum, and professionally taught art classes if at all possible. It is vitally important to your child's development to have an understanding of the arts. They will be smarter and more confident. Don't despair, dear Zelia. Just turn off that TV! With love, Rosalyn
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“She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Rosalyn I'd like to find a remote and press her MUTE button!!! Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Rosalyn Poor Z! But don't be too hard on dear Rossie. You know she suffers from SAD, right? That's Seasonally AGGRAVATING Disorder, in case you were getting it confused with another disorder. She's aggravating in spring, summer, fall and winter. But this summer seems to be worse than normal. Well, my MIL stayed horizontal the entire night last night. She refused to talk about the "mice in the crib" incident. But she did mention that maybe she'd be going on home in a few days since it seems like we're all okay. How did someone so very strange give birth to my very normal husband? Jocelyn P.S. Dulcie, what happened with the water dripping?
From: Thomas Huckleberry To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: How’s It Going? Hey, sweetie, How are things going with McKenzie? Any progress? I'm sorry you're having to handle this all by yourself. I miss you. Wish I could have come home this weekend. Love, Tom
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Thomas Huckleberry
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Subject: Re: How’s It Going? Things are just fine here. I think I'm making progress with McKenzie. Everything is Under Control. You just keep thinking about Hawaii. I can hardly wait! Love and smooches and hugs and cuddles, Dulcie
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Oh NO!!! Girls, what am I going to do??? Our contractor just came to look at the water damage on the house. THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS!!! Here's what happened… Apparently, McKenzie decided to put her bed to a much better (in her mind) use. She tried to make it a FLOWER bed, complete with artificial flowers stuck between the wall and the mattress. Like the Mary Quite Contrary that she is, she had them all in a row, and decided… THEY NEEDED TO BE WATERED!!! By the time I walked in, her entire floor was wet. It's a wood floor, too. With a couple of knot-sized holes in it from where they ran electrical wires and pipes years ago. The holes made great drains to the computer room downstairs, thus the water damage. She just stood there looking innocent, a plastic washbasin in her hands still sloshing with the telltale water. I was so mad I yelled at her. "Why would you use REAL water on FAKE flowers? Why not fake water???" She stuck out her bottom lip. "Because I was all out of fake water, Mommy. And they needed a drink." Someone just please shoot me now. Dulcie P.S. I'm heading out to go shopping. The book says to let McKenzie pick out a Super-Special pillow and blanket for her very own Super-Special bed. At first I didn't see why I should buy her any presents when she has cost me my entire grocery bill for a week. But then I thought of Hawaii, and decided that bribery is entirely too underrated.
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: What did I do to deserve this??? We just got home from shopping. I am now $500 poorer. And likely to have a much shorter life span once my husband finds out. Dulcie
Chapter Seven 613
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: Re: What did I do to deserve this??? Dulcie-babe, What sort of outrageous pillow and blanket did you get for $500??? It had at least better be diamond encrusted and be able to wash, dry and fold itself, and put itself in the closet. Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Shopping with Children I really hate shopping with children. When we got to Home Sweet Home to buy McKenzie her Super-Special pillow and blanket, I discovered that my double stroller has a broken wheel, so I was stuck using two carts — one for each twin in their baby carriers, with McKenzie sitting in the front of one cart. So I'm trudging down the aisles, dragging one cart behind me and trying to steer the second with one hand. The other shoppers give me dirty looks because my entourage takes up all the space. Then, I cut a corner a little too close and end up knocking over a display of brightly colored plastic pitchers and water glasses. One of the pitchers conks an elderly woman on the head, and the rest scatter in a brilliant rainbow jumble down the aisle and across the Persian rugs. I try to help pick up the mess, but a store clerk waves me off, practically begging me to take myself and my two carts of trouble out of the area. And we haven't even made it to the bedding yet! At last, we reach the bedding. But McKenzie doesn't want a Super-Special pillow and blanket. She wants to get down and run around under the shower curtains across the way. I choose a really cute Strawberry Shortcake pillow, and hand it to her. "Look, McKenzie, don't you want this for your very own bed?" I try to make my voice chipper and full of adventure, as if sleeping in one's own bed is better than an entire month's worth of Sesame Street. She grabs Strawberry out of my hands and bops Aidan over the head with it, waking her from a nap. Aidan starts to cry, which wakes up Haley, who starts to cry, too. I take the pillow back and scold McKenzie who then joins her sisters in a loud wail. "So I take it you don't like the Strawberry Shortcake pillow," I say, trying to keep my voice soothing and cheerful. What I'd really like to do is throw the pillow on the floor and jump on it, like they do in the cartoons, until the stuffing flies. But I am the mature mother who remains unruffled, even in the face of one howling preschooler and two wailing six-month-olds. I resist the urge to join them, put the pillow in the cart and grab the matching bedspread. Then I make my way back to the front of the store, navigating the two carts, trying not to knock over anything breakable, and stopping every so often to pick up the pillow McKenzie keeps throwing out of the cart. The whole way I keep my head down and avoid looking anyone in the eyes, so as not to have to see either their disgust or pity.
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We're nearing the checkout counter, and I can see it beckoning like home plate. But I was so focused on reaching it that I didn't see The Platter. This is not an ordinary platter. Oh no. It's ornately cut crystal, rising like a divine being from a silver pedestal around which are arrayed worshipful crystal stemware. Can we say "Mommy's Nightmare?" As I said, I didn't see it until it was even with our cart. So I was unable to stop McKenzie from flinging the pillow out of the cart…straight into the crystal cathedral. In my mind, it's like slow motion. The pillow hurtles toward the platter, just brushing one of the stemware devotees. Like a Weeble, it wobbles for a second, but does not fall down. But I don't have time to even breathe in relief. The pillow strikes the platter, which disappears backward off the pedestal. The stemware scatters with the demise of their object of worship. I lunge to catch the platter, and end up knocking it about three feet off its intended trajectory. I hear myself scream, just as the entire display crashes in a rain shower of glittering shards across the tile floor. There is silence for a moment. The floor looks like my driveway after a hailstorm. I don't dare move. I peek at the kids, who are staring at me in abject awe. They don't appear to be hurt. I hear a tiny McKenzie voice. "Cool, Mommy! Do it 'gain?" I used to dream of owning crystal like that. Dreams come true, sometimes, to the tune of $500. Congratulations, Dulcie, you are now the proud owner of a box of very high-quality crystal shards. They'll make lovely confetti for a dinner party if I survive motherhood long enough to host one. Did I mention I HATE shopping with children? Dulcie
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Shopping with Children Oh, my poor dear Dulcie! What a horrible experience! I'm so sorry that happened to you. I can't undo what happened, but I have taken the liberty of posting some encouragement for you and the other moms on the loop. Check it out. Blessings, Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]>
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Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Shopping with Children Wow, thanks, Rosalyn. That's really sweet of you. Not what I expected at all. I'll go check out the loop right now. Dulcie
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Shopping with Children Graceful Gals, I wanted to take a moment and respond to Dulcie's unfortunate accident. There's a lesson for all of you to learn from it — you must TRAIN your children how to behave in stores. That's right! There's no reason to have children who knock over expensive crystal displays, or who fight and whine. I've attached a suggestion list for ways to improve your child's shopping behaviors. Please note particularly #23 about never letting the child hold the merchandise, and #47 about maintaining a safety buffer of nineteen inches between the cart and the nearest shopping obstacle. Trust me, these tips work. MY children certainly never cause problems on shopping trips. The store clerks regularly offer them suckers (which they always forego in favor of organic rice cakes spread with organic, fat-free, unsalted cashew butter once we get home) and invite us back. Rosalyn SAHM I Am Loop Moderator “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: GRRRRR!!! Cashew butter? CASHEW BUTTER??? I'll show HER cashew butter — with a handful of crystal shards thrown in just for free! And I thought she was being nice to me. My gullibility really knows no bounds. As for The Moment of Truth… I get the blanket and pillow out of the bag and call McKenzie. She is now ecstatic about them and hugs them, pronouncing them her "favewit." So the next step is to have her place them on her bed, to establish her ownership of her bed. I take her by the hand, lead her upstairs, chattering happily about how she gets to put them on HER bed. At the top of the stairs, she pulls free of my hand with an excited squeal. I'm thinking she will run to her room, unable to wait a second longer to have her SuperSpecial things on her own bed. But she turns the opposite way, and heads for MY room, where she knocks my pillow off my bed, and puts her new pillow in its place. Then she grins up at me. "Dis plillow for you, Mommy." Before I can protest, she grabs my pillow, and curls up in Tom's place.
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I was too tired to argue. And besides, the book says not to push the issue yet. The Strawberry Shortcake pillow was surprisingly comfortable, actually. Uh-oh, McKenzie is crying. She sounds frustrated, which means a toy probably isn't working for her. I hear the word "Stwaberry Shor-cake"…and "plilow"…and… TOILET????? Gotta go! D
Chapter Eight
From: Connie Lawson To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] The Family Bed Hi Loopers! I’m sorry I wasn’t able to respond to Rosalyn’s post about family beds earlier. We’re getting ready to go on our summer vacation. But I just want to point out that family beds aren’t at all practical when you have FIVE children! Can you imagine the chaos if all seven of us tried to fit in our bed at once? But I have to ask, Rosalyn, since when do you and Chad do a family bed? I’ve been over at your house a million times and all your kids sleep in their own rooms, just like mine do. So is this a new thing or what? Connie Lawson SAHM I Am Loop Mom
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: Connie Lawson Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] The Family Bed Connie, dear, I know you meant well, but please don’t discuss my personal sleeping arrangements on the loop. Can’t you tell when I’m simply trying to make a point with these ladies and broaden their minds to other perspectives? It’s part of my job as loop moderator! Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] The Family Bed
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My Lovely Loopers, Connie is quite right — my children almost always choose to sleep in their own beds. But that’s not the point. The point is that we are willing to have a family bed. However, we are blessed with children who are independent and confident, and don’t feel the need to do something as childish as sleeping with their parents. If you go back and reread my original posts about family beds, you’ll see that this is what I was actually saying, and Connie simply has misunderstood again. Blessings, Rosalyn Ebberly SAHM I AM Loop Moderator “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: When it rains, it pours… Remember the Stwaberry Shor-cake Plilow and the toilet last night? *sigh* McKenzie must really hate that pillow. She tried to flush it down the toilet! She had it shoved about halfway down and was in the process of using those big, fat toddler crayons to stuff it down even farther when I caught up with her. “McKenzie!” I cried. She glanced up from her work in the toilet, and I tell you, she had a snarl on her face. She jammed harder with the crayons, and then, before I could stop her, she flushed the toilet. I heard a big GLUG, a pop and a gurgle. Then, like some sort of alien blob, the water rose in the toilet and over the top. Onto the floor. With little flecks of crayon floating in it. I stared at McKenzie, wondering what on earth I could safely do to her to express my displeasure. She stared back at me, defiant, yet scared, as if she were wondering the same thing. All the stuff that flashed through my mind would be likely to result in jail time, so I settled for grabbing the crayons from her hand, pointing at the door, and watching her slink out of the room. But when she stopped a moment to patter around in a puddle, I about lost it. “GO!” I shouted, and she ran, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the wood floor. Then I had to call a plumber. He charged me $300!!! This means that so far, in three days, my daughter has cost us over a thousand dollars. THREE DAYS! So much for a cheap trip to Hawaii! At this rate, we’ll have to take out a second mortgage on the house just to get to the airport. And how am I going to tell Tom? He’ll be livid. Dulcie
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: When it rains, it pours… Pray for me, girls — the phone just rang. It’s Tom. Dulcie
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Chapter Nine
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Tom’s reaction Hey Ms. Green Egg #2 and Ms. Ham, Okay, so Tom called last night. He said he’d gotten a call from a PLUMBER, and could I please explain what is going on? (I couldn’t figure out why they called him until I remembered that I’d given them his cell phone number, if they couldn’t reach me. Nothing like shooting my own foot.…) So I choked out a convoluted explanation about the flushed pillow. He said, “What pillow?” So I choked out another explanation about the origins of the Super-Special pillow, which is now SuperSoaked. By the time I got to the part about The Crystal Platter, I could hear a raspy gasp on the other end of the line. And silence. “And how much was the…” he trailed off, like he couldn’t even bring himself to say it. “About five-hundred dollars,” I whispered. I heard a wheezing groan. Then, “And another three-hundred for the plumber, right?” “Um, yeah. But —” “Eight hundred dollars.” His voice was just a murmur “Well, actually…” “What?” I hadn’t told him about the Real Water for Fake Flowers incident yet. When I finished telling him, there was a ten-second pause — I could almost hear him counting to ten — but it didn’t help him control his temper. I’m not sure exactly what he said because he started yelling so loud, I had to move the phone about two feet from my ear. I could still hear the rumbling from the phone, but I couldn’t make out all the words. But the phrases, “Eleven hundred stinking dollars!” and “That stupid, idiotic book!” seemed to figure largely in the outburst. Finally, the eruption subsided. I gingerly put the phone back to my ear. “Honey?” “What.” Still rumbly. “It’s not the book’s fault.…” Wrong thing to say. There was an aftershock that lasted another three minutes. I knew I’d need to tread more carefully. He at last suggested we take it out of savings, reminding me it meant we’d have very little spending money for Hawaii. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean for things to get so crazy.” This went over much better.
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“It’s okay, Dulcie. I’m sorry for yelling. It just came as a shock. Try to be more careful, please?” So everything is okay now. Sort of. Thanks for praying. Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Tom’s reaction That’s so rough, Dulcie-babe. I’m sorry! Hey, Tristan had a similar “eruption” when I told him how much it cost to buy the paints for the wall murals. Only, since he is from Zimbabwe and has a voice like James Earl Jones, half his rant was in Zimbabwean and the other half made me want to swoon and kiss him. (Even when he’s mad, that English accent and deep voice is just SO hot!) Here’s hoping your kiddo doesn’t destroy anything else on her way to her own bed. Love ya! Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Tom’s reaction Poor Dulcie! I wish I could help you out. At least you have the money in savings. We’d have had to take out a loan. By the way, why am I Green Egg number TWO? I’m older than you. :) Hugs, Jocelyn
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Tom’s reaction Jocelyn, you’re number TWO for that very reason — you’re older, so chronologically, your age will always come after mine. :) (I always like to think of logic as being a convenient way to rationalize, don’t you?) And Z, lucky you. When Tom yells, his voice gets all high-pitched and strangled sounding. Makes me want to clamp my hands over my ears and howl like a dog, not kiss him. I don’t know what to do…maybe Rosalyn is right. Maybe the kids just aren’t old enough to be left with grandparents. Maybe I should just give up the whole Hawaii idea. But I just know that I won’t ever have this sort of a chance again. I feel so guilty. A good mom would never want to leave her kids and go on a dream vacation. Or end up causing a thousand dollars of damage in the attempt. Right?
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Chapter Ten
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> Subject: Dulcie Hi Rosalyn, Could you do a favor for me? Please lay off Dulcie and the family bed thing. You’re making her feel guilty, and feel like she shouldn’t go to Hawaii. She’s really down about it. Thanks, Jocelyn
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: Dulcie Jocelyn, darling, I appreciate your concern for Dulcie. But perhaps what she is feeling is simply God telling her that I’m right. And once she stops fighting me, and God — of course, she’ll feel much better about things. Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> Subject: Re: Dulcie Rosalyn, Do I need to remind you what the Bible says about arrogance and pride? Jocelyn
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]>
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To: The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: Dulcie No, but you may need to remind yourself what it says about not taking up an offense for another person. If Dulcie has a problem with me, let her talk to me about it. Oh, you also might check what it says about respecting those in authority, too, since I am the moderator of this loop. Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Hear me SCREAM? SOME PEOPLE SHOULD HAVE THEIR TONGUES HOT-GLUED TO THE ROOF OF THEIR MOUTHS TO SHUT THEM UP. SOME PEOPLE SHOULD HAVE HONEY POURED DOWN THEIR THROATS TO SWEETEN THEM UP. SOME PEOPLE SHOULD BE MADE TO TEST MOSQUITO REPELLENT THAT DOESN’T WORK, JUST BECAUSE IT WOULD RESULT IN THOUSANDS OF BITES THAT WOULD BE AS IRRITATING AS THEY ARE! Listen to me, Dulcie. You need to go on that vacation to Hawaii and have a wonderful time, if for no other reason than to give Rosalyn a big, huge dose of the “I told you so’s.” PLEASE! Jocelyn
From: Thomas Huckleberry To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: Please don’t give up! Hi, sweetheart, I had a few minutes left on my lunch break and wanted to write to you. Please don’t give up on the Hawaii trip! I really want you to go with me. I wish I could help with the kids more. I know it’s hard. I’m really not that mad about the repair money. It’s just the way things go, I guess. But I am excited to see you in that new swimsuit you said you were going to buy. REALLY excited! *wink* Besides, if you don’t go with me, then I’ll have to room with my co-worker Steve. And his wife told me at a company picnic last week that he snores like a band saw. So my options are Snoring Co-worker or Wife in Swimsuit. No contest there. Please try to make the trip work. :)
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Love, Tom
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Thomas Huckleberry Subject: Re: Please don’t give up! Hi darling, Poor thing. I should make you room with Snoring Steve. Then you’d know how I feel when you’re home! My options are Snoring Husband (who looks pretty great in swimming trunks) or Child in Bed (and no beach or pineapples.) No contest there, either. Okay, I’ll keep on keeping on. The snoring reminded me that tonight is supposed to be the Exhaustion Method. If McKenzie won’t leave my room, then I have to keep her awake until she’s so tired, she’ll agree to go to her own room. That should work. Love you, Dulcie
Chapter Eleven From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Thomas Huckleberry Subject: Exhaustion Method for Getting Child to Sleep in Own Bed That did not work. Unless the point was to make ME so exhausted that I fell asleep, no longer concerned whether my child was in my bed or on the roof or behind the stove. I wasn’t lucky enough for her to choose either of the last two locations. Now I’m off to the mom’s group at church. But don’t worry. I’m not discouraged, anymore. I can be just as stubborn as McKenzie. Never let it be said that a three-year-old got the best of me! Much love, Dulcie
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: Praying for you! Dulcie, dear,
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I just wanted you to know I’m praying for you right now. I know you are frustrated with McKenzie, and I’m just asking the Lord to help you get over it and learn to view McKenzie as the blessing she is. I’m also asking the Lord to help you accept the lessons He may be trying to teach you, about priorities and responsibilities, and those sorts of things. I just know it will be a real blessing to you. In sisterly love, Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> Subject: Re: Praying for you! Hi, Rosalyn, Thanks so much for your prayers. I’m sure they were sincere and heartfelt. I’m praying for you, too. Really, really praying. Hard. We’re talking “storming the gates of heaven” on your behalf, my friend. Asking God for His mercy and divine protection for you. Because you are really going to need it. Boy, are you going to need it. By the truckloads. Trust me on this one.… Dulcie
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: What a day! Hey gals, So in addition to fending off predatory Rosalyn-prayers, I went to our mom’s group today. And the topic was Companionship. That’s really great. But the verse they chose was Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 where verse 11 says, “…if two lie down together they keep warm, but how can one be warm alone?” We were supposed to have a discussion about the verses at our tables. But I have to admit, I didn’t even wait to hear what the questions were. I was so mad about McKenzie and Rosalyn that I just started venting. “I don’t CARE about keeping warm!” I said. “I’ll tell you about two lying down together! It’s a mess. A disaster. You think ‘Sure, just for tonight it’ll be okay. Just this once.’ And before you know it, your bed has developed a cancerous lump that appears to be completely inoperable.” My voice started rising several decibel notches. “I would LOVE to be sleeping alone! I don’t care if I’m cold. If I’m cold, I’ll get a blanket, thank you very much. I’d get TEN blankets! Anything! Just as long as I could get THAT THING OUT OF MY BED!!!!!” In the ensuing silence, I could feel the eyes of every mother in the room staring at me. My discussion leader reached over and patted my hand. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, “Are things between you and Tom that bad?” I sputtered and gasped, trying to explain. “No! No, Tom and I are fine. Really.”
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She just squeezed my hand. “It’s okay to admit it. We’re all here to support you. But you really should probably be getting some counseling.” “No!” I insisted. “It’s not Tom that I want out of my bed!” Collective jaw-dropping gasp. I’d just made things a million times worse. Somehow, while my face felt like it was on the receiving end of a blowtorch, I managed to convince them that the person I wanted out of my bed was not Tom, nor some other adult. Just my daughter McKenzie. Everyone seemed very relieved, though my discussion leader still looked a little suspicious. Another mom at my table suggested sending her daughter, also three, over to spend the night. She figured that a sleepover would break the ice and get McKenzie excited about her own room. I know she was also thinking of a nice evening without her own child, but it seemed like a good suggestion for both of us. And there were several other moms who also were in favor of it. So in just an hour or so, she should be coming over. That will be nice, I think. McKenzie loves to play with other kids. And this girl is really sweet and well behaved. Unlike several of the other three-year-olds in the group. I bet they’ll have a great time playing. And besides, why would two girls having a sleepover want anything to do with the mom (or the mom’s bed?). This should work out great! Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: What a day! ”This should work out great!” Now where have we heard THAT before? :) Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Help! Oh my goodness, you guys! There’s been some sort of mistake. The mom brought her own daughter over for the sleepover, ALONG WITH THREE OTHER GIRLS! What am I going to do? These are the ones I was telling you about who are NOT well behaved. But I couldn’t turn them away. Their moms would be so offended at me if I did, and that would make the mom’s group a rotten place to be. But what on earth am I going to do with a sudden slumber party of five three-year-olds? This is a recipe for disaster.… Dulcie
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From: Zelia Muzuwa To: The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: Help! I just LOVE to be right! Told-You-So the Ham
Chapter Twelve
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: [SAHM I AM] What I’ve learned Dear Sahmmies, I learned a few things today:
1. If your MIL says she has a scary dream about you and wants to come move in for a couple of weeks to make sure everything is okay, shut the door, change the locks and get a restraining order if necessary, because otherwise she will ruin your life. 2. When said MIL tells you she smells smoke, give her a plastic bag. Tell her to put it over her head and tie the opening around her neck so she won’t smell whatever she’s smelling, anymore. 3. If MIL decides to call 911, and the firefighters arrive to find that what she smelled was just a bug frying in the halogen lamp, be prepared for really grumpy firefighters. 4. After firefighters get done lecturing you and your MIL for needless 911 calling, be prepared for MIL to tell you it’s all YOUR fault for not checking out where the smell was coming from before she called 911. On second thought, just save the plastic bag and use it yourself. Jocelyn
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] What I’ve learned Hey, Jocelyn, Send me that bag, my friend, because I’ve a mind to use it on Seamus. That six-year-old scamp just told little brother Griffith that the paints I bought for the mural were finger paints! There is now finger painting on the dining-room floor, down the hall, up the stairs, on the hall window, and — irony of ironies, on the walls in both bedrooms. This all happened in the amount of time it took me to do my hair this morning. Tristan is going to do his famous impression of a supernova for sure. Z
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From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: The need for plastic bags Now, Z, dear friend, don’t go getting greedy with the plastic bags. Save one for me. After the night I had, I just might need it. The impromptu slumber party was a disaster. There should be a law about how many three-year-olds can congregate in any given place at once. The limit should be…one. More than that is definitely criminal. What am I supposed to do with five preschoolers on short notice? I thought maybe they could watch a movie. So I found a dusty bag of microwave popcorn and popped it, and put on a DVD. But they weren’t interested in the movie and had more fun throwing the popcorn around the room, yelling, “It’s snowing, it’s snowing!” Then there was a chorus of “I’m thirsty.” So I gave them all some apple juice. And I opened a bag of sandwich cookies. The cookies have found their way into every crevice of this house! The floors are gritty with crumbs, and the couch practically crunches when you sit on it. And after three spilled glasses of juice (despite the no-spill lids), the house has a lovely fragrance of apples. Two girls, in addition to McKenzie, are still in diapers, and they both managed to do some incredibly smelly business. And another one wet her pants without telling me about it, so now the couch has a wet spot as well as cookie crumbs. They basically took over the whole house, leaving a trail of disaster from top to bottom. But I was still hopeful that we would achieve the objective. So when bedtime came, I told them all to run upstairs. I found them… IN MY ROOM!!! McKenzie was telling them, “This is where I sleep.” And she showed them all how to jump on my bed. I yelled at them to stop, and then… I must have been really tired or something, because I got a little dizzy and started to see stars. So I admit it. They won. I gave up, pulled out a sleeping bag, and retreated to the floor in defeat. A battle of wits between five three-year-olds and me is just not a fair fight. Ow! My muscles hurt. That floor is HARD. :( Dulcie
From: Thomas Huckleberry To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: A surprise… Hi sweetie, I get to come home this weekend! I’m leaving as soon as work is done tomorrow, and I should be home about 8:30 p.m. I know you’ve been working really hard with McKenzie, so I have a special surprise planned for you. You’re going to love it! All my love, Tom
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Chapter Thirteen
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Tom is coming home! Hey everyone, After a three-week absence, my DH is coming home! He emailed me last night to say he’s bringing home a surprise for me. Well, it must have started already, because this morning, I got a dozen roses! I could just faint! It’s been forever since he’s done anything this romantic for me! I wonder what the surprise is? Love, Dulcie
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Tom is coming home! Dear SAHMs, We really should rejoice with Dulcie’s good news! It sounds like it might be a while before we’ll get a chance to celebrate anything like that with her again. I don’t even bother telling the whole loop about all the wonderful, romantic things Chad does for me, but since the topic has come up, I’d love to share about what he did for me two weekends ago. He gave me THREE dozen roses, one dozen for each child I’ve given him. And then, he had his parents watch the kids overnight and took me to a B&B off of a lake. They had a rowboat, so we took it out on the lake and watched the sunset together, while he rubbed my feet. That evening, he had strewn the bed with chocolate kisses and rose petals. Ahh, sweet memories. Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Tom is coming home! Rosalyn, wasn’t that for your anniversary?
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From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Tom is coming home! Yes, it was! :) Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Tom is coming home! I thought it was your anniversary. Congratulations. Well, Tom is giving me a surprise for no reason at all. Just because he loves me. Isn’t it funny how a justbecause surprise is ever so much more romantic than an anniversary surprise? I guess it’s because he’s not obligated to do it. Dulcie
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Tom is coming home! Remind me, Dulcie, was it this past year or the one before when Tom forgot your anniversary? Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Grrrr… That’s what I get for trying to play one-upping with Rosalyn. Ick. I feel dirty. I need to take a shower. Whoa! Tom just got home! He is looking GOOD, and he smells divine, and he comes bearing gifts of a jazz CD, massage oil and chocolate cheesecake!!! I don’t think you’ll be hearing from this Green Egg the rest of the evening. *huge grin*
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He just went upstairs to put away his duffle bag. Hope he doesn’t wake up McKenzie. Uh-oh…I forgot about McKenzie. And I told Tom we were making progress, too. Where are we going to do the massage-oil-jazzcheesecake thing? HER room? I don’t think so! Now he’s calling for me. And he doesn’t sound happy. Better go. Dulcie
Chapter Fourteen From: Zelia Muzuwa To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: [SAHM I AM] Romantic things our husbands do
My husband finally stopped pouting about me having to buy new paint for my wall murals after my children decided to finger paint the house with it. Considering how furious he was, the gesture was romantic by comparison. Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: Zelia Muzuwa Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Romantic things our husbands do So how are you going to get the finger painting cleaned up?
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: The Millards <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Romantic things our husbands do I made Seamus help me clean most of it up before it had dried. The stuff on the walls I’ll just paint over. Seamus got the job of using an old toothbrush to get the paint out of all the cracks and joints in the floor. That took the starch out of him — for a whole fifteen minutes. *sigh* Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Here’s what happened
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Okay, so Tom called me upstairs last night. I guess McKenzie was asleep, but woke right up when he came into our room. She was thrilled to see Daddy, but Daddy wasn’t so happy to see her. At least not in his bed. When I got upstairs, he was standing in our doorway, arms folded across his chest. “Why is she in our bed?” DUH! Where has he been the last two weeks??? Oh yeah, at work. “That’s a dumb question.” “I thought you said you were making progress.” I knew he would throw that in my face. “Well, I’m progressing through the book, at least.” He sighed and shook his head. “I hate that book.” “Don’t blame the book!” “Well, it’s either blame the book, or blame you, Dulcie!” Ouch. That hurt. “I’m trying my best.” McKenzie wandered out at that point, looking a bit annoyed that we’d disturbed her beauty sleep. Tom set her outside in the hall, and then pulled me into the room and shut the door. Then he scooted my hope chest over until it was a couple of inches across the door. And then he sat on it. “No, you aren’t trying your best. She’s worse than she ever was before.” “What do you mean?” “At least the last time I came home, she would sleep on the floor. Now you can’t even get her to do that.” “She’s just testing me!” “Well, I’d say you were flunking out then!” At that moment, we both saw little fingers poke under the door frame. They wiggled at us, while a tiny voice said, “I can hear you, Mommy and Daddy! I can hear you! Can you see my fingers?” We tried to ignore her. Tom slumped on the cedar chest. “Look, it’s been three weeks since I’ve seen you. Three VERY long weeks. And I’m about to go crazy if I don’t get some time alone with my wife.” “I’m sorry. Really. I just don’t know what to do!” McKenzie, apparently dissatisfied with our lack of attention, began chanting, “Mommy and Daddy, I can hear you! Mommy and Daddy, I can hear you!” Forget about massage oil and chocolate cheesecake. Tom shoved the chest away from the door, grabbed his duffle bag and went downstairs to sleep on the couch. When I asked him why, he said, “McKenzie tosses and turns too much.” I spent the night tossing and turning, too. Seething with resentment about the little shape once again happily ensconced in my bed. I don’t know how I’m going to work it out with Tom so that we can have our romantic, PRIVATE rendezvous, but this one thing is certain. My daughter is messing with my marriage.
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THIS MEANS WAR! Dulcie
Chapter Fifteen From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: My son had an idea…
…of how to get rid of my MIL. He says he’s going to arrange for Grandma to rescue him, and then maybe she’ll think her dream of imminent danger was about to come true and that her presence was responsible for averting disaster, and then maybe… SHE WILL GO HOME! You know things are bad when you are fantasizing with your eight-year-old on ways to scare your MIL witless. But I think the daydreaming was therapeutic for us both. Tyler didn’t look nearly as hunted as he had been, and I know I was less grumpy. Too bad there’s nothing we can do for real. Jocelyn P.S. She sleepwalked again last night. This time, she was asking for tape. When we asked her why she wanted it, she said it was to clean out her belly button lint. Ewww!
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: My son had an idea… So what disasters did you come up with? How about having a huge pot of hollandaise sauce and let Tyler fall into it. No…wait. I think that’s been done before. Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: My son had an idea… Hah-hah. Very funny. But if she doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to go stark raving mad. And we’ve got stuff to do to get ready for school in the fall, and sports and dance classes and all our other activities. I can’t be spending every minute of my day keeping my eye on her. Tyler suggested that when we go to the lake later this week, he could act like he’s drowning. He’s actually a great swimmer. But he says if he did it when Grandma was nearby, maybe she could play the hero.
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I think he was just joking. But there was a bit of a fanatical gleam in his eyes. I told him if he tries anything like that for real, he’s going to be grounded to his room for at least a month, if not for the rest of his life. Jocelyn
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Update from the War Front Hi you two, I was going to try to write this entire email in war-language. But I don’t know how to speak military, and besides, after last night, the 1960s slogan of “Make love, not war” seems more appropriate. After McKenzie went to bed (in our bed, of course), I sat at the kitchen table, moping. The entire weekend had been ruined, and it was all my fault. But then, I heard some jazz music coming from the living room. I wandered in and found that Tom had pulled out our camping air mattress and covered it with a satin sheet. And in the middle, on one of my glass plates, was the chocolate cheesecake. The massage oil was on a towel to the side. He held out his hand to me and pulled me close. “A three-year-old is no match for a guy that’s been without his wife for three weeks,” he whispered. Then he gave me a kiss that practically turned our living room into a sauna and my knees the consistency of the whipped cream on the cheesecake. It was SO great to have some alone-together time. I don’t want to give you TMI (too much information) but I will say it was a night to remember. :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) (Get the point???) It still irritates me that we had to go to such measures to sleep together. Why am I sleeping on air mattresses in my living room and my daughter is sleeping in MY bed? This is so wrong! Anyway, I think I’ll head into the kitchen and have another slice of cheesecake. Mmmm. Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Update from the War Front Yowza, Dulcie-babe! That hubby of yours can sure come up with a good line when he wants to! I’m impressed. So what is the next battle strategy for winning back your bed? Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Update from the War Front
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I’ll tell Tom you think he’s pretty smooth. He’ll be glad to hear it, and goodness knows, he needs all the encouragement he can get in that department. The next step in the book is the Crackers in Bed method. I take saltine cracker pieces and sprinkle them on her side of the bed. She’ll be so uncomfortable that she’ll choose her own bed just to get away from the crackers. Dulcie
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Update from the War Front Uh, Dulcie, do you really think crackers in bed is a good idea? Jocelyn
Chapter Sixteen From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Crackers in bed
The Crackers in Bed method is a very bad idea. Very bad. :( I don’t know what idiot put that one in the book. I woke up this morning feeling very itchy. And I heard this muffled munching behind me. I rolled over, listening to a crackly noise, and saw my daughter, mouth full of crackers. She held out a slightly damplooking piece to me. “Want thome, Mommy?” Her question blew a soft cloud of cracker crumbs across my face. I looked down beside me and noticed her side of the bed was completely crumb free. MY side, however, was a hill of cracker crumbs and pieces. I saw why when she meticulously brushed some stray crumbs toward me and sprinkled a few in my hair. I snatched the cracker out of her hand. “You aren’t supposed to eat those!” I snapped. When I got to the bathroom, I was horrified. My face was covered with red marks from the cracker pieces, and I still had a few bits sticking to it here and there. Plus, I’m now running late for a meeting at church. But I just had to report in and let you know that it looks like the enemy has outwitted me once again. Dulcie the Cracker Girl
From: Rosalyn Ebberly <[email protected]> To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Crackers in bed
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Dulcie, why do you persist in trying these absurd methods? Maybe God is trying to tell you He doesn’t want you to go to Hawaii or kick your poor child out of your bed. Obviously, she has some need that is being met by sleeping with you. Do you want to deprive her of that? It could be that she is feeling insecure because your husband is gone so much. You won’t help her by treating her like “the enemy.” Rosalyn “She looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.” — Proverbs 31:27 (NASB)
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Crackers in bed Hi girls, I was thinking…maybe Rosalyn is right. Maybe God doesn’t want me leaving McKenzie. Tom is gone a lot, and I know it affects all three girls. I don’t want to harm them by leaving. They’ll think I’ve abandoned them!!! Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Crackers in bed Now hold it right there, Soldier! You’ve come too far and fought too hard to give in to propaganda and psychological warfare tactics now. Guilt is just as much of a weapon as anything else McKenzie has thrown at you. It’s just coming from a different enemy location, as it were. You just keep up the good fight, okay? How did your church meeting go? Did you make it on time? Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: [SAHM I AM] Crackers in bed Thanks, Z! I appreciate the encouragement. Yes, I made it to my meeting — only ten minutes late. But our pastor’s wife kept staring at me with this weird expression on her face. Finally, after the meeting, she walked over to me and put her hand up to my hair. She pulled out a piece of cracker I’d somehow missed and held it up between her thumb and forefinger with an expression of distaste. “Is this a…saltine?” she asked. “Um, yeah.”
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She stood there looking at me, and I was thinking “What — she wants me to actually explain why I have cracker crumbs in my hair?” And then it also occurred to me that this proves I didn’t shower this morning. How embarrassing. She’s always so put-together looking. McKenzie came bounding up to me, saw the cracker in the pastor’s wife’s hand and said, “We had those for bweakfast.” Our PW’s eyes got very huge, and I laughed it off, muttering something about “Cheap, quick and on-the-go.” It seems like every time I talk to her, I somehow end up being completely humiliated. I don’t know how she does it, but it’s a dubious talent at best. Dulcie P.S. A car just pulled up in the drive, and I think I hear our pastor’s wife yoo-hooing outside. What in the world does she want now???
Chapter Seventeen From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: SAHM I Am <[email protected]> Subject: My Cup Runneth Over
Actually, make that “my pantry runneth over.” Last night, after finding me earlier at a church meeting with a piece of cracker in my hair, my pastor’s wife arrived at our door. “Dulcie, dear, I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she said. “Oh.” How am I supposed to respond. “That was…nice of you.” “Well, after that unfortunate incident with the cracker in the hair, and after McKenzie revealed that’s ALL you had for breakfast, I thought maybe you could do with some help.” I tried to interrupt at this point, but she shook her head. “Now, don’t be too proud to accept help. I know it’s hard, with Tom being gone and all.” And before I could say anything, she trotted back to her car and pulled out two bags of groceries. She marched them into my house, and I numbly pointed at the kitchen. Why can’t I EVER think of the right things to say in these situations? Why do I even GET INTO these situations??? She gave us a total of six plastic bags of groceries. And then she proceeded to give me a fifteen-minute lecture on the importance of good nutrition and proper hygiene. So embarrassing! But grocery shopping had been on my to-do list for today, anyway, so the gift was appreciated. I just wish I didn’t always end up looking like a fool in front of that woman. Dulcie
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From: Zelia Muzuwa To: Dulcie Huckleberry Subject: Re: My Cup Runneth Over Aw, man! Do you realize how stinking lucky you are, Dulcie? If I got a piece of cracker stuck in MY hair, do you think anyone would give me six bags of groceries for it? No! They’d tell me I look like an idiot, and laugh. How do you manage to get into these predicaments and end up better off than you were before? I’d put up with a bit of humiliation if it meant free food. Grumbling, Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: Zelia Muzuwa Subject: Re: My Cup Runneth Over Don’t be jealous of me, Z! I’m the one who’s about to lose out on the chance to go to Hawaii because my daughter is stronger willed than me. Remember??? I’m serious. It’s looking pretty hopeless at this point. I’m almost through the book, and so far, none of the ideas have worked. And Tom’s conference is only about two weeks away. I haven’t even found a swimsuit yet! The next thing in the book is what they call the Trixon-Bates method. (Last names of the authors, which means they made it up themselves.) Basically, it’s the cold-turkey method. I tuck McKenzie in her own bed, kiss her goodnight and then race out the door and slam it before she can run out, and then hold it shut until she wears herself out trying to get out. It seems so…drastic. But I’m getting desperate. I really, really want to go on this trip! I don’t care what Rosalyn says. I need to get away. I know I won’t get to spend a lot of time with Tom, but still — it’s Hawaii. We should be together. Yet, I don’t know if I’ve got the nerve to sit out my daughter like that. So far, she’s proven at every turn to be more stubborn and more crafty than me. And what if this method damages her emotional well-being? I don’t want to traumatize her. She’s only three! I just don’t know what to do. Dulcie
Chapter Eighteen From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Update me!
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Okay, my neurotic little buddies, what’s up? Jocelyn, how is over-protective MIL doing? Dulcie, are you choosing Hawaii or a permanent toddler bedfellow? It’s already 11:00 a.m. here and I want to know what’s going on! Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Update me! Okay, okay! I’m reporting in! We had a busy morning today because… SHE’S LEAVING! SHE’S LEAVING! Yes, indeed, I get my house back to myself (and the other goofballs I share it with.) My son may never again see the light of day, but he’s my hero at the moment (though I will NEVER admit it to him!) We went to the lake yesterday, and while I monitored the other three kids with their floaties and kickboards, Tyler swam a little farther down the shoreline, until he was directly in front of his grandma, who was catching some rays on a beach chair. He hollered to her, “Watch me do a trick, Grandma!” And then he dove under the water and shoved up from the bottom, shooting into the air like a porpoise. She loved it. So he did it again. Only this time, he didn’t come up. He can hold his breath for a really long time, so I wasn’t worried. But after a few seconds, she started getting nervous. And so did I. Why on EARTH did I allow him to even joke about this with me? “Jocelyn!” she yelled. “Where did Tyler go?” “I don’t know!” She got frantic then. “You’d better look for him. He’s been down a long time!” “But what about the other kids?” Thinking back on it, that should have been her first clue I wasn’t too worried. If he’d really been drowning, you bet I would have raced over there. But at that point, I realized what he was doing, and I was just angry at him for disobeying me. That boy was in royal trouble! So she waded out into the water herself. I was hoping Tyler would reappear pretty soon, because I doubted she had the strength to swim and pull him in at the same time. And he had been down awhile…the rascal was starting to scare ME! Then she screamed and jumped back. She toppled over and sat down pretty hard. The water was at her chest, and she suddenly leaned forward like she was being pulled. Then Tyler leaped into her lap. “Grandma!” he gasped. “You rescued me!” “I did?” “Yeah!” He hugged her. “Thanks so much!” She frowned. “Now wait a minute…you grabbed my ankle!” “Uh, yeah?” “How could you grab my ankle if you were drowning?”
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“I…got lucky?” My MIL may be weird, but she’s not dumb. Her eyes narrowed, and she stood up. “That was a rotten trick to play on your grandma, Tyler!” “Aw, man!” He splashed the water with his fist. “I just wanted you to feel like you rescued me so you could go home!” “TYLER!” I yelled. Bad enough to follow through on what was supposed to have been just venting steam, but to actually TELL her??? Anyway, to shorten a long story, the three of us had quite the argument, standing there in the lake. I think her feelings were a little hurt, but Tyler scored the winning goal. “Grandma,” he said, “it’s real nice of you to want to keep me safe. But who says you can? Lots of stuff can happen to me that you can’t make stop. Maybe you better just let God watch out for me.” Well, it’s pretty hard to argue with that sort of logic! She sputtered a little, but then had to agree he was right. So she’s headed home today, and we are VERY thankful. Even Shane looks a little relieved. And Tyler? I told him he was grounded until he was at least fifty. But the scamp grinned at me and said, “Getting her to go home is worth it, Mom.” Then he winked at me! ARGGHHH!!! My son has me wrapped around his little finger, and he knows it. The grounding got shortened to only two weeks. But I’d better get lots of hugs from him to show his gratitude. Jocelyn
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: Update me! Glad things worked out with your MIL, Jocelyn. Poor lady. My update isn’t so cheerful. I’m sitting with my back against the door of McKenzie’s bedroom to keep it closed, and I’m using my laptop to write to you. She’s in the room, throwing toys. Oh, and a shoe, I think. As you can see, I decided to go for the Trixon-Bates Method. I hate this book. I really, really despise and have incredibly negative emotions toward this book. There are unspeakable things I would like to do to this book, and would probably do, if it weren’t for the fact that I have to sit here and make sure the Toddler Tornado stays captive in her room. She’s screaming now. “Iiiiiieeeeeee waaaaaahhhhhnnnnn-Tuh ooooooowwwwww-Tuh!” And kicking her le,gs agaynst the doir, which is makink typing difficu/lt. I’ve never seen such a tantrum in my life! We’ve been at this for over thirty minutes already, and I’m worn out just sitting here! She’s plead with me, begged me to let her out, and has sobbed, “I just want YOU, Mommy!” until my heart has nearly broken. How long can she keep this up? Oh great. Now she has what sounds like maybe the stove door off her little kitchen set, and I think she’s banging it on her bed. With every blow she’s hollering, “I! Hate! My! Bed!” over and over. Why does she dislike it so much? It’s a nice bed. Or it was. There might not be much left of it after this is over. In which case, she can sleep on the floor for all I care.
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I’m getting angry, too. She has no right to disrupt my life like this! I’m the mom, after all! Why should someone who has only been alive three years, and who can’t even go potty by herself yet get to decide whether or not I get to go to Hawaii? Why should I have to give that up for her? Just because she prefers MY bed to hers? Allow me one small toddler-ism: IT’S NOT FAIR!!! Uh-oh, she’s quiet. No…not quiet — there’s a strange noise coming from in there. It almost sounds like
Chapter Nineteen From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: What happened, Dulcie???
Don’t keep me in suspense! Tell us what happened with McKenzie last night! Now that my MIL drama is over, I need your drama to replace it. :) Jocelyn
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: What happened, Dulcie??? Hi girls, I am one ANGRY mama! You want to know what happened? That sound I heard was McKenzie. THROWING UP! Yes, she actually got herself so worked up that she puked! I know I should probably have been somewhat compassionate about it, but under the circumstances, do you blame me for being furious? Okay, now, after writing that, I feel guilty, too. What kind of mother am I to be mad at my kid for throwing up? Ugh! I’m awful. But you know what? It sure FELT like she did it on purpose, just to win. IT FEELS PERSONAL! Especially when she crept into MY bed while I was cleaning up HER mess, and she was fast asleep by the time I finished. I slept downstairs on the couch because I was too angry to be anywhere near that child. It’s just not fair! The book says nothing about what to do when you are defeated by gastronomical warfare. It never warned me that the kid could get so upset she would puke. THIS BOOK NEEDS A DISCLAIMER! It says that no matter what, do NOT go in the room. But I couldn’t just ignore her at that point! And by going in, I lost. It was a no-win situation, and I’m really, really ticked off. Tonight it’s going to be Mother’s Last Stand. No matter what I have to do, that kid is going to sleep in her OWN BED!
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Dulcie
From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: What happened, Dulcie??? I’m humming a few bars from “Do You Hear the People Sing?” from Les Mis in your honor, Dulcie. You go, girl! Let us know what happens. Z
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: The Battle It’s 11:30 p.m. I’m in the hallway with my laptop again. I am tired. Here’s what happened: I got McKenzie ready for bed, and I told her in no uncertain terms that she was going to sleep in her own bed tonight, no matter what. She glared at me, and said, “No my bed!” I said, “Yes your bed,” and picked her up and put her in it. She wouldn’t let me put any covers over her — kicked them all off. But I kissed her, anyway, and then walked out and shut the door. But I didn’t hold it shut like last night. I didn’t want her to be able to sit in there and make herself sick again. She immediately got up, opened the door and ran into my room. I followed her in, and she was on top of the mattress, clutching the covers. “Let go!” I ordered. “NO!!!” I grabbed her around her waist and pulled. All I got was her butt sticking in the air. Both fists were twisted in the sheets. I tried to pry them loose with one hand and hold her with the other. But she kicked and squirmed until I had to set her back down. “No, Mommy! No bed!” she yelled. I yanked on the sheets. “You — ARE — going — to — your — own — bed!!!” I gasped, prying her hands apart. But as soon as I got one hand loose and started on the other one, the first one had grabbed the sheets again. Finally, I gave up and grabbed her around the waist. This time I pulled her AND the sheets off the bed. She was screaming and flailing her feet, and one foot caught me in the jaw. I hauled her, sheets and all, toward the door. She was facing backward, and as soon as I reached the doorway, she let go of the sheets and grabbed the door frame. I didn’t realize she was so strong! “LET GO, MCKENZIE!” I yelled and tugged on her arms. Her response was another kick. This one got my eye. I dropped her, almost headfirst, and she dove back onto the bed while I doubled over in pain.
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Then I lunged for her, but she was too quick. She rolled off to the other side of the bed and crawled under it. I dropped to my stomach and finally caught hold of an ankle. I pulled her out by one foot as she howled. She tried to grab the underneath side of the bed frame, but she wasn’t in the right position. As soon as I had her out from under the bed, I pulled her into my arms. She chomped down on my shoulder. My first reflex was to swat at her. She swatted right back. I carried her into her room and tossed her on the bed. But I was winded, and she slipped out from under my hold and started for my room again. I tackled her in the hallway. “I DON’T LIKE YOU, ANYMORE, MOMMY!” she screamed. “I don’t like you, either, right now!” I answered. We were panting and half-sobbing, and suddenly, she quieted and started to cry. Like real tears. She lay on the floor, and I lay next to her, crying, too. She fell asleep in minutes. She’s still there. And my room, my bed, is a disaster. I’m exhausted and defeated. I’m not going to Hawaii. It’s hopeless. I don’t know how to tell Tom I failed, but that’s the truth. I’m going to send this letter, and then sleep next to my daughter because I don’t have the energy to get up and make my bed. She really is stronger than me. Dulcie
Chapter Twenty From: Zelia Muzuwa To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: For Dulcie
Hey, babe, Don’t feel too badly. I’ve got strong-willed kids, too, and it’s TOUGH! Ultimately, they are their own people, and it’s awfully hard to force them to do something they don’t want to do. Give it another couple of days, and see if you can think of something else to try. There’s still time before the trip, right? By the way, I’m starting my murals today. I think they’ll turn out beautifully. I’ll send you both pictures when I’m done. Sending you a hug, Dulcie. Please don’t give up. Z
From: The Millards <[email protected]> To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: For Dulcie
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I agree with Z. Kids like that are no picnic. But God put that strength of will in them for a reason, and if you can shape it in the right direction, there’s nothing they won’t be able to accomplish. I hope you can still find a way to go to Hawaii, though. If we lived closer to you, I’d take her while you were gone. Love you! Hope you got some rest last night. Jocelyn
From: Dulcie Huckleberry To: “Green Eggs and Ham” Subject: Re: For Dulcie You guys are the best! Thank you so much for encouraging and supporting me. Want to hear the rest of my little saga? I got up this morning, stiff and sore. My jaw is a bit swollen, and I definitely have the beginnings of a shiner under my left eye. I stood at the mirror, surveying the damage, when McKenzie wandered in. She looked all sweet and refreshed, and it made me furious all over again. The least she could do would be to look as haggard as me! “You got owie, Mommy?” “Yeah.” I wouldn’t even look at her. “You kicked me, remember? You hurt Mommy.” I glanced at her to see if my guilt trip was working. Apparently, I need more practice in manipulation. She just tilted her head and studied me. “I hurt Mommy?” ARGGGHHH!!! Has she no conscience? “YES, you hurt me! You hurt Mommy. You were a very naughty girl, and Mommy is mad at you.” That had more of an effect. “I sorry.” “You should be!” I turned back to the mirror, and immediately felt guilty for not accepting her apology. Then I got mad again. Why should I feel guilty? SHE was the one who was behaving like a miserable little… All the resentment of the past few weeks bubbled up. I whirled to her and stared down at her. “You were going to get to go visit Grandma, McKenzie! You were going to get to have fun with Grandma while Mommy and Daddy go on a trip! But now you don’t get to go! ALL BECAUSE YOU WON’T SLEEP IN YOUR STUPID LITTLE BED!!!” By this time, I’d bent down in her face, and she was cringing and shrinking away from me. I’m not sure if it was my screaming at her or my morning breath. She was silent a moment, then she said in a tiny voice, “I no go to Grandma’s?” “NO!” “ ‘Cause I not sleep in my bed?” “That’s right!” “I sleep in my own bed now.”
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“Show me!” She shook her head. “I can’t.” “Why not?” She looked at me as if I were dim-witted. “You not say the magic word, Mommy. You not say…please.” I could have strangled her. I bent down again. “You want me to say ‘please’?” I whispered fiercely. She nodded. I ground out the word through clenched teeth. “Please.” She turned and skipped into her room and crawled beneath the covers. “Now I go to Grandma’s house?” I sank down in the hallway and cried. So, the Good News is…I’M GOING TO HAWAII!!! The bad news is…I really can’t control my child. Can you believe it? This whole time, she had it in her head that I should simply just ask her to please sleep in her own bed. Whoever heard of that? Parents tell their children what to do. And children are supposed to obey. It says so in the Bible! Why should I have to ask? Why should she be able to put me through the worst two weeks of my life to date just because I forgot to say the wretched “magic word”? I BOUGHT THAT HORRIBLE BOOK!!! Twenty-five thousand kids, it says. Twenty-five grand! But did it work for MY kid? Noooo…because she wanted Mommy to say PLEASE. Wretched word. Wretched book. Wretched trip to Hawaii. Wretched bed. And now, on top of everything else…I really HAVE to go shopping for a swimsuit. Wretched swimsuit. Going to take a nap — BY MYSELF, Dulcie (who will really need an attitude adjustment before she goes to Hawaii)
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Spicing It Up by Wendy Etherington Ellie Collins has recently broken up with her career-consumed boyfriend, and is focusing on her own career. For the Thanksgiving holiday, she is catering a weekend party for some friends of her father's, but when a very expensive jeweled necklace goes missing, the festivities turn into a whodunit. Enter Sheriff Rafe Dawson — who also happens to be Ellie's ex. With tension mounting, the snow piling up and everyone pointing the finger, Rafe is feeling pressured to find out who among the guests is the thief. But the sheriff also has an item on his personal agenda: proving to Ellie that they belong together…
Chapter One Ellie Collins gingerly pulled the coffee mug toward her. "Let me refresh your cup, Mrs. Hill." And maybe add a little Baileys while I'm at it, she couldn't help thinking. Her eyes glazed, the elderly matron nodded, and her silver bun — missing several bobby pins — wobbled. Avoiding the gazes of the other guests, Ellie slipped from the small sitting room where everyone had gathered into the kitchen. The night had begun simply enough — serving martinis, coffee and canapés to the guests of the Thanksgiving weekend house party she'd agreed to cater for some prominent friends of her father's, who was the mayor of their small, north Georgia town. Then, like a clichéd midnight B movie, Mrs. Delores Hill — who'd returned to her room to get her reading glasses — had screamed. Ellie and the other four guests had raced to her room. "M-my necklace," she'd said, pointing at a tangle of jewelry on the dresser. "It's…m-missing." Missing? It wasn't just any necklace, but a ruby and diamond choker, to be precise. Combined 8.4 carats of gems. Worth millions. Gone. Poof. Thanksgiving was tomorrow. Ellie still had tons of prep to do for the big feast and tonight's dinner to make. Instead, she was dealing with despondent guests, accusatory glances and calls to the sheriff's office. Plus — she glanced out the large window in front of her — the snowstorm was getting worse. Dear ole dad, meanwhile, was sunning his portly little self in Hilton Head, South Carolina. She returned to the other room with Mrs. Hill's coffee and the tray of mini éclairs she'd planned to serve for dessert to find one of the other guests, Phillip Stanwick, questioning the older lady. Great. Less than an hour into the crime, and the lawyers had already taken over. "Now…Mrs. Hill —" he began in a self-important voice as he stroked his chin and paced by the coffee table " — who knew you were bringing that particular necklace to the party?" "Oh, Phillip, sit down, will you?" his wife, Anita, impatiently snapped. "You're not in a courtroom, you know." "Is he ever in a courtroom?" another guest, Roland Patterson, asked, pausing as he selected an éclair from the tray. "I thought he was a real estate attorney." Roland and Phillip had taken an instant disliking to each other, and Ellie had to question Anita's decision to invite him and his friend George — no last name given.
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But then Roland was wildly entertaining. Besides, he was the only guest Ellie knew well, and now that one of them might be a thief, she was glad for somebody she could trust…even if Roland had never before mentioned this George fellow. "I'll feel much better when the sheriff gets here," Mrs. Hill said in a weak voice. Oh, yeah. Me, too. Can't wait. Ellie tried to smile reassuringly at Mrs. Hill, though her stomach was jumping like kernels of corn popping. George peered out the window. "Snow's really coming down. Maybe he can't get through." "He'll be here," Ellie said, though the road they'd all driven up to reach the mountain cabin could be mostly impassable now. Despite the holiday weekend, the snow and the odd circumstances of the crime committed, she had no doubt her workaholic ex-boyfriend would relish charging in to save the day.
Chapter Two "I think we should search the house again," Phillip said. Sipping his martini, Roland rolled his eyes. "We already did that." "Maybe the necklace fell out of her bag as she came inside. Maybe it's out there right now being buried under all that snow." Ellie wondered if Phillip was just worried his home-owner's insurance might not cover a multi-million-dollar choker, or if he just liked being in charge. "Mrs. Hill said she had the necklace in a jewelry bag, which was inside her suitcase," she reminded him. "I don't see how —" "Maybe, Mrs. Hill was mistaken." "Headlights," George said. Sheriff Rafe Dawson had arrived. Ellie crossed to the window, noting the slow progress and diesel engine of a large pickup truck winding up the driveway. She hadn't spoken to him in the month since they'd broken up, though he'd left several messages on her answering machine in the last two weeks. She wasn't sure what that was about, and she wasn't ready to face him. But what choice did she have? Within moments he was striding up the sidewalk, ringing the doorbell, then being escorted into the room by Phillip. Ellie stood next to George, her hands calmly by her side, though her heart raced. He looked good. Delicious, actually. Tall, broad-shouldered, snow still clinging to his wavy hair and black leather jacket. His gaze swept the room, and he paused briefly when he reached her. The piercing look in his blue-gray eyes made her shiver right down to her toes, and she fought against the need that washed over her body. "Evening," he said, nodding. "Heard you had some trouble up here."
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Phillip, naturally, launched into his version of the burglary. He concluded by saying, "I've been urging everyone to search the house again, but no one wants to help." "I think I'd better conduct any future searches, Mr. Stanwick." Rafe again looked around the room. "Did all of you help Mrs. Hill look for her necklace?" Ellie could see where he was going and had realized before now the mistake they'd made. Any evidence left behind by the thief — and she was still having trouble thinking of one of them as a thief — was likely contaminated by their search. "We all did," Anita said. "Except her." She pointed at Ellie. "My biscuits were burning," she explained lamely. Rafe raised his eyebrows, and Ellie cursed her pale skin, which was no doubt the color of her hair by now. "I see," he said. He crossed to Mrs. Hill, whose hands trembled as she set down her coffee cup. "Mrs. Hill, are you sure you brought the necklace with you?" He really is good with people, Ellie's conscience reminded her. He was also demanding, a control freak and much more interested in his job than her. Mrs. Hill lifted her chin. "I'm sure." "She did," Anita added. "She showed it to me." Several people stared at her with growing suspicion. Sighing, Rafe slid his hands into his jacket pockets. "I'm going to need to talk to each of you privately." His gaze met hers. "And I'll start with you, Ellie."
Chapter Three Rafe accepted the steaming mug of coffee from Ellie then watched her sink into the kitchen chair next to him. Her lovely face was lined with worry, and she probably wasn't thrilled with his presence, either. Not too promising of a thought, since he wanted to yank her into his lap. "Hell of a way to start Thanksgiving," he said. She shook her head. "They've only been here three hours." "Somebody worked fast." Actually, he'd like to work fast. With Ellie. The kitchen door swung open, and Roland Patterson strolled inside. "Sheriff, honey, I'm gonna save you a lot of time." He plopped down in the chair next to Ellie then leaned toward Rafe. "Anita stole that necklace. Everybody knows she loves jewelry. And you heard her admit she'd seen it." Ellie waved her hand in dismissal. "The Stanwicks are wealthier than Mrs. Hill. Just look at this place. Plus, Anita's got money on her own — her father has been a prominent attorney and judge in Atlanta for years." Roland shrugged. "Maybe. But then maybe she's spent her way through Phillip and dear old daddy's money."
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"You think I ought to ask for my fee in cash?" During this exchange, Rafe sipped coffee and simmered with impatience. Who in hell did I piss off to catch this case? he couldn't help wondering. The last thing he wanted to be doing was discussing the financial dealings of some swanky eccentrics. He had to get Ellie back. When you realize the love of your life is right in front of you, that you have to have her to make everything else right, how do you make that happen? "…a certified check at the very least," Roland was saying. Come to think of it, the case was actually convenient. If he could just get rid of all these other people… . He acknowledged he'd really screwed up with Ellie. Just before their breakup a few weeks earlier, he'd been caught up in an arson case that had consumed the town. Then — after she'd dumped him — he'd groused for a week to himself about how she expected him to protect the people of Baxter by working 9:00 to 5:00. But during the election, when he should have been consumed with winning over taxpayers to keep his job, he'd been consumed with thoughts of Ellie — the smell and feel of her skin, the way she made his heart soar when her eyes lit up, her quick mind, her understanding and compassion. He loved her. She was the other half that would make him whole. The woman he needed beside him forever. But he'd taken her for granted. He'd never even told her he loved her. All that had to change. This missing necklace thing was a blessing he hadn't anticipated. And the snowstorm? He'd kiss Mother Nature dead on the mouth if he had a chance. "Mr. Patterson, I believe I asked you to wait with the others," he said to Baxter's most outrageous pet-store owner — who was, apparently, also an amateur detective. Roland jumped to his feet. "Oh, right." He winked. "Better go make sure they're cooperating." He rushed from the room. "You've done it now. He thinks you've deputized him." "Let him. Maybe he'll help me figure out these people. How did you get roped into this, anyway?" "Dad." She shrugged, staring at the table. "Besides, I didn't have anything else to do." His fault. He'd make it up to her. "So, who do you think did it?" she asked. "I have no idea." He didn't much care at the moment. (Well, he cared, he just wasn't focusing well with Ellie so close.) He wondered if she was wearing that silky black bra he liked so much. "But you're going to find out, right?" "Yeah." Without warning, he grabbed her hand and yanked her into his lap.
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Chapter Four Ellie tried to wriggle away from Rafe, but he held tight. "You're supposed to be focused on your job here," she chastised. "You dumped me because you said I was too focused on my job." He kissed the side of her neck. "I'm sorry you didn't have anybody to spend Thanksgiving with." "That's —" Oh, God, that felt really good. Still, she found the strength to pull away from him and stand up "Cut it out, Rafe!" "I want to get back together." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared down at him. Hard, when he was smiling at her as if he'd like to lick his way down her body — several times. "Just like that. Not a word for two weeks. A couple of answering-machine messages. Then bam, back together." He grinned. "Yes." She was tempted much more than she should have been. She was certain she'd come up with some good faults of his earlier. What were they…? Oh, yeah. Demanding. Controlling. His priorities — namely, his job, his job, his job. She figured she'd ranked somewhere around eight. Not exactly where she wanted to be. Her best move would be to keep him focused on the case. She was too weak for her own good when it came to Rafe Dawson. "Let's get back to this burglary," she said. He leaned back in his chair. "For now," he conceded. "But I want to talk about us later." "Sure." She wished she didn't feel disappointed. Part of her wanted him to say, "Screw the case. You're more important." But then neither did she want Mrs. Hill's missing necklace pushed aside. "So, who do you think did it?" "No way of knowing. I've only been on the case for twenty minutes." "You solved the robbery in the hardware store in less time than that." "That's because the stock boy shook my hand, leaving the same chocolate stain he'd left on the cash register." "An inside job, right?" She angled her head. "Could be the same this time." "You think Mrs. Hill pocketed her own necklace? For insurance, I guess." "It's possible. In fact, it seems more likely than somebody else being a thief. She seems really nice, but a bit needy. Her son and her daughter were both leaving town for Thanksgiving — off to football games and skiing trips to the mountains. Maybe she feels neglected and likes the attention." Crossing to the fridge, she pulled out the asparagus and marinated salmon she was planning to grill for dinner. She glanced at him over her shoulder, struck again by the simultaneous comfort and arousal generated by his presence. When he focused on her, he made her believe no one or nothing else in the world existed. "Do you mind if I cook while we talk?" "Could you hold off? I have interviews —"
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"These people have to eat, Rafe." Why had she ever reminded him of his professional duties? Dad, you'd better damn well appreciate my ingrained sense of civic duty, she thought to herself. "I can serve dinner in the dining room while you interrogate people in here." "Do I get to eat, too?" She turned back to the counter full of ingredients. "If you want, before you go." "I'm not going anywhere, Ellie. At least not tonight. Probably not even tomorrow. In case you haven't noticed, we're snowed in."
Chapter Five Ellie spun to face Rafe. "Snowed in? No. No, we're not." She pointed at him, feeling ridiculous when her hand trembled. "You got here fine." "Only because I put snow chains on my tires and was followed by a National Guard Jeep in case I got stuck. Still, I barely made it. I'm sure I don't need to remind you this is rural Georgia. We don't have salt trucks or snowplows. This snow is blizzard quality all the way to Atlanta. We aren't going anywhere for at least a day or two." This wasn't possible. Ellie shook her head to confirm her conclusion. She absolutely could not spend a snowed-in-a-luxury-mountain-cabin weekend with Rafe. She'd broken up with him. She'd vowed not to fall under his spell again. Then, it occurred to her that he'd actually called the National Guard in order to get out here to help. Was that civic duty — or love? She was as afraid to ask the question as she was of the answer. "We're really stuck?" "Yeah." Grinning, he raised his eyebrows. "Wanna suggest some activities to pass the time?" She sagged against the counter. He rose. Before she knew it, he was in front of her, all hunky, six feet plus of him. His body heat wrapped around her. The crisp, clean scent that clung to him made her dizzy. He laid his hands on the counter on either side of him, capturing her between his arms. Her heart raced as he leaned his face close to hers. "I'll bet we can come up with something to do." She swallowed. "Ah, well…dinner…" "Can wait." "The case?" "Can also wait." He slid his mouth over hers, gently at first, as if trying to regain the familiarity they once shared. But his kiss deepened quickly, his tongue sliding between her lips, his rhythm more urgent and needy. With his hips trapping her against the counter, she could feel his desire for her, and her own needs taking over her common sense. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing into his body. She'd missed his touch. His smile. The comfort of knowing he belonged to her.
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When he cupped her breast in his hand, she moaned. She let her head drop back, and he moved his lips across her jaw and throat. Her nipples hardened. Her body heated. She was about to suggest they drop to the floor and satisfy the craving pulsing through her veins when something crashed to the floor. Breathing hard, she jumped away from Rafe. A knife lay on the floor just a few feet away from where they stood. "I…we need to stop." He looked around the room as if he'd forgotten where he was then dragged his hand through his hair. "Right. The case." Even though Ellie was afraid to give in to what she felt for him — which she'd thought was love before their breakup — she couldn't help a burst of pride. She'd actually distracted him from work. Then again, maybe she should feel guilty about that. She scooted to the other side of the room. "You need to go tell everybody about the snowstorm." He took a step toward her. "I know, but, Ellie —" "Now." She held out her hand. "You need to go now."
Chapter Six Rafe leaned heavily against the kitchen counter and reflected on his suspect interviews. Phillip Stanwick was pompous. Anita Stanwick was aloof. Delores Hill was distraught. George "Smith" was evasive. And Roland Patterson… "So, Sheriff, I really think you ought to be looking into the Stanwick's financial situation, after all…" …never shuts up. "…I mean, she really likes shopping, if you get my drift." Sitting at the table as if he planned to hang out all night, Roland gestured with his wine glass. "If she saw something she wanted, I doubt —" "Mr. Patterson, I'm curious why you're so anxious to cast the guilt on your host." Roland's posture straightened, and Rafe knew he had something. "Anita Stanwick did invite you and your friend —" he pretended to consult his notes "— George to this party, didn't she?" "She did." Patterson looked at the floor. "I guess I sound too enthusiastic about giving her up." Rafe said nothing, but thought Patterson had hit the point exactly. "I just don't know who else might have…" "Boldly swiped a multi-million-dollar necklace under the nose of several party guests, the mayor's daughter and the sheriff of Baxter?" "Well, we all know each other, so…" Something that Rafe had been musing finally seemed to hit Roland. Rafe was impressed. He'd always considered the guy a good businessman, a positive contribution to the downtown retail environment, but he had never seemed much of a thinker. "Everybody but George." "And who is George — exactly?"
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"A friend." "A friend who likes jewelry?" he asked. Roland shook his head. "No." Roland's personal life wasn't part of this interrogation, but Rafe needed to understand how the relationships of the suspects connected to his case. And Rafe wasn't thrilled with questioning respectable members of Baxter's business community, not to mention he knew Ellie and Roland were close. He didn't even want to think about her wrath if he crossed the wrong line with her friend. Rafe had almost sighed with relief when she had excused herself to serve dinner as his interview with Roland began. "What does George do for a living?" Roland licked his lips. "You talked to him. Don't you know?" "He was very vague." "Oh." Roland's smile was forced. "That's George. Mr. Mysterious." But he'd also had about enough of this evasiveness. His lieutenants had met George before, and it hadn't been on a social visit. He leaned close to Roland. "You wanna give me a good reason why I shouldn't make George my primary suspect?" "You can't," Roland squeaked. Panic darted through his eyes. "He didn't do anything." "It won't help to protect him." Roland jumped to his feet. "He didn't do anything!" The door swung open, and Ellie strode inside, her arms loaded with dirty dishes. Both men rushed to help her. "Sorry to interrupt," she said to Rafe as Roland used her appearance as an opportunity to slink out of the room. Rafe sighed and glanced at the still-swinging door. "It's not like he can go anywhere."
Chapter Seven Ellie laid a dinner plate in front of Rafe. "So, how did the questioning go?" "Frustrating." He sampled the salmon. "This is delicious. Thanks." Ellie sat at the table across from him. "You don't know who did it yet?" "No. Though, since George is the only unknown, I'm kinda leaning his way." "But he's Roland's friend. I can't imagine —" She cut herself off. She loved Roland, but she didn't know his friend. "He is kind of strange looking. The guy could be an international jewel thief, and Roland just doesn't know."
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"There could be a lot Roland doesn't know. One of my detectives dealt with George recently during that arson case we just closed. He wasn't really questioned. He just gave us some information." "And now he's suddenly in the middle of a theft." "Exactly, but I'm not ready to settle on him." He tossed a notepad on the table. "Take a look at this." Ellie looked at the charts Rafe had drawn to demonstrate where everyone was one hour before, thirty minutes before, then at the moment Mrs. Hill screamed. "People were all over the place." She narrowed her eyes as she searched her memory, then imagined the guests' movements and paths. "And everybody had the opportunity to pass by Mrs. Hill's room." She sagged onto her forearms. "Anybody could have done it." "Yep." "We're pretty much back where we started." "We? You were here, too, Miss Collins." Rafe grinned. "You want to confess a deep-seeded longing for a ruby and diamond choker?" Oh, she had deep-seeded longings all right. But none of them involved jewelry. She smirked. "No. What if it clashed with my hair?" "You'd look beautiful in anything." Plate in hand, he rose, then kissed her on the forehead. She was so surprised by the casual gesture, she stepped back. His eyes clouded as he stared at her. "We still have a lot to settle between us, don't we?" She started to apologize, but stopped herself just in time. Even though she'd initiated the breakup, she'd been telling him for weeks before that she was tired of him canceling dates, and she'd been incredibly hurt when he'd barely blinked as she'd told him goodbye. "Yes." He loaded his plate into the dishwasher, then turned to face her. "I really screwed up, didn't I?" "Yes." Hanging his head, he leaned back against the counter. "I have an obligation to the people of this county. I'm not trying to ignore you, Ellie. I just don't have a regular job. I never will." Ellie fisted her hands in her lap. "I never asked you to compromise your commitments. I don't expect to be first all the time. I just got tired of being last all the time." "I don't mean to put you last. You're always on my mind, and I hated any time I had to cancel our plans." He raised his head, meeting her gaze. She saw regret, confusion…determination. "I just have a hard time delegating. I like handling things myself. To do that, I need to be at work." He had plenty of help at the sheriff's office. His buddy, Wes Kimball, could deal with anything Rafe could. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he felt threatened by his friend. Frankly, she was tired of wondering. Tired of feeling lousy about it. She wasn't a priority. Fine. She didn't want to turn into a nag, demanding his attention. But she wanted more. Much more.
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"Then go to work," she said and walked from the room.
Chapter Eight In the sitting room, Ellie stood at the bar and refilled wine glasses, trying to assure everyone that Thanksgiving wasn't ruined and that they would all eventually be able to leave the house. Roland, obviously thinking with his stomach, wanted to make sure they had enough food to survive. "I'd planned to feed all of you for the weekend, anyway," she assured him, knowing meals were the least of their worries. She wanted to suggest they play a game or watch a movie, but figured Rafe had something else in store for them. Searches. More questioning. Thanksgiving wasn't ruined, but it was a near thing. Rafe strode into the room, looking composed and resolute. "Mr. and Mrs. Stanwick, I need to search the house." Phillip rose and rolled his shoulders as if bracing for a head-to-toe pat down. "Yes, Sheriff. Of course." "You will each be allowed to stand outside your bedrooms as the search of your personal belongings is conducted. Ellie will be my assistant, taking inventory of everything we find and serving as witness that all of you are voluntarily agreeing to the search." Assistant? Had she agreed to that before, during or after that hot kiss? She couldn't recall and intended to protest. If Thanksgiving — at least the food portion — really was going to happen tomorrow, she had work to do. "The necklace —" Rafe went on, his icy gaze scanning the room "— is in this house somewhere. I'll find it. If not tonight, then tomorrow or the next day. It won't leave here." Okay, she'd seen TV crime shows. This was Rafe's method of intimidation, of getting the thief to realize what he or she had done, and that getting his or her prize out of the house undetected would be hopeless. "As Ellie and I take each person upstairs for the search, the rest of you are on your honor for staying put." He angled his head as if just realizing how silly that sounded to a bunch of burglary suspects. "Though I expect your fellow guests will be watching if you suddenly have the urge to leave the room." The man was good. Wily and still amenable. Dividing the guests. Messing with their minds. But not sexy or tempting. No way. He was aggravating. Extremely arrogant and assuming about her loyalties. He strolled from the room, and she followed only after several people stared in her direction. "Have you lost your mind?" she accused in a whisper the moment they were alone in the hall. "I'm not a big fan of your job to start with, I have food prep to do and I have no idea how to be an assistant." "Just think, this may be the only opportunity we have to work together and —" he waggled his eyebrows "— be together." Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared up at him. "Think again, Sheriff."
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"And you do know how to be an assistant. Weren't you a sous chef at that swanky restaurant in Atlanta for three years before you opened your catering business?" "Yes, and I hated every minute of it. The chef was temperamental, dictatorial and basically wanted me and the other assistants to be his slaves." "That's pretty much the job description this time, too." He grinned. "Personally, I can't wait for you to start helping."
Chapter Nine "How did Ellie get to be your assistant? What if she's the thief?" As Anita Stanwick shot these questions at him, Rafe was strolling into her and her husband's bedroom. Nice, but then he'd expected a lot. The Stanwicks were reputedly loaded, and their mountain retreat reflected money and style. He'd love to have a place like this to share with Ellie, but doubted he'd ever have the funds. He'd come from nothing and had worked himself up to mediocre. The mayor's daughter deserved better, didn't she? Still, he wanted her. And he knew he'd lose her forever if he didn't do some fast explaining or find a way to show her he loved both her and his job. So far, he hadn't done a hot job of balancing both his passions. He likely only had a weekend to change that. "I have to add to that protest, Sheriff," Phillip said, standing in the doorway. "Ms. Collins had as much opportunity as anybody." Before Ellie could give in to the fire sparking in her eyes, Rafe stopped by the dresser and turned to the Stanwicks. "You hired her as your caterer for the weekend. Do you have doubts about her integrity?" The Stanwicks exchanged uncomfortable glances. "Well, no…I guess not…" Phillip began as his wife flounced from the room. "Of course we trust Ellie. It's just that this situation is so…uh, unexpected. I have liability here. If the necklace isn't found, Mrs. Hill could file a suit against me." Rafe knelt to rifle through the bedside-table drawers. "Maybe she has a case. But it won't come to that. I'll find the thief, Mr. Stanwick." He turned and sent his host a determined glare. "You can count on it." Stanwick swallowed. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Right. Of course. Thank you, Sheriff." As he resumed his search, Rafe reflected on the Stanwicks' odd — maybe even guilty — behavior. Him, nervous; her, aggressive. But then, maybe, they were like that all the time. Since he needed a whole team of officers to conduct a thorough search, he wasn't really expecting to find the necklace. He was hoping to psych out the suspects. He wanted a nice, neat confession. Before he settled down to his turkey and gravy, if possible. When he found a pair of leather gloves in Phillip's sock drawer, he smiled and handed them to Ellie, who slipped them into a plastic zip bag. "I don't know what we're going to put the leftovers in," she said, shaking her head.
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Phillip paced in the doorway. "My old driving gloves? What's so interesting about those?" Rafe shrugged. "You never know." Phillip tunneled his hand through his hair. Rafe turned his back — and smiled.
Chapter Ten Ellie stood by with the "evidence" as Rafe searched the rest of the guests' rooms. The sheriff was playing these people, and they didn't have a clue. "But I always travel with nail clippers," Roland said, his eyes wide. Rafe raised his eyebrows. "Really?" Then he dropped the clippers in the bag she held out as if this just might be the key to the case. Roland nearly collapsed to the floor. Despite all her past criticism of Rafe's job, Ellie was enjoying herself. The longer the searching went on, the more nervous and weird everyone became. She found herself speculating about their tics and shakes, their pacing and demands for Rafe to "just get it over with." Another part of her had gotten caught up in the treasure hunt. What if they really did find the necklace? Phillip could have stuffed it into a sock and hid it between the mattress and box spring. Anita probably had a hidden safe. Roland might have a hollowed out compartment in his suitcase. She also couldn't help wondering how she would look with something so beautiful lying on her skin. How would she feel if Rafe leaned toward her, and as she inhaled the spiciness of his scent, he fastened the sparkling gems around her neck? Would they be cool? Or wa— "Ellie, let's go," Rafe said. Ellie shook herself from her thoughts and followed Rafe across the room. The man might be sexy, but he was also way too bossy. "I'm coming." As they walked through the doorway of the room next door, and Roland ran downstairs to alert George that his room was being searched, Ellie suspected this guest would be different. George would not fall for Rafe's psychological games. He wouldn't be intimidated by evidence collected in a plastic bag or Rafe's unnerving silence. "Any thoughts?" Rafe asked her. "You're making a lot of people uncomfortable." "But not making much progress." "You've only been on the case a few hours." "But I need everything wrapped up by tomorrow." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Why?"
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"It's Thanksgiving." "So?" He brushed his index finger down the slope of her nose. "I want to spend the holiday with you. Not working." Rafe not working? Not wanting to work? "Doing what, exactly?" He wrapped his arm around her waist. His eyes darkened with a familiar heat and longing as he stared down at her. "Reminding you how good we were together. Showing you how sorry I am for taking you for granted." He slid his mouth along her cheek then brushed her earlobe. "Loving you."
Chapter Eleven "How sweet!" Ellie jumped away from Rafe to find George standing in the bedroom doorway. Her blood was hot, her desire honed to a razor's edge. She fought to control her breathing. Loving her? Loving her? What was that about? What did that mean? She and Rafe had dated exclusively for five months — ever since they'd met at a campaign fund-raiser for him and her father. During that time, they hadn't said anything about love. Ellie was pretty sure she felt it, and had been pretty sure he did, too. But then he'd begun canceling dates, looking through her as he accepted phone calls from the dispatcher at the sheriff's office. She'd spent half her life with a politician whose public life always seemed more vital than his private one. She sure as hell didn't intend to continue that tradition. But she missed Rafe — his touch and laugh, his passion and dedication, his patience and his lack of tolerance for anybody who flaunted breaking the rules. George started toward them, that same oddly distant, almost mocking smirk still on his face. "George," Rafe began, "you need to remain in the doorway as we conduct the voluntary search of your belongings." Ellie suppressed a sigh. He flowed so easily from lover to sheriff. If they had any chance together — and she was pretty certain she was missing something special by not trying again — she had to find a way around her resentment of his job. Given that his current case was slap in the middle of her job and life, she suspected that was going to prove challenging. George leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. "And if I'd rather call my lawyer?" "You're free to do so," Rafe said, crossing his own arms.
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The scene reminded Ellie of an old-fashioned standoff — two men of different size, appearance and temperament drawing a line in the legal sand. George certainly fit the mold of the mysterious stranger, and she doubted Rafe was thrilled with the unknown element. Rafe read people well and could hone in on a weakness easily. Given the state of her runaway heartbeat and warmth of desire consuming her body, she acknowledged the venerable sheriff's talents spilled over into many areas. And she could sense his frustration over George. "Despite what you may think, Sheriff, I didn't take that woman's necklace." "No? Honesty! How original." "I have some integrity left." "Left?" Rafe asked, and not even he seemed to be able to hide his interest in that telling word. "Life is a long and winding road. With unexpected detours — and sometimes even U-turns." "You're not going to sing a country song, are you?" George ducked his head. He's going to confess. Ellie held her breath. She was certain Roland had no idea he'd brought a danger into the Stanwicks' house. He was so sweet and trusting. No one could have anticipated — George raised his head. And he was smiling. "Definitely not." He held out his hand. "Search away, Sheriff. I have nothing to hide." Ellie's jaw dropped.
Chapter Twelve Finding nothing in George's room — which Rafe seemed to think was more telling than if they'd uncovered the Crown Jewels — they moved on to the rest of the house, beginning with Phillip's office/library. The guests had all gone to their rooms, obviously too sleepy to worry or care what anyone thought. Tired and frustrated, Ellie stared up at the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases covering an entire stretch of one wall. "He could have hollowed out a book for a hiding place. We could be here for weeks." Rafe chuckled. "A hollowed-out book?" Ellie planted her hands on her hips. "I get mockery from the man whose most significant piece of evidence so far is a pair of nail clippers?" "Good point. Why don't you start with the desk?" She crossed to the back of the room, then sat in the dark red leather chair and began opening drawers. After several minutes and two yawns, she asked, "Do you really think we're going to find the necklace in here? And with just the two of us? It seems like we really need the whole department for a job like this." "No, we're not going to find the necklace in here." She slumped in the chair. "Then what are we wasting our time for? We could be in bed. I'm exhausted."
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He turned to face her. "You're a good detective. You tell me what we're doing." "You might want to think twice about insulting your only assistant, Sheriff." "Insult you?" "Yeah. I'm not a detective. Don't want to be a detective." She paused and gave him a knowing look. "The cops and I aren't on our best terms at the moment." "Right. So, Chef Collins, what're we doing?" "We're not giving up. We're violating people's privacy. We're making them wonder what we're wondering." "Anytime you want to give up catering, just let me know and you're hired." Smiling, he braced his hands on the desk and leaned toward her. "And I'm ready to go to bed anytime you are." She swallowed. The man was tempting beyond all reason. "Try again, Sheriff." But her sassy comeback was just an attempt to stifle the hunger fluttering in her belly. She wanted him. And she wasn't entirely sure how long she could convince her body not to accept his invitation. They resumed their searching, naturally finding nothing. Just for fun, Ellie started tapping on the desk drawers like they always did on TV. To her surprise, she heard a hollow sound in the wood as she passed between two drawers on the left side. When she pressed the lower-right corner, a section of wood dropped down, revealing an opening about sixby-two inches. Good grief. Angling her head, she tried to peer inside, but with the low light in the room she couldn't see anything. "Do you have a flashlight?" she asked Rafe. "Yeah." He reached into his pocket and produced his keys. A tiny flashlight dangled off the ring. "Find something?" he asked as he dropped the keys in her palm. "Maybe." Though the whole thing seemed surreal, and she didn't really expect to find a cache of jewels in the secret compartment, her pulse raced. There could be some positive aspects to this detective stuff, after all. With trembling fingers, she flipped on the light and aimed it at the compartment.
Chapter Thirteen Library searches. Suspect questioning. Empty secret compartments. Rafe held his cell phone next to his ear and waited for the connection. He'd lost his patience with this case. "Wes, it's Rafe. You awake?" "Hell, I am now. Hold on." Rafe heard his lieutenant's low voice, followed by the distinct sound of a woman's groan. He paced at the foot of his bed and felt lousy about bugging Wes this late. He'd just been married a few weeks and no doubt had better things to do than talk about work.
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For that matter, so did Rafe. He wanted to wrap up his work ASAP, then stroll down the hall to Ellie's room and wrap her up. He'd never told a woman he loved her before and wasn't sure he would be completely smooth about it. Ellie made him understand commitment to one person for life. Until he'd met her, he was always too busy working, trying to master his job and gain the respect of his peers and people of Baxter. The day the mayor had pinned his sheriff's badge on his chest had been the happiest of his life. But getting reelected without Ellie standing beside him had been the worst. He wasn't going through another day like that. Wes's voice brought him out of his reflections. "Okay, boss. Give it to me quick." Sinking onto the bed, he tried to remember why he'd bugged Wes, who'd already found his happiness. "Forget it. Go back to sleep." He paused. "Or whatever." "Come on, man. I'm up already." He quickly ran down where he was, the case and the suspects — namely, the mysterious George. "Oh, yeah. I remember him all right, but I doubt I know more than you do. I ran a background search on him and got nothing. Guy doesn't exist. No criminal record. No driver's license. No social security number." "I remember that from the file, but I want your thoughts on him. He helped with your case. You think he's on our side?" "Like an undercover cop? No, I doubt it. Somebody would have created a record for him, one that sang with normalcy. I vote for the other guys. Mob, maybe." Great. Well, that would certainly explain why he was so cool earlier when he said he had nothing to hide. "Thanks, man. Get back to your holiday." "You need some help up there?" "No. And we're pretty well snowed in regardless." Not quite as severely as Ellie and the others thought, but still somewhat isolated. "Have a good Thanksgiving." He signed off and tossed his cell phone to the side. Exhaustion washed over him. Laying back and crashing for the night would be so easy. But then…Ellie was just two doors down. It was time to proceed with his real reasons for pushing his way through a snowstorm on a holiday weekend. He leapt off the bed and darted down the hall. At Ellie's door, he started to knock, but thought better of warning her and tried the doorknob. Turning it slowly, he heard it click softly. He slipped inside.
Chapter Fourteen Ellie rolled over for the tenth time and punched her pillow. That aggravating, exasperating man. I'm ready to go to bed anytime you are. Right. All talk and no action. Not that she was ready to just take him back with a snap of his fingers. After all, he was the one who'd screwed up. The failure of their relationship could be laid squarely at his feet.
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You're perfect, are you? No, but she was certain she had enough self-righteous anger to get her through the night. She heard a sound, like a click, and sat straight up in bed. "Who's that?" she whispered into the darkness. "Me," Rafe said, sitting on the side of the bed and sliding his hand over her hip. She pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Get out." "I'd rather stay." He flicked on the bedside lamp, illuminating the strong line of his jaw and the resolve in his gray eyes. "I know it's late. I just want to talk to you for a minute." Oh, like she was buying that. On their third date he'd "just wanted to talk for a minute" and she'd wound up naked and flat on her back less than twenty minutes later. The man had talents. Skills performed with those magic hands and lips should be illegal in all fifty states. She snagged her watch off the table. "Go." He paused, taking in a breath. "I love you." She dropped the watch. "You do?" He cupped her face in his hand. "Very much." Ellie was pretty sure she wasn't breathing anymore. And she had no idea what to say. She'd tried to move on when they broke up, and now he'd appeared again, saying all the things she wished he'd said before. "I —" He laid his finger across her lips. "I know you're still mad at me. I know I messed up big. I felt like you were asking me to choose between you and my job." "I didn't mean to. I know your work is important. I just wanted to be important, too." "You are. You mean everything to me. Maybe I didn't realize that until you left, but I do now." He closed his eyes then opened them again. "I'm not always good with words, at expressing my emotions, but I know I hate being away from you. I want you back." He leaned forward, brushing his lips across her cheek, his breath rushing across her skin. "I have to have you back." Maybe she should just strip herself down and lie back. There was little point in fighting powerful stuff like that. Need was sweeping over her. She fisted her hands into the sheets to keep from reaching for him. "Rafe, we can't solve this with sex." He rested his cheek against hers. "Sex? Who mentioned sex?" "It was implied." "Since you've brought it up…" He slid his finger over her shoulder, pulling down the spaghetti strap of her cotton tank top. "I hear makeup sex is great." "We haven't made up yet." He leaned forward, pressing her back into the pillows. "Did I mention how great?"
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Chapter Fifteen Ellie breathed in the spicy scent clinging to Rafe's skin. She angled her head, so he could have better access to her neck. He didn't disappoint, with soft, lingering kisses beneath her jaw, then down her throat. His body covered hers, pressing her into the mattress. Her pulse exploded. The familiar weight, the brush of his large, strong hands across her skin, just his presence, washed over her with a sense of possession she'd missed desperately. Okay, so maybe she could be a bit more understanding about his job. He was the sheriff, after all. People in Baxter counted on him for their safety, and if she wanted him, she was going to have to accept sharing him. She wound her arms around his neck. Just not right now. "Are we making up now?" he asked against her earlobe. "Definitely." She gripped the back of his neck, bringing his face close to hers, making sure she could meet his gaze. "We still have a lot to talk about." "I know." He kissed her, his lips teasing and fulfilling at the same time, reminding her of the bond they shared. "Just —" he slid his tongue into her mouth "— later." She arched her back as he pulled off her pajamas. He stripped off his own clothes seconds later, and she ran her hands down his bare chest, along his stomach muscles. Dear heaven. He was beyond perfect. She absorbed his heat. She closed her eyes as he drew his hands down her chest, then to her hips and backside. He lifted her, pressing her against his hardness. She gasped. "Rafe…" "I'm here, babe," he said, though he sat back briefly, rolling on a condom. When he hovered over her again, the tip of his erection rested at the entrance to her body. "And I'm not goin' anywhere. Ever." He surged inside her, and she clung to him, absorbing his body and the words of love he'd whispered. Relationships started and fell apart everyday. The ones that stuck did so out of not just passion, but commitment. She hoped she and Rafe had that devotion for one another. Could they find balance in their lives? Could she trust him with her heart? As her climax crashed over her, she closed her eyes, shutting out her doubts and holding on to the pleasure.
*** Early in the still darkness of the next morning, Rafe lay on his back. Ellie was next to him, cuddled against his side, her thigh thrown over his, her hand curled up on his bare chest. He'd overwhelmed her with heat, with the need and chemistry they'd always had for each other. He'd joked with her, seduced her and loved her. He didn't know what else he had to give. Your life. Your future.
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He thought about the ring he'd packed in his overnight bag. The ring he'd carried around for the last week. Patience wasn't his strong suit, but he'd thrown a lot at her yesterday. She wouldn't even tell him how she felt about him. A marriage proposal seemed a bit premature. "I have to cook breakfast," she whispered, stretching. He held her against him. "It's still dark." She kissed him, then pulled away. "It won't be for much longer."
Chapter Sixteen Downstairs, Ellie washed her hands, then retrieved sausage and bacon from the fridge. She tried to keep her thoughts off Rafe, but that lasted about ten seconds. She loved him. And, though she couldn't explain it, she was afraid to tell him. She couldn't shake her insecurities and thoughts of failure. She was afraid to commit her heart, just to have it all fall apart again. Maybe once this weekend was over, and she was away from this house, the mystery of the missing necklace — She dropped her spatula into the frying pan. Good grief, she was in the middle of a lost episode of Murder, She Wrote. Or, maybe, Burglary, She Sautéed. Shaking aside the absurd thought, she considered her and Rafe's reconciliation of last night. Had things even changed? Yesterday, she'd realized she hadn't been resentful of his job, but jealous. But she couldn't really expect him to follow her around like a love-starved puppy all day. She had her own business to run and times when that would no doubt take priority over spending time with him. Plus, having spent the last several hours completely caught up in this missing necklace thing, she definitely had a better understanding of how he could get lost in his work, so — The door swung open and the man himself appeared, dressed in a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. "What can I do to help?" She blinked at his sudden appearance. Wow, he was beautiful first thing in the morning. "Oh, uh…sure." She resisted the urge to fan her face. "You can beat the eggs. But don't you need to talk to Phillip? Even if it is empty, that secret drawer is pretty suspicious." He cracked an egg on the side of a bowl. "He'll keep." They worked in companionable silence for several minutes, and once the sausage casserole was in the oven and the fruit sliced, Rafe poured them both another cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. "If you want me to resign, I will." Ellie choked on her coffee. "What? No, I don't want you to resign." "I love my job, but I love you more." Throat tight, she set down her mug and wrapped her arms around his neck. She drew a deep breath then let out the air slowly. "I love you, too. I'm kind of scared about it, but I do."
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He held her tight against his chest. "I'm sorry I screwed everything up." "You didn't. It was just as much my fault." "I have a hard time keeping my loyalty to my job, and my need to be with you, straight. But I promise to try harder. I promise we'll make it." She looked up at him — at the devotion shining from his eyes — and her heart swelled. She suddenly felt as if she could tackle anything, as long as Rafe was by her side. "And I promise to be more understanding." She angled her head. "Would you really have resigned?" "If it meant choosing between you and my job? Yes. But I was hoping you wouldn't ask me to make that decision." Phillip swung through the kitchen door. "I smell coffee." "We'll bring some out in a few minutes," Rafe said without looking away from Ellie. "But…" "In a minute." Red-faced, Phillip backed out of the room. "It is his house, you know," Ellie reminded Rafe. He shook his head. "It's a crime scene. It's my house." "Still, I know you need to talk to him." She gave him a hard kiss and stepped back. She had her own job to do, too. "Go. I've got to get the turkey in the oven." "You're more interested in solving this case than I am." She flushed and grinned. "Maybe so."
Chapter Seventeen "We need to talk about the desk in your office, Mr. Stanwick," Rafe said when he brought the coffee service into the sitting room a few minutes later. "Sheriff, this is my house, you know. I'm appalled you think you can throw me out of my own kitchen. When we get out of here, I'll have you know I'm calling the mayor." Shrugging, Rafe rose from his chair. "Fine. We can do this in my office. How does Friday morning, 9:00 a.m. sound?" Phillip cleared his throat. "Well, surely that won't be necessary." "A valuable necklace is missing, Mr. Stanwick." "But I didn't take it!" "Glad to hear it." He glared down at Stanwick. "So…the desk."
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"What about it? It was my grandmother's. It's a very valuable antique." Rafe noted that Stanwick's demeanor was very different from the night before. No more nervous pacing. His hand was steady as he poured coffee and lifted the cup to his lips. This guy was either innocent or a skilled liar. His instincts said innocent. Still, it was important to follow-up on every lead — especially when, except for George's lack of an identity, he did not have much to go on. "Ellie and I found something interesting in your desk last night." Was that a flash of fear? "I can't imagine w-what," Stanwick said, shifting in his seat. "A secret drawer. Looked like a pretty handy place to store valuables." "And what did you find inside?" Oh, yeah. Stanwick was definitely nervous now. The reaction puzzled Rafe. He wouldn't have given the guy credit for pulling off the necklace burglary. "It was empty." The other man looked visibly relieved. He sat straighter in his chair. "Of course it was." "You've never stored valuables in there?" "The compartment has been there for nearly two hundred years. The aristocracy commonly hid valuables in their furniture." He lifted his nose in the air as if any cultured person would know that. "I, however, have a safety deposit box at the bank." What a dweeb this guy is. "But did you know about the secret compartment?" "Of course, I —" He stopped as a scream — quickly stifled — echoed from the kitchen. Rafe was through the dining room and slamming to a halt a few feet from Ellie seconds later. Her face flushed and horrified, she was standing at the counter by the uncooked turkey holding a stunning diamond and ruby choker between her thumb and forefinger. Rafe's heart gave him a good, swift kick. "Ellie, what —" "Ah ha!" Stanwick said smugly from behind him. "This isn't going to look good for you, Sheriff. It looks like your girlfriend has been caught red-handed."
Chapter Eighteen "I didn't take it," Ellie said, glaring at Phillip. She looked over at Rafe. "You know I didn't." "I know."
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Ellie fought to calm her racing heart. She couldn't believe Phillip had accused her. He was pompous, but she'd never imagined he didn't trust her. She was definitely demanding her fee in cash. "Where can I find a plastic bag?" Rafe asked her. Ellie glanced from him to the necklace she was holding. "In my supply crate, in the pantry." She'd put her hands all over the choker, so she had no idea why she was holding it so carefully now. Maybe she just wanted to distance herself from the whole mess. Rafe approached her with the open bag, and she dropped the necklace inside. "You're sure this is Mrs. Hill's necklace?" she asked. "Well, there aren't two of them floating around!" Phillip shouted. "I guess you think because you're dating the sheriff and your father is the mayor, you can just get away with anything." He leaned closer to her. "Too bad you were so sloppy. Not —" "Mr. Stanwick —" Rafe said, standing between Phillip and Ellie "— you need to step back and be quiet just now." "I won't be quiet!" Phillip shouted. "I won't let this injustice go unanswered!" "What the hell's going on?" Roland demanded as he, George, Mrs. Hill and Anita Stanwick burst into the room. Roland still wore his red silk robe. The others were dressed, though Mrs. Hill's hair was still up in rollers. "We heard the shouting all the way upstairs," Mrs. Hill added. Phillip pointed a trembling finger at Ellie. "She took Mrs. Hill's necklace. I caught her red-handed." "I didn't take anything," Ellie said. "I found it in the turkey." Everyone stared at her in disbelief. Even Rafe furrowed his brow. "Well, I did." Ellie washed her hands at the sink. She knew the whole story sounded ridiculous, but that seemed to just be par for the course with this weekend. "I pulled the stuffing and the turkey out of the fridge so I could get it ready to go in the oven. I shoved a handful of stuffing inside, felt something hard and pulled out the necklace." "Anybody could have put it there," George pointed out. "And she screamed," Roland said. "I heard her. We all heard her. If she took the necklace, then hid it in the turkey, why would she scream when she saw it?" Several people looked at each other, nodding in agreement, and Ellie breathed a small sigh of relief. At least, not everyone was ready to toss her in jail. "Looks like we're back to square one," Rafe said into the silence. "The necklace may be back, but we still don't know who took it." "I can't believe you people are ignoring the obvious," Phillip said hotly. "You don't really believe this nonsense about finding the necklace in the turkey? That's the most ridiculous —" "Stop. Phillip, just stop," Anita said, laying her hand on her husband's arm. She looked over at Rafe, her eyes tired and resigned. "I did it. I took Mrs. Hill's necklace."
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Chapter Nineteen "I knew it the whole time," Roland said, then stuffed a forkful of sausage casserole in his mouth. "It's so disturbing," Mrs. Hill said. Phillip jumped to his feet. "I won't have my wife humiliated this way!" "You sure were hot to blame me a few minutes ago, though, weren't you?" Ellie accused. "Sit down, Stanwick," Rafe said, long past his patience with their volatile host. This whole missing necklace business had put a major cramp into his romantic weekend with Ellie, and he was grateful everything was working out. Now he could get on with his plans. "You want to tell us what happened, Mrs. Stanwick?" he asked the woman at the head of the dining-room table. She leaned back, looking surprisingly calm. Her confession had no doubt released much of the pressure she'd been dealing with ever since last night. "It's a compulsion," she said, as her husband covered her hand with his. "I've been seeing a therapist, but I guess you could say I fell off the wagon." "You're a kleptomaniac?" Roland said, his eyes wide. "Let her finish, Dr. Freud," George said. Anita pressed her lips together briefly then went on. "I stopped by Mrs. Hill's room on my way downstairs last night, and she showed me the necklace. It was so pretty and shiny, lying across her palm. I couldn't resist, so, when she went down to the cocktail hour, I made an excuse and snuck upstairs to take it." She met Rafe's gaze. "I put it in the concealed safe in the back of my closet, so the sheriff didn't find it during his search." "So how did it wind up in the turkey?" Ellie asked. "I realized the sheriff wasn't going to give up, so I put it there to throw suspicion off me. I'd hoped — once it was found — that the whole thing might be forgotten." She glanced at her husband. "But Phillip accused Ellie and got a little carried away being overprotective…" "I'm sorry, darling, I was so afraid you might have…you know." He glanced at Ellie. "I never should have shouted at you like that. My wife's illness has been a horrible strain." Ellie gave him a weak smile. "I'm really sorry." Anita looked down. "And embarrassed." To the surprise of probably everyone, Mrs. Hill rose and embraced Anita. "Don't you worry about a thing, dear. My grandson is well-connected in the medical community. We'll get you the help you need." She looked around the room. "Discreetly." Everyone immediately nodded their agreement, and Rafe leaned back in his chair. Except for one minor detail, it seemed as though his work was done. Mrs. Hill leaned toward Ellie. "I would appreciate it if you'd wash those turkey juices off the necklace. Salmonella, you know."
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As Ellie walked into the kitchen and the others surrounded Anita, Rafe took the opportunity to pull George into the next room. His most promising lead had fallen flat, and his innate sense of curiosity wouldn't let the mystery lie. "What's the deal with you, George?" George smiled. "You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?" Rafe held up his hands. "No recorders, no official questioning, completely off the record." George said nothing for a minute then he sighed. "Let's just say I have a past I'd rather not broadcast. It was in my interest recently to start over fresh. I won't be a problem to you, Sheriff." "I guess Roland knows about your past. He was anxious to throw suspicion everywhere else but on you." "He's just looking after the family reputation. We're cousins," he added. As he turned to head back into the other room, Rafe realized that was all he was going to get. "One last thing?" George paused without turning around. "If you weren't so reformed, would I have had reason to worry about you and that necklace in the same house?" George turned his head — and simply grinned.
Chapter Twenty Ellie had retreated to the kitchen and was humming her way through the Thanksgiving dinner preparations when the doorbell rang. Tossing a bit of salt to the simmering pot of green beans, she glanced at George and Roland, sitting at the kitchen table. "Who in the world could that be?" "Seriously," Roland added, rising to peer out the window. "We're snowed in up here." They all walked to the entrance hall to find everyone else already there and Rafe shaking hands with two state police officers. "Thanks for coming up, guys, but I don't think we'll be needing you. The necklace was simply misplaced." The appearance of the officers had Ellie frowning. Snowed in, huh? "Interesting how you arrived here," she said, approaching the men then walking around them. "No snow in your hair, no wings on your back." "Wings?" one of the officers asked, looking at the other. "Yes, wings. Our esteemed sheriff arrived last night, claiming we'd be snowed in at least through the weekend." Rafe shoved his hands in his pockets. "Actually, what I said was a day or two."
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Ellie raised her finger. "Ah, so you did — coincidentally the exact length of time of a weekend. You also said — if I recall correctly — 'the snow is blizzard quality all the way to Atlanta.'" She jutted her chin forward. "You wanna explain what happened to all that snow?" The officers shrugged. "It melted," Rafe offered — and with a straight face. "Oh, well, that would explain it." "The driveway is still very slippery," the officer on the left said. "We had to walk up here from the road," the other one added. Rafe leaned toward her. "Could I talk to you in the other room for a minute?" he asked in a low voice. "Oh, no, you don't. I want to know, right here and now why you lied about the Snowstorm of the Century." She stepped back. "And no touching, either." Roland tried unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh. She pointed at him without looking away from Rafe. "You — be quiet." She crossed her arms over her chest. "So, Sheriff…" "Well…the truth is…" He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I exaggerated the snowstorm, because I wanted to keep you here and win you back." Warmth rushed through her body. Her head spun. "You did?" "Actually, I'd planned to —" he dropped to one knee in front of her "— ask you an important question." Mrs. Hill gasped. The men clapped. Ellie trembled. Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring box, opening it as their gazes caught and held. "Will you marry me, Ellie?" Ellie couldn't have spoken for the world. Rafe loved her. He wanted to marry her. Talk about moving fast. But as she stared into his eyes, all the doubts she should have been feeling weren't there. So she simply nodded. Rafe slid the diamond ring on her finger, then pulled her into his arms for a long, deep kiss, cheered on by the shouts and whistles of the rest of the group. When the celebration quieted down, he held on to Ellie's hand and pulled her toward the door. "The turkey's in the oven. It should be ready in about three hours. Have a nice Thanksgiving." "Don't go!" Phillip said. "I have a very rare, vintage bottle of champagne that I have been saving, and I think this is the perfect time to open it." He started backing out of the hall. "I'll just grab it from the cellar." Anita cleared her throat. "Uh…honey?" Her face turned bright red. "You might want to check the safe first."
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Miss Personality by Leslie Kelly Everything’s going along perfectly for Dani Monroe: she’s worked her way up from mail-room-girl at a cheesy, B-movie studio to a plum gig as the right-hand-girl to a Hollywood legend, producer Burt Mueller. But when the sexy executive she fled her last job to forget shows up as the director of a new reality show produced by her boss, Dani is forced to decide – is she ready to trust her heart to a Hollywood playboy? Chapter One If reality TV was the wave of the future, this particular show had to be the pond scum at the bottom of that wave. “Ms. Personality,” Dani Monroe muttered in resignation as she fingered a black-velvet hood, which would be worn by one of the contestants on the show. “Ms. Bimbo in a Catsuit is more like it.” She idly wondered which non-genius here at Generations Studios had thought up the show, where masked women would compete for a bachelor, relying on personality instead of looks. “Obviously someone who doesn’t know some men don’t even consider a woman’s face when it comes to looks.” More like the stuff below the face. Which would be prominently displayed in ridiculously tight catsuits. “Did you say something?” She jerked her attention away from the hood. Feigning innocence, she smiled at her boss, uber-producer Burt Mueller. “Nope. Not a word.” Mueller nodded, distracted enough to believe her. Not unusual. Mr. Mueller had plenty of things on his mind other than his lowly assistant. Dani’s job was to make his life as easy as possible, and to keep herself practically invisible while doing it. The fact that he sometimes didn’t even remember her name -but had given her a hefty raise after her first month on the job -proved she’d done exactly that. “What time does my masseuse come in?” he asked, his voice a rough bark that intimidated nearly everyone. “Two. After your meeting with Mr. Winchell from Fox.” Burt grunted and rolled his eyes. “Better push the masseuse off by a half-hour. Winchell’s chattier than a ten-year-old after a six-pack of Mountain Dew.” Dani grinned. Mueller called ‘em like he saw ‘em, and he’d been a Hollywood legend long enough to get away with it. To say she was lucky to have landed work with the icon -who was planning his comeback by producing reality TV shows -would have been an understatement. This job had been a lifesaver. First, it had gotten her out of the mailroom of slimy Schtick Studios. Plus, in the two months she’d been Mueller’s right hand girl, she’d met TV superstars she’d idolized since childhood. Imagine, she, Dani Monroe, had shaken hands with Bob Barker. Her mother was still crowing over that one. But there had been another reason her career change had come at the perfect time. It had gotten her away from… “What time is Carruthers coming in?” Crap. Him. Josh Carruthers. The man her boss was meeting with today for some unknown reason. “Four,” she said, planning to make herself scarce when her former colleague showed up.
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Not that he’d ever considered her a colleague. No, the sexy, arrogant young director had never noticed her at all, though she’d delivered mail to his office every day for two years. Why would he notice her, a short, strawberry-haired, freckle-faced mail girl, when the man had a bevy of busty actresses constantly trying to sleep…er, audition …their way into a Schtick Studios production. She hated to think of Josh Carruthers being the type of director who had a casting couch -much less cast from one. The rumor mill said he did, but Dani wasn’t so sure. It didn’t seem in character with the man she’d once seen delivering bags of sandwiches to some homeless guys outside the studio. Then again, maybe even letches could be generous. “I’m going upstairs,” Mr. Mueller said. “To the smoking lounge.” Ha. The building was non-smoking. Not that Mueller cared -his office reeked of smoke. But she didn’t question him, knowing he liked to prowl his domain to keep his “finger on the pulse,” as he called it. After Burt left, curiosity got the better of her. Dani lifted the velvet hood, rubbing it against her cheek, then gave in to an unexpected impulse. She wanted to know what the contestants who’d be wearing these things would feel. So she gingerly slid it on, pulling it into place, surprised by its silky warmth. Glancing into the mirror over Mr. Mueller’s stocked bar, she stared in wonder. The jet black fabric covered her hair, and much of her face, falling to a curved hem just above her lips. Only her mouth, her jaw, and her eyes -revealed through two small openings -were visible. She looked almost… mysterious. “Enough,” she whispered, knowing she was about as mysterious as a fifth grader. Boring, nobody little production assistants from Iowa were not mysterious. Before she could lift the mask off her head and return to plain old Dani Monroe, however, she heard someone enter the office. She whirled around. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” Then she saw the person who’d entered. She froze in place. Because it wasn’t her boss. Wasn’t his secretary. No. She wasn’t that lucky. The person staring at her in interest and avid curiosity was Josh Carruthers. * * * Josh had shown up for his meeting with Burt Mueller to find the reception area outside the man’s office empty. It was lunchtime, but his message had said their appointment was at twelve o’clock. He did not want Mueller to think he’d been late -not with everything he had riding on this meeting. This interview could get him out of directing garbage movies for Schtick Studios and into a production company with a real track record of success. Legitimacy. Integrity, even. Okay, most people would think going from the movies to television -reality television, at that -was a step back. But to Josh it was a lifeline. And he planned to grab it. Figuring the man might be having a sandwich at his desk, he pushed on the slightly open door and entered Mueller’s office. No one sat at the desk, but the room wasn’t empty. “Excuse me,” he said, staring at the person standing by the bar. It was a woman, a slim, petite woman, wearing… ”Is that an executioner’s mask?” She said nothing, merely shaking her head. Blinking, he said, “I’m looking for Mr. Mueller. We have a noon appointment.” “Noon?” said the woman, who was incredibly curvy beneath her tight blue skirt and silky blouse.
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The mask took the sexiness quotient and shot it up exponentially, leaving Josh feeling a little short of breath. “Yes,” he muttered, wondering why he was suddenly feeling so alert. On edge. “There must have been a mixup. He just left.” Her voice was soft, not much above a husky whisper, and it intrigued him. Hell, the whole package intrigued him. He stepped closer, wondering if she’d whirl away or whip off the mask. She did nothing. She merely stood there watching him step closer. Finally, though, when he was mere inches from her side, she said, “Maybe you should come back later.” Her voice echoed in his brain, so soft, so evocative. And suddenly he felt sure he’d heard it before. He wanted to know who she was. Had to know. Then maybe he could understand why his reaction to her had been so strong. So instant and powerful. “And maybe you,” he replied in a husky whisper of his own, “should take off the mask.” Chapter Two He wanted her to take off the mask? Dani Monroe stared at hot-shot director Josh Carruthers through the small openings in the black velvet mask she’d donned in her boss’s office. She’d wanted to get a sense of what the contestants on the new reality show, Ms. Personality, would feel. She hadn’t intended to look foolish. Which was why she in no way wanted to take off the mask shielding her face from Josh’s heated stare. Bad enough if he recognized her and was amused by her silly idea that a mask could make a seductive mystery woman out of an Iowa farmgirl. Particularly if he remembered her as his mail delivery woman from Schtick Studios. But worse, what if he didn’t recognize her at all? Talk about humiliation -having made absolutely zero impression on a man she’d been a little infatuated with for two years. “Come on, take it off,” he urged, using that silky voice that had been known to get even the worst diva actress to behave. “You’ve definitely aroused my…interest.” She wanted to refuse. Wanted to pop off some sultry, wicked remark about what else she hoped she’d aroused, then saunter out of there, leaving him quivering with lust. Or if not lust, at least curiosity. But she didn’t have any choice. She had to take it off. She was reaching up to do exactly that when Burt Mueller’s voice boomed in the room. “Carruthers? What are you doing here? You’re early.” Saved by the producer. Josh swung around to greet Burt. In that split-second when he was distracted, Dani whipped the mask off, letting it fall from her fingers to the floor. Then she sidestepped Josh and beelined for the door, barely sparing a nod for her boss. Behind her, Josh called, “Wait, what’s your…” But she was out the door before his last word left his mouth.
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*** Josh Carruthers hadn’t stopped thinking about the woman in the mask all week. He should have been focusing on a lot of other things -like the job he’d just accepted with Burt Mueller to direct his latest reality TV show. But how could he get her off his mind when the show revolved around seductive women in black velvet masks? Burt had been absolutely no help. He’d found it amusing that Josh -whose unwanted reputation as a ladies man stuck tighter than a piece of gum on his shoe -hadn’t gotten the woman’s name. When Josh had asked him to confirm she was a contestant on Ms. Personality, Mueller had laughed and replied, “You’ll be seeing her around.” So far, he’d only seen her in his dreams. Her dark, vivid eyes sparkling behind the black velvet. Her incredible mouth, perfectly curved and ripe for kissing. Her sensational, sassy figure as she’d walked out the door. A flash of light hair swept back in a short braid. Everything except her face. He was on the lookout for her at Generation Studios when he showed up the next week for a meeting, for which he was now fifteen minutes late. He’d given his notice at Schtick, and they’d reacted with typical vindictiveness, making it nearly impossible for him to get any time off to prepare for the job transition. They were holding him to the letter of his contract, so he had to stay a full three weeks. In the meantime he was participating as much as he could in the planning for the new show -which meant dealing with his new boss’s assistant, a Ms. Monroe, who’d been a snooty, annoying pain in the ass during their few phone calls. And who he was now about to meet, face-to-face, for the first time. “You’re late,” a woman’s voice said as he approached a sixth floor boardroom where today’s meeting was taking place. Hmm…Ms. Monroe, he presumed. He watched her walk out of that boardroom, her body stiff beneath her severe, tightly buttoned-up navy pantsuit. The clothes didn’t work. Suits were meant for tall, statuesque women with iron in their veins. Not cute little sweethearts like this one. She was petite -probably only came up to his neck -and had shoulder-length red hair. Playful, wispy curls bounced at her temples as she moved; again, a sharp contrast to the shapeless, boxy suit in which she was dressed. She had a great mouth -with lips that were probably impossibly sexy when she smiled -and dark green eyes dominated her cute, pixie-like face. But her expression wasn’t cute and those lips sure weren’t smiling. “Mr. Mueller has a thing about tardiness.” “And I have a thing about no place to park,” Josh shot back, staring hard at her, realizing that, for some reason, she seemed familiar to him. “You are Ms. Monroe, I imagine?” As if sensing his curiosity, she lowered her gaze and turned slightly away. “Yes. Sorry. We’re working on getting you an assigned spot. I called this morning and asked the parking attendant to direct you to Mr. Mueller’s backup spot.” “They forgot.” Then he thought about it. “He has a backup parking spot?” She nodded, sending those curls bouncing. “He’s got kind of a car thing going on and usually has two on hand.”
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Rich, eccentric producers and their passions. At least Mueller’s was just cars; Josh had definitely heard of worse. “Has the meeting started? “No. He’s on the phone, and it might take a while.” For some reason, Josh didn’t mind the delay. He suddenly had the urge to figure out just who this woman was, and why she’d been so cold to him. *** Dani cursed the phone call that had given her boss a chance to delay the start of the meeting -and had thrown her right into a private moment with Josh. Because the longer they talked, the more likely it was that he’d recognize her. She’d seen that flash of something in his eyes. She should have known changing the way she dressed, and the way she wore her hair, wouldn’t be enough of a disguise. It sure had amused her boss, though, who’d seen right through her efforts to keep Josh from figuring out who she was. Knowing Burt, he’d probably arranged for the phone call. Suddenly, her worst fears came true. Josh’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted. “Wait a minute,” he said, stepping closer to peer into her face. “I know you.” Dani didn’t say anything, she hardly even breathed while she waited for him to continue. Because she couldn’t be sure exactly how he remembered her… Chapter Three Dani Monroe held her breath, waiting for Josh Carruthers to tell her how he remembered her. Did he recognize her as the hooded mystery woman he’d spoken to so briefly, or as the lovelorn mail girl he’d once worked with? “You’re her. The woman in the mask,” Josh said, a confident smile creasing his sexy mouth. The confidence wasn’t surprising; they’d shared a very intense moment in Burt’s office that day. The words he’d whispered, “You’ve aroused my… interest,” had played over and over again in her brain many times since. So she should have felt elated that he remembered her as his mystery woman. But she wasn’t. Because how much of a fat-headed jerk did this guy have to be to have worked with her for two years - right up until a few months ago - and not remember her when they came face to face? Her jaw tightened. “My, aren’t you the observant one.” He stepped closer, close enough so she could smell the heady warmth of his cologne. Or maybe it was his own magnetic essence that filled her every inhalation. Blinking, she dug her fingernails into her palms to try to maintain her righteous anger. “What can I say? You’re unforgettable,” he replied. Unforgettable? He had to be kidding. Dani no longer had to use pain to keep herself from falling under the young director’s spell. His own words were doing a fine job of that. “Gee, thanks.” “So who are you, really?” Josh asked, his eyes twinkling. “Are you the hard-nosed assistant who’s been sending me snippy e-mails every day?” She started to sputter, but he leaned closer, lowering his voice to an intimate whisper. “Or are you the sultress in the black velvet mask who’s filled my dreams every night?”
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Hmm, what should she do? Punch his lights out? Or just melt into a puddle of brainless, hungry woman right at his feet? Because, man, the guy was hot, even when he was ticking her off with every word he spoke. She settled for a hasty retreat. Lifting her chin, she fought to keep her voice from shaking with hurt. Or lust. Both of which battled for control of her emotions. “I’m someone you’ll never know, because your own words prove you don’t really see me at all.” Then Dani whirled around and marched down the hall, blowing off the meeting, needing to be alone to gloat over her brilliant comeback. And to cry at the knowledge that it had been entirely true. *** He didn’t see her at all? Ha. Dani Monroe filled his vision even when he closed his eyes. Josh had been surprised by her coolness when she’d admitted she’d been the woman in the mask. And downright stunned by her cold comeback and abrupt departure. What the hell had happened? How could she be so changeable - from seductress to aloof businesswoman, to, well, wounded girl was the only way he could describe the last look on her face. He tried to find out. In the days that followed, he dropped her friendly e-mails and tried to engage her in conversation whenever he saw her. She was always professional but reserved. Except when they really got into some real planning sessions about the show, Ms. Personality. Then she was energetic, enthusiastic, and intensely creative. And, God help him, Dani was back to wearing short, tight skirts and silky blouses like she’d had on when they met. The kind that reminded him daily of the sexy, sensual creature lurking beneath her cool exterior. Cool? More like sub-zero, at least around him. Only him. To her boss, the costume person, the set people, she was bubbly and sweet. Him she treated like something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he’d offended - no, that wasn’t the right word - he’d have thought he’d actually hurt her in some way. But that was impossible. Unless…unless that little voice in the back of his head that had been telling him he knew her from somewhere was right. He’d ignored the voice. Because whenever he tried to grab the memory, to pull it to the forefront of his mind, it had proved elusive. He’d had a quick visual of someone who looked like Dani, but who hadn’t had those deep green eyes. They’d been blue. Blue and judgmental. And every time he thought of them, he squirmed a little inside, as if whoever it was she reminded him of had been someone who’d disapproved of him. Which was probably what made him go out of his way to tease her, to try to get her to smile at him. Like now. “So when are you going to try on one of the costumes the contestants are going to wear on the show?” Josh asked her from the other side of her desk. He was waiting on the late-again producer, and Burt’s secretary had suggested he could wait in Mueller's office. But Dani’s was more fun, despite the fact she was going about her business as if he wasn’t there. Dani’s brow shot up as she worked on her computer. “How about never?” “Come on, you were curious enough to try on one of the masks.” He kept his tone light and playful, wanting to make her smile, or at least not frown. He held out absolutely no hope that she’d put on one of the ridiculously tight catsuits. Which was just as well, since seeing her in it would probably turn him into even more of a stuttering idiot that he’d been around her so far.
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Obviously, she wasn’t in a smiling mood. She scowled as she got up and walked around her desk. “I wish you’d forget that,” she muttered, stepping around his chair to reach for her printer, which had just spit out the notes for today’s meeting. Forget it? He’d be more likely to forget his own name. Looking up at her, he stared into her eyes, about to admit exactly that. Her face grew pink, and her lips parted as she pulled in a breath, as if she’d read his thoughts. Then she shook her head, hard, and reached for the papers. Only, fate had something else in store. Because Dani suddenly tripped over the power cord to the printer and stumbled. Right into Josh’s lap. His arms quickly encircled her waist, to hold her steady, even as his whole body reacted to her closeness. They were nose to nose, eye to eye. Almost mouth to mouth. Which left him with an overwhelming urge to taste that mouth, to see if his kiss could bring a smile to his lips, even if his words couldn’t. Not knowing how she’d react - if she’d kiss him back or leap up in outrage - he gave in to temptation and caught her soft mouth in a hot kiss. Chapter Four It took a few seconds for Dani Monroe to process what was happening. She’d fallen onto Josh’s lap - his firm, welcoming lap - and now, amazingly, he was kissing her. He, hotshot director Josh Carruthers, the man she’d had a crush on for two years, was kissing her like she was the most desirable woman on earth. The kiss was sweet, hot and playful. Josh nibbled on the corner of her mouth, then gently licked the seam of her lips to tempt her tongue to come out and play. She groaned, tempted to do just that, to deepen the kiss and enjoy this unexpected embrace for the pure sensual pleasure of it. Logically, she knew she should leap up and slap his face. But logic never had called the shots when it came to her feelings for Josh. “Kiss me back, Dani,” Josh whispered against her mouth. “One kiss so I’ll know for sure that you taste as sweet as you look.” With a soft sigh of surrender, Dani tilted her head for a deeper kiss. Their tongues met and mated and Josh and Dani fell into a perfect rhythm of breaths, tastes and touches. This time, Josh was the one to groan. That throaty sound of pleasure sent lazy desire throughout Dani’s entire body. Because he wanted her. This man whom she’d wanted for so long truly wanted her back. And he wasn’t kissing the stranger in the black velvet mask. He was kissing the woman he’d gotten to know, the woman she was now. “We should stop,” Dani whispered. Josh kissed his way down to the hollow of her throat, cradling her when she leaned back to give him access. ”Do you really want to… stop?” The sultry whisper scraped across her skin with delicious sensitivity. “No, I don’t.” Then, hearing someone out in the hall, Dani regretfully straightened up. “But we have to.” They definitely had to. Because if the man went any lower, she wasn’t going to want to stop until they were naked on her desk.
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They both drew in a few deep, ragged breaths, then, Josh finally said, “Wow.” “Wow is right. That was unexpected.” Dani pried herself from his embrace, trying to calm down. As much as she didn’t want to, she realized she had to get off of his lap before someone walked in on them. “You don’t regret it.” His tone dared her to deny it, but before she could reply, he added, “Because I don’t. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” “Well, now you’ve got it out of your system,” she said as she rose, smoothing out her top with her hands. Josh chuckled, then shook his head ruefully. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get the desire to kiss you out of my system, Dani.” The certainty in his voice brought out such an unexpected rush of pleasure that Dani couldn’t help breaking into a wide smile. Josh’s eyes narrowed and he stared at her intently. She blinked, wondering if one of her tinted contacts had fallen out, praying now wouldn’t be the time for her to have to deal with explanations about who she was and where they’d really met - not when she was still warm and dizzy from his kiss. Ten minutes ago she’d been bothered that he didn’t recognize her. Now, she wanted to keep things like this for just a bit longer. Something had shifted when they’d kissed, it was as if that kiss had brought them back to square one, starting from scratch in a whole new type of relationship. Besides, she’d had time to think about things over the past few days. Maybe she didn’t have quite as much reason to be angry as she’d thought. She no longer looked much like the mail girl he’d occasionally passed in the hallways of Schtick Studios. When she’d gotten her new job, she’d made herself over, getting rid of the wide-eyed young girl look. She’d cut off most of her long hair and lightened it from dark red to strawberry blonde. She certainly didn’t wear the silly little uniform she’d once worn. And then there were the green contact lenses - the ones she’d started wearing after Josh had first seen her in the velvet mask, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her when they met again. Once he’d seen her green eyes, it would have been really tough to explain a sudden eye color change. So, no, it wasn’t necessarily a sign that Josh was a selfish jerk for not recognizing her. Maybe more that she wasn’t recognizable. Which meant telling him the truth about who she was might prove to be a bit sticker than she’d imagined. Josh lost himself for a moment in Dani’s smile. It was dazzling. And, for some strange reason, seemed familiar. As if he’d seen that joyous expression before. “Have dinner with me tonight,” he said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” No brainer. “Uh, yeah.” “I mean, because we work together.” “If Burt’s got a no-fraternization policy, maybe I’ll have to bail on this whole Ms. Personality thing.” “You’re just saying that because you know as well as I do that this show is a really stupid idea.”
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Josh’s jaw dropped. He had been thinking along those lines, but hadn’t wanted to shoot his job out of the water by saying so to the producer’s assistant. “You really feel that way?” She nodded. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to ruin your job before you even officially start. Now back to your invitation…” “Yes?” She gave him another of those wide, genuine smiles. “Yes.” *** Dani had never enjoyed a date with a man more. Once she’d lowered her defenses, and let go of her annoyance that he hadn’t remembered her, she’d found Josh to be an entertaining, charming companion. He was smart, quick-witted and a perfect gentleman. She’d actually been looking forward to a little non-gentlemanly behavior on his part, particularly when they’d been walking hand in hand on the beach after dinner. The surf had rolled onto the sand in a soft, gentle rhythm, the moonlight had danced on the waves - the moment had been ripe with expectation. The perfect setting for romance, straight out of a movie. But nothin’. No kiss, no embrace. Nada. Just clasped hands and lots of conversation. Interesting conversation…though not as interesting as the other things the man could do with his mouth. Which was all she could think about now, a few hours later, as they stood on her front porch about to say goodnight. Dani didn’t want to say goodnight. Not yet. As Josh leaned close to kiss her cheek, Dani found herself whispering, “Are you sure you have to go? You could…come in.” Josh breathed deeply, as if inhaling the scent of her hair. He said nothing for a long moment, then, when she’d begun to kick herself for being a needy fool, he admitted, “I’d like that. But I’m afraid to.“ He pulled away and looked down at her, his expression tender, but also intense. “Afraid? Why?” “Because,” he said softly, “if I come in tonight, I don’t think I’ll be leaving until tomorrow.” Chapter Five Dani Monroe stared at Josh Carruthers, pondering her next move. If she remained silent, he would walk away after just a kiss on the cheek. If she spoke up, she might get to spend the night with the man of her dreams. Hmm…what was a girl to do? “Come in,” she urged after about two seconds. Josh looked at her with surprise, so she added, “If you’re here tomorrow morning, it will be because it’s right for both of us.” He grinned. “If?” “Yeah. If. Ever heard of just coming in for coffee and a little making out?” “Making out’s good. It’s the stopping that worries me.” Right now, it seemed more important to start. Grabbing Josh by his arm, she pulled him into her apartment, then slid her arms around his neck. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all evening.”
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So she did. She touched her mouth to his, lightly, before Josh put his arms around her hips and tugged her closer. Their tongues met and mated - hot and hungry - until Dani was whimpering with pleasure. Suddenly, Josh bent and picked her up in his arms. She’d always figured she’d be insulted if some guy tried to manhandle her. But Josh wasn’t manhandling….he was adoring her. Pressing gentle kisses on her cheeks and neck as he carried her to the couch and set her down. When he knelt on the floor between her knees, the contact of their lower bodies sent molten want through Dani’s blood. “So much for coffee,” she whispered. Then she couldn’t think at all. Josh’s touch was amazing. He stroked her hip and her side, teasing the skin at her waist with feather-light caresses. Dani arched toward him, wanting more. When he finally slid his hands under her blouse and cupped her breast, she moaned and laughed, all at the same time, delighted at the sheer pleasure of it. One of his eyebrows shot up. “Should I be flattered or worried?” “I can’t help it. I laugh when I feel good.” “Well, then, let’s see if I can have you rolling in the aisles,” he said with a throaty chuckle. Moving his mouth down her body, he scraped his lips against her silk-covered breast, making her quiver. As Dani threw her head back in ecstasy, one of the cushions poked at the corner of her eye, but she barely noticed. At least, not until Josh stopped, looked up and stared at her in confusion. He frowned, pulling away slightly. Then his jaw dropped. “It’s you!” Josh was stunned by the realization he’d just made. Dani used to work with him at Schtick Studios. She looked so different, from her hair to her clothes. Damn, even the color of her eyes! One of which, he now saw, was a clear, sky blue. She’d been wearing contact lenses and one had fallen out. “Josh?” she asked, her tone cautious. “Your eyes aren’t green, they’re blue,” he snapped. Nibbling her lip, Dani nodded. “I’m wearing tinted contacts.” “Why?” “I…I like green?” Josh rose to his feet. “Bull! You were trying to hide your identity from me.” “Which wasn’t very hard to do, Mr. Observant,” she shot back. “How could you not know who I was after we worked together for two years?” The disgust in her voice pierced the anger he’d been feeling about being deceived. “You look completely different. You cut off half your hair and it’s lighter.” Besides, when Dani had worked at Schtick Studios she’d looked like a fresh-faced girl. Now she looked like a mature, devastating woman.
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“Your clothes are different, you even act differently,” he said, wondering which of them had more right to be upset. “Only your smile is the same.” That smile. Josh had often noticed the incredible smile of the former studio mail girl. Mainly because she’d never bestowed it upon him. She’d barely met his eye at all, and whenever she had, she’d looked nervous, tense. Almost disapproving with those big blue eyes. As if she’d judged him and found him lacking. As if he’d disappointed her. Which made him even angrier. “Sorry, I’m not up for game-playing.” He didn’t even trust himself to look at her as he strode to the door. “Goodnight, Dani.” And then he walked out. *** The next day, Dani couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened with Josh. Yes, she’d been mad that he hadn’t recognized her. But by hiding her identity, she’d made him think she was playing some kind of childish game. She was still stewing over it that afternoon; so much so that she barely registered what her boss had just asked her to do. Then it sunk in. “You want me to put on one of those costumes and talk to the potential bachelors?” “Yeah,” Burt said. “You can do it. Our usual stand-in called in sick, and we need to see how these guys interact with a masked woman.” A masked woman in a ridiculously tight, Cat-womanish ensemble. “Forget it. Uh-uh. No way.” She should have known better. Burt always got his way. Which was why, by 3:00, she was dressed in a devil-red spandex get-up that clung to every inch of her body, outlining her curves and making her want to dive into a closet or put on an overcoat. The black velvet mask - which had seemed so sultry when she’d worn it with Josh - proved heaven-sent now, because it helped hide her disgust for the bachelors. So far on the show there had been an arrogant jock, a whiny mama’s boy and a patronizing chauvinist. One thing they’d had in common - they’d all been droolers. Which left her more certain than ever that this whole Ms. Personality concept was doomed, because not one of them had looked above her chin. And that was when she had been dressed in regular clothes. The only thing she could be grateful for was that, because of another commitment, Josh wasn’t around to witness this. And she planned to be long gone by the time he arrived. *** Josh arrived at the studios and was directed to one of the sound stages, where Burt Mueller was meeting with the final five candidates for their bachelor. “I was able to make it in early after all,” he said to Burt as he walked in the door. “My other meeting was canceled.” Burt shushed him, staring intently toward the other side of the room where two people stood. One of them was a burly guy. The other was… “Dani?!” Josh’s jaw dropped. There was no doubt it was Dani - he recognized the delicate curve of her jaw, the sweet fullness of her lips. He froze, still affected by her despite his anger. He’d hoped to get a chance to talk with her today about what had happened, but this room was a little crowded. Primarily by the burly jackass who was, right at this moment, standing over Dani, peering down her top.
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His fingers tightened instinctively but he ordered himself to stay calm. He had no claim on Dani. Maybe she liked any man’s attention and wanted this guy’s hands on her. Whoa! His hands! The guy had just put his hand on her shoulder, brushing his forearm against Dani’s breast in a move too deliberate to be accidental. Then he grabbed her around the waist. A part of Josh wanted to grab the jerk and throw him across the room. But another part - the part that didn’t know if Dani was just a game-player who craved male attention - wanted to know how she would react. Chapter Six Dani Monroe’s brothers had taught her long ago that a knee to the groin or a fist to the throat could bring any jerk down. So the fathead who’d just grabbed her was cruising for a one-two combination. She smacked at his beefy paw, which rested on her hip. “Get your hands off me or you’ll be talking soprano for life.” “Well put,” someone said. It wasn’t until the guy let her go that Dani looked to see who’d spoken. Oh, great. It was Josh Carruthers. “Must you always be around when I’m looking like an idiot?” “You look perfect.” Then Josh turned and leveled an icy stare on the bachelor. “If she doesn’t turn you into a soprano, I and the two security guards right outside the door sure as hell will. Now... get out.” The guy nearly ran. Once he was gone, Dani said, “Thanks for the backup - not that I really needed it.” “I know you didn’t,” he replied. “We need to talk.” “Oh, great, that’s another one off our list!” Burt shouted. Dani had almost forgotten Mueller was there. She looked at Josh. “Yes, we do. But first I have to talk to Burt.” It was time to come clean, to say what she thought. That would be especially tough with Josh watching her with unexpected tenderness. What she had to say could hurt him. But she had no other choice. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her intimidating boss. “Burt, I have something I have to say, and it’s not going to be easy to hear. This,” she told the producer, “has got to be the stupidest reality show in the history of television.” She held her breath, waiting for Burt’s reaction. And Josh’s. To her surprise, Burt merely stared, puffing, as always, on his cigar. To her greater surprise, Josh stepped to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder. “She’s right,” he said. “Ms. Personality is a disaster.” *** Josh hadn’t been sure what to do about the show, not until Dani threw the truth into their boss’s face. She’d been completely honest... how could he be any less? Having gone this far, he went all the way. “The whole thing’s a nightmare.”
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Burt didn’t argue. Instead, he listened calmly while Josh and Dani pointed out the problems with the show. Eventually, the three of them went upstairs to Burt’s office to talk. There, the man surprised them by saying, “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t thought of. I didn’t want to pull the plug too soon, but I do have some other projects I’m developing.” Josh and Dani exchanged a relieved look. This might just turn out okay for all of them. “Hey, is this a private party or can anyone join in?” Josh looked toward the doorway and saw a young woman. Her spiky black hair and dark clothes were a stark contrast to her pale - but pretty - face. Burt grinned widely. “Jacey!” The woman joined them, hugging the notorious producer. “This is Jacey Turner. My daughter,” Mueller said to Josh. “She’s the best damn camera operator on the coast.” Jacey rolled her eyes. “And you wonder why they called him the ‘King of Schmaltz’ back in the ‘70s?” Their banter brought a smile to Josh’s lips. Dani rose. “Hey, Jacey, good to see you again.” Motioning for Josh to join her, she added, “I’m sure you guys have a lot to catch up on. We’ll get out of your hair.” “We’ll talk about the reality shows later,” Burt said with an appreciative look. “I’m hoping to convince Jacey to work with us.” As Josh followed Dani to the door, he heard Burt’s daughter say, “If you think I’m ever gonna work on the set of another reality TV show, you’re whacked in the head, old man.” Josh grinned, liking the sassy way Burt’s daughter treated him. Just before exiting, his boss called, “By the way, Josh. I’ve got something else in mind for you. How do you feel about crime dramas?” How did he feel? Abso-frigging-lutely fantastic! Giving the man a nod of thanks, he pulled the door closed. Now there was only one thing left to do: fix things with Dani. *** “Let’s go,” Josh said, grabbing her hand as they left Burt’s office. Dani stumbled to keep up. “Go where?” “Someplace private.” Considering she was still wearing the hideous red cat suit, private was good. He led her to her own office, pulled her inside, then shut the door. She moved towards her desk, turning to face him as she perched herself on its edge. Before she could open her mouth, he said, “Now listen.” She held her breath. “I was a fool for not recognizing you. You changed, but the basic person was always there. Funny, sassy and sweet.” Josh shook his head. “To be honest, I think that’s why I looked at you but never really saw you. Because the sassy mail girl I worked with looked at me like I was pond scum.”
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Dani’s jaw dropped. She’d feared looking like a lovesick puppy... and he’d thought she didn’t like him? “Last night... when I recognized you, I thought you were punishing me or something with a weird head game. Because you believed the lies about me,” he explained. “I didn’t really believe them.” “Then why were you nice to everyone, but wouldn’t even smile at me?” She smiled at him now. “Because I thought if I smiled at you, you’d see the truth. That I was crazy about you.” This time, his jaw dropped. Dani slid off the desk and stepped close, putting her hand on his chest, feeling the strength of his heartbeat. “Back then I had a goofy crush on you.” Taking a breath for courage, she continued. “Now it’s more than that. I’m in love with you.” Emotion flashed in his eyes, then he asked, “So why the games? Why did you hide who you were?” That was a tough one. She explained as best she could. “I thought I’d been invisible before. So I tried to keep that girl invisible... maybe hoping you’d come to care for the woman I am now. The woman you’ve spent so much time with these past few weeks.” He leaned down and tenderly brushed his lips against hers. “You were never invisible. I definitely saw you. And now that I know the woman in the mask is also the buttoned-up producer’s assistant... and the sassy redhead who drove me nuts for two years, I’m never going to be able to let you go.” He was hinting at it, but Dani needed the words. “Why, Josh?” He brushed a wisp of hair off her brow. “Because I’m in love with you, too, Dani.” She almost didn’t believe it, but the warmth in his eyes couldn’t lie. Dani threw her arms around his neck and tugged him close, pressing her mouth to his for a tender kiss that quickly turned hot and intimate. Dani moaned, loving the taste of him and the warmth of his hard body. “We gonna stop playing games now?” she eventually asked, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Yeah. You up for another date?” “And this time you really will stay for... breakfast?” Josh pulled her tight again, caressing her waist, her back, then the side of her breast with deliciously light strokes. “Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner,” he whispered. “Today and every day.” “Then let’s go,” she said, already shivering in anticipation. “Do one thing for me, okay?” Looking down at her clothes, he gave her an evil grin. “Keep the cat suit on.”
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End Game by Loreth Anne White All mercenary Grant McDonough wants is to forget the woman who rejected his proposal and married one of his best friends. But when he's forced to make a stop in a remote region of the Sudan for emergency repairs to his plane, he walks straight into the one woman he never wanted to see again! It's soon clear to Grant that Dr. Elizabeth Waring is in trouble—serious trouble. And being a man of honor, Grant is compelled to protect her, even if it means getting caught up in a deadly game…
Chapter One Grant McDonough hoisted his duffle bag onto his shoulder and strode through waves of heat that shimmered over a pockmarked tarmac. He made straight for the tiny airport bar. He had time to kill while his plane was repaired, and fresh water wasn't much of an option in this remote region of Sudan. He entered the bar and wiped the perspiration from his brow as his eyes adjusted to the interior gloom. A fan circling lazily overhead did little to dissipate the desert heat. Grant took in every detail before going further, doing it almost subconsciously. A barkeep wiped the counter while a young boy polished glasses behind him. A dark-skinned man with aquiline features brooded over a drink at a table in the dim corner while a woman sat on a stool at the bar. Grant's body went still as his eyes settled on the woman. The symmetry of her figure was unmistakable. Dr. Elizabeth Waring. The woman he'd asked to marry him, the woman he thought he'd never see again, touch again, was right there in front of him. His heart began to thud. Hard. His mouth turned bone dry. For a split second Grant actually thought about running. But he was Scots. He wasn't programmed to flee trouble. He faced it head on even if he knew with every damn bone in his body that he was going to lose. Badly. Again. Grant cursed, set his jaw and advanced to the bar. He dropped his bag with a dull thud as he scooted a stool out of the way with his knee. "Whiskey. Straight up," he said to the barman in the local dialect. Her body went rigid. She turned, slowly lifted her mercurial eyes and her gaze collided with his. The connection was a punch to the gut. "Elizabeth," his voice came out low, rough. He couldn't help it. The pain was still there. So was the raw attraction, dammit. She opened her mouth in silent shock. Her eyes darted to the door then back. Curiosity rustled through Grant. She was scared? He accepted his whiskey, took a hard swig, leveled his gaze. "A bit far from your refugee camp, aren't you, Doctor? What're you doing out this way?" "I—I could ask you the same, Grant." Her voice was unusually shaky. The little tell-tale stress muscle under her eye—the one he knew so damned well—was jumping. He narrowed his eyes, studied her carefully. "Even a merc takes a holiday, Liz. Besides, my plane needed some emergency work." He nodded to her glass. "Drink?"
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She shook her head, too fast, and her hair fell forward over her shoulder in a thick dark wave. Grant caught the scent of shampoo. He inhaled slowly. Elizabeth always had her hair tied back in a businesslike braid. There was something fundamentally changed about her, and he tried to put his finger on it. She still sported her trademark sarong and leather sandals, dulled from fine desert dust. But gone was the efficient, formhugging T-shirt she always wore on the job. Instead, a loose gypsy-style blouse obscured her figure, and she wore a string of beads around her neck, big and translucent green, like her eyes. He'd never seen Elizabeth wear jewelry. Her face also looked different, more gentle somehow. Grant swore silently. She'd grown even more beautiful than he remembered, if that was at all possible. "How've you been, Liz?" he said softly, capitulating. She swallowed, glanced over her shoulder. Perspiration began to gleam along her brow. Elizabeth, the usually steel-strong doctor who headed up a massive aid organization in the Sudan wasn't just scared—she was flat-out terrified. Of what? Him? Grant frowned. "Liz? Are you okay?" She didn't answer. Her breathing became shallow. He placed his hand over hers, noticed she was trembling. "Elizabeth, are you in some kind of trouble?" "I—I'm so sorry, Grant. I—I never got a chance to explain, about Maddock. I—" An announcement, in Arabic, crackled over the speakers. "Flight 729 for Dakar boarding at gate two…" "That… That's my plane," she whispered hoarsely. Perspiration now beaded the area above her lip. "I—I've got to go…please." She slid her hand out from under his, reached for her bag and stood up. Grant's jaw dropped. The woman he'd once loved—still loved—the woman who had sworn off children, was at least seven months pregnant.
Chapter Two Elizabeth's eyes held his for a heavy beat. The fan circled slowly above. Silence boomed in his ears. "I'm sorry Grant," she said softly. "I wish things were different. " Her eyes misted up and she spun around, walked hurriedly away. Grant's chest burned with a fierce mix of resentment and pain as he watched her go. The woman he'd wanted to marry, the woman who'd sworn off kids and family in favor of her tough humanitarian job, was carrying a child. Another man's child. The swarthy man in the dark corner of the bar stood suddenly, glanced pointedly at Grant, and followed Elizabeth out of the bar. The fine hairs on the back of Grant's neck rose instantly. Elizabeth wasn't only pregnant. She was in some kind of trouble. Serious trouble. Grant dumped a wad of cash on the bar, grabbed his bag and followed them out. The man was definitely tailing Liz. He lingered against a pillar as she entered the washroom, not even trying to hide. He was overtly threatening her. Grant's stomach tightened in reflexive anger. The flight to Dakar was announced again. And in a gut reaction, he headed straight for the stand-by counter.
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He had to get on that flight.
*** Elizabeth dabbed tepid water on her face, trying to cool herself. She gave up, rested her hands on the basin, taking some of the weight off her feet. Oh God, she was not doing well. Seeing Grant McDonough hadn't helped. He still wore his jeans like they were made for sin. His body was still rock hard. And his eyes were even more alluring than in her dreams—pale golden amber against his tanned skin. That was her Grant. Solid. Dependable. Ready to laugh. So damned alive. Except he wasn't hers. Not anymore. And she was going to die. She inhaled deeply. She loved him. Always had. Always would. And she needed him—in so many more ways than one. He was the one man in this entire world who could probably help her right now, and she couldn't turn to him. She was being too closely watched. Tears welled up and Elizabeth blinked them angrily away. She had to focus if she wanted any chance of saving her baby. She looked up at her reflection in the stained mirror and hesitantly touched the beads around her neck. She had to proceed. If only to buy time. When she landed in the States she could tell someone. They could quarantine her, get expert help, maybe get the beads off without killing her. It was the only option she had right now.
*** The propellers were spinning, the crew was preparing to retract the stairs, and the rear loading door was already sealed. Grant raced over the sweltering tarmac toward the plane, boarding pass in hand. He ducked into the cabin, wet with perspiration. Elizabeth was sitting near the front. Her head shot up and her eyes flared in alarm at the sight of him. Her mouth opened slightly, as if in a desperate plea. Grant's stomach clenched. His eyes held her eyes for a moment, silently reassuring her—I'm here for you, Liz. Then he caught sight of the dark-skinned man sitting one row behind Elizabeth. The man's eyes, too, were nailed to Grant. He met the man's gaze, accepting the challenge. Then he moved quietly toward his seat at the rear of the plane and buckled himself in for take-off. They were in for a rough ride, he could feel it in his gut. He just didn't know how rough.
Chapter Three The small plane finally settled after flying into a half hour of desert and mountain turbulence right after takeoff. The seatbelt lights pinged off, and was followed by the sounds of buckles being undone. Almost immediately Grant saw Elizabeth coming down the aisle, making for the washroom at the rear. She was as pale as a sheet. The dark skinned man who'd been tailing her at the airport stood up from his seat and watched her. Grant's pulse kicked up a notch. Elizabeth barely hesitated at Grant's seat but her eyes caught his again, and held them. They spoke volumes—she'd been crying. The tough doctor who'd forced herself not to weep over the children she lost
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daily in her refugee camp, was lost herself. He could see it. Emotion welled sharp and hot into his own eyes. He nodded slightly, indicating she should go ahead and use the washroom. When the occupied signal showed on her stall door, Grant got up, went to the back, as if to wait his turn for the bathroom, out of her tail's immediate line of sight. When Elizabeth came out, he put his arm out against the wall, stopping her. Raw panic flared in her features. "Talk to me, Liz," he growled, almost angry that she was trying to avoid him again. "Why is that guy following you?" "Grant," her voice was breathy. "I—I'm in major trouble. I… Oh God, I need your help." Tears spilled down her cheeks. His heart squeezed so tight it hurt. "And I have no right to ask for it, not after I—" "Shh. Not now." He brushed her tears brusquely away with the pad of his thumb, and she leaned into him as he did, as if her body was defying her control. He couldn't help it, he was inexorably being pulled in. He drew her closer, bent his head and allowed his lips to whisper softly over hers, "I've missed you, Liz. So much." Her body shuddered. She looked up into his eyes. "I need to explain. I want to tell you—" "Later. We deal with this first. Pretend you're about to faint." Confusion touched her eyes, then she nodded, and allowed herself to go limp against his body. He slid his arm around her waist, stopping her fall. His palm met the hard swell of her pregnant belly and he felt the fullness of her ripe breasts against his chest. A wave of awe, anger and inappropriate lust blasted through Grant with such a jolt, he was forced to catch his breath. Not now, he told himself. Not ever. She belonged to someone else now. He led her to the vacant window seat next to his. "Sit here. Put your head on my shoulder," he whispered as he took the aisle seat. "Close your eyes." Elizabeth's tail caught sight of them, scowled, came into the aisle and began to advance immediately. So did the flight attendant. She reached them first. "Is everything all right?" the stewardess asked in Arabic, genuine concern in her features. The man stood behind her, his eyes narrow, black, sharp. His features burrowed into Grant's brain. He'd never forget that face now. "Everything's fine," Grant replied in Arabic. "I'm a doctor," he lied. "I know her." The stewardess moved on. The man glowered at them for a moment, before returning to his seat. The game was on. And whatever it was, Grant had to find out fast. "Liz," he whispered hotly. "What in hell have you gotten into?"
Chapter Four Desperation clouded her eyes. "Grant, about Maddock—" "I said later, Liz." "No. Now. It—it all ties in." Something dark and dangerous rippled through him. "You're carrying his child." It wasn't a question.
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"Yes," she said softly. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Is that why you married him?" She looked away. Ashamed. "Yes." "Why Liz?" he couldn't help himself from asking. "Why him?" What was wrong with me? Us? "You know why, Grant. You wouldn't stay in the Sudan—even if I married you. You wanted me to give up everything I'd ever worked for in my life. You wanted me to forsake the people whose very lives depend on me, and you wanted me to go back to the Force du Sable base with you, to work on São Diogo Island." She shook her head. "That's not what a relationship is built on. You know that. And I couldn't ask you to give up what you do, either. You're a mercenary. You're committed to your combat company. You're born to fight—it's in your blood, and there is nothing I can do to change that." She hesitated, her eyes filled with pain. "I had to break it off, Grant. It —it would have killed me to leave it any later than I did." It had killed him. Somewhere deep inside. "So you went and slept with Maddock, my best buddy, instead." Grant didn't bother to hide the bitter edge in his voice. Elizabeth flinched. "I was hurting," she said. "And Maddock made me laugh. When the FDS pulled out, when you left, Maddock stayed behind at the camp. He quit the FDS for me. He did what you couldn't do, Grant. He was…" Her voice faded and she fiddled with her fingers in her lap. Grant felt sick. "So he was a one-night stand? Some kind of comfort fix?" "It was a mistake, Grant," she said softly. "So was the baby. These things happen. But Maddock did good by me. He—he really did love me." "And you? Do you love him, Liz?" Something unfathomable swam through her eyes. "I needed him, Grant. When your contract was over, the rebels came back. You knew they would. We all did. And you knew the aid columns would dry up, that the refugees would die." "It wasn't my decision, Liz. I told you, you're fighting a losing battle in the Sudan—" "Right." She looked at him pointedly. "And you only fight the battles you're paid to fight. Not the ones of the heart." "That's not fair." "Well Maddock cared enough to stay, Grant. When your private army stopped protecting the aid columns, he stepped in to help. He…had connections." Grant swore softly and ran his hands through his hair. "That burns Elizabeth. That really damn burns. You don't love him, and he gets to marry you? And what in hell does all this have to do with now?" Grant had a real bad feeling about where this was going. Maddock's "connections" were dubious at best. The guy was a gambler. He was a ton of crazy fun to be around, but he played seriously dangerous odds— it's how he earned the tag "Maddock," for the "Mad Dog" Englishman he was. It had slayed Grant to leave Elizabeth in the Sudan, but he'd truly believed she'd see the light, see that she was being ridiculously idealistic. He'd believed, that in time, she'd come to São Diogo. To him. But Maddock
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had cut in. Maddock had never made it a secret that he was wowed by the sexy, iron-willed doc. To his credit, he'd waited until it was officially over between her and Grant. And to his credit he'd married her when he'd learned they were going to have a child. That was old fashioned, but it meant something to Grant. "Grant?" Something in her voice made his mind still. "Maddock is dead." He blinked "What did you say?" Her eyes glistened. "That man's people… They killed him." A violent cocktail of mixed emotions exploded in Grant. "Liz… I… Oh God… I'm so sorry." One lone tear trailed down her cheek. He wanted to gather her tightly into his arms, claim her back. But confusion stopped him. "Tell me, Liz. Everything." A profound exhaustion filled her eyes. "They're going to kill me, too, Grant," she said quietly. "And my baby. Unless I do what they say. "
Chapter Five "No one's going to hurt you, Liz," Grant said without hesitation. "Not on my watch." She looked doubtful. "But I need you to tell me everything. And take your time. We have a few hours before this plane lands in Dakar, and I'm not going to let that man anywhere near you." "Grant, I—I just want you to know, if…just in case anything happens…that…I never stopped loving you. Not for one moment." Remorse, regret, anger, stung his heart. Grant closed his eyes briefly, gathering his emotions. He wanted to say he loved her, too. But he couldn't. "Who killed Maddock?" he said instead. "Who is that man following you?" Elizabeth bit her lip. Her eyes flicked to the front of the plane where the man following her was still keeping an eye on her. She leaned forward, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "When the FDS stopped protecting the aid columns to the refugee camp, Maddock used his contacts to broker a deal with the rebels. He began smuggling small quantities of arms in the grain, in exchange for protection." She hesitated. "It was the only way we could get food and medical supplies in." "Christ, Liz! Who do you think those guns kill? The very people you're trying to save!" Her mouth flattened and her eyes narrowed. "It's not so black and white out there." "Oh yes, it is. It might start out real gray, but in the weapons game it all turns to black pretty darn quick." He studied her. "I'm guessing things are plenty black about now." She looked away, clearly angry. But Grant
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couldn't help himself. He was suddenly furious with Maddock for stealing his girl, for endangering her life. And now a baby's. She sat in silence. The hum of the plane's engines enveloped them, and guilt began to nip at Grant. He needed to separate his jealously from this. He needed to focus on saving Elizabeth now, on fixing up whatever mess Maddock had engineered. He covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry, Liz. And I'm truly sorry for you loss. I'm here to help." She nodded, not looking at him. "Just please don't tell me that Maddock was in bed with Kalid Jali'l's guys." She said nothing. Grant swore. This was bad. As bad as it was gonna get. Jali'l's guys were the major league, serious global black market arms dealers. Liz could not have picked a more lethal adversary if she'd tried. His adrenaline, his mind, began to race. "Maddock did try and pull out when he learned Jali'l was behind it, Grant. He knew we were in way over our heads. But when Maddock reneged on the next deal, Jali'l's men came for him. Things got ugly. They dragged him out into the desert and…shot him. He bled out in the sand. Alone. Then they came back for me." The anguish in her face was unbearable. Rage unfurled hot and angry in Grant's belly. "Go on." "They threatened me. They're— " Her voice cracked. "They're forcing me to smuggle…a weapon into the United States." "What kind of weapon?" His voice was dangerously flat. "A bioweapon. A one-hundred-percent lethal bioengineered viral spore. If it becomes airborne, minute quantities will kill thousands in a matter of minutes. They picked me because I have a U.S. passport. And they knew I'd do what it took to save my child. They want me to catch a connection in Dakar that will take me directly to Los Angeles. I have to go to the Hiltford Airport Hotel, where a room has been booked for me. I will be approached there to hand it over. And that's why they're watching me—to make sure I get on that plane in Dakar." Grant's heart began to thud his ribs . "Where is the weapon, Liz?" "Around my neck. In the beads." "What!" "The casing is designed to biodegrade. If—if I don't make that meeting in the hotel within seventy-two hours, the virus will release." A noose! She was wearing a bloody noose. Elizabeth wasn't just carrying a weapon—she was the weapon! She was a walking time bomb headed straight for one of the biggest cities in the United States. And she was carrying a baby.
Chapter Six "Can you take it off?"
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"No. If the tubing between the beads in the necklace is severed in any way, the virus will leak." "That's what they told you?" She nodded. "I—I thought about killing myself, Grant. I'm a doctor, I save lives. I just cannot be responsible for the death of thousands. But even if I did kill myself, it still wouldn't stop the virus releasing." She looked down at her hands and tears filled to the brim of her eyes. "And I can't murder my baby. I just can't." And they knew it. Damn the bastards! Grant stared at the shiny green beads that lay against Elizabeth's throat. Just seconds ago they'd looked so beautiful; they picked up the green in her eyes. Now he saw them for what they were: ampoules of a lethal bio-engineered virus. Grant's heart torqued. Maddock's widow. Maddock's child. They were his responsibility now. No matter what Maddock had done, Grant still owed the guy for other reasons. He'd saved Grant's life nine times before losing his own. And in this game, that counted. It had to. Maddock had been true in his intentions towards Elizabeth. He'd waited until it was over between her and Grant. And he'd quit their combat company. For her. Damn, it was what he should have done. But Grant had not been able to do it. If he stopped fighting, if he stopped battling for some notion of greater good, if he stopped working as a global cop for hire, he'd have to face his past. This job was his reason for life, his only to life. His penance. His prison. Perhaps he should have tried. Perhaps he'd made the worst mistake of his life by abandoning Liz in the Sudan. But now… Now he'd do whatever it'd take to save her. And the child she was carrying. "So you were actually going? To Los Angeles?" "Don't look at me like that! I was only going in an effort to buy some time to come up with a plan to save my baby. I thought if I could alert authorities at LAX airport, they could quarantine me. There's time for that. Maybe…maybe they could get the beads off. Maybe—" "And if you're a no-show at the hotel?" "I… They didn't say anything about that." Grant cursed violently. He grabbed her hands. "Elizabeth, don't you see? No one is going to meet you at that hotel. You are the weapon! You're set to blow. And God knows if the timeframe they gave you is correct. We probably don't even have seventy-two hours, not if I know Jali'l." His eyes shot to the front of the plane. Jali'l's man was still watching them closely. He had to know that Grant knew what was going on now. He may have already alerted his team on the ground. When this plane landed in Dakar, there would be more men waiting, Grant didn't doubt it. And Senegal was rebel-backed territory. Jali'l held political sway there. They'd have military support. He'd be overpowered. He'd lose Elizabeth. The virus would be released at LAX sparking a bloody pandemic. There was no way on earth he could allow this plane to land in Dakar. He had to think fast. He had to stop this plane from crossing the Senegalese border, force it land somewhere else. Anywhere between Senegal and Sudan was preferable. He checked his watch, and swore when he saw the time. He had to take this plane down. Now!
Chapter Seven
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She was a walking biological bomb primed to kill thousands of innocent people. The idea was absolutely horrifying. Maybe deep down Elizabeth had known she never really stood a chance, that she was a captive suicide weapon with no options. Yet she'd also become oddly calm in Grant's presence. He had that affect on people. He was a born protector. Dependable. Strong. Breaking off with him, turning down his proposal, had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. She and Grant were really two of kind. He was just as committed to his cause as she was to hers, and they hadn't seen a way of meeting in the middle. Elizabeth had known when he proposed that it would always be this way—no middle ground. But that didn't mean their love was any less powerful. Or that the pain of losing each other cut less deep. If anything it sliced even closer to the bone because their personalities were programmed to go all the way—no holds barred. Grant tentatively touched the lethal beads around her neck, his large hands so gentle, so warm against her skin. Elizabeth looked up into his eyes and she saw something that was primal. Fierce. A raw combination of protective rage, fury…and love. She could feel the powerful energy coming off him in slow, heavy waves. Yet his body was utterly still, his breathing measured. Grant McDonough was taking control. Of himself. Of the situation. Of her. She knew he was figuring out a plan. He was making her problems his. It wasn't PC, but being protected made her feel feminine. All her life Elizabeth had worked to be independent. To save and protect others. She didn't need to—want to—feel like this, dependent. Needy. Yet she did. And the lack of control over her own emotions when it came to Grant McDonough made her a little angry, afraid of her own vulnerability. Even back in the Sudan he was always taking control. That was partly why she'd pushed him away. And it was why she wanted him back now. She sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath. Grant was exactly what met the eye. No games. When he loved, he loved fiercely. Like the way he drank his whiskey. He was a clean and straight killer, too, born to fight to the bitter end for justice. How could she have turned away from a guy like that? But how could she not have? It would have meant giving up who she was. And he hadn't been prepared to give up who he was. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Solid relationships were not built on the sacrifice of one person. That kind of relationship was doomed to fail. He gently cupped the side of her face, his palm rough against her skin. She leaned into his touch instinctively, and something quick, hot and dangerous flitted through his eyes. "We're going to get through this, Liz." His voice was low, thick. "Be strong, and do everything I say." His eyes tunneled into hers. "And I mean everything. No questions, no second-guessing. Understand?" She swallowed hard and nodded. He bent forward, kissed her, gently at first, then so hard it stole her ability to breathe or to think. Her lips moved instinctively against his, her tongue finding his, tasting him, the hot familiarity of the passion she thought she'd lost rising like a ferocious tide in her blood. Memories swirled up from a place deep down inside her where she'd tried to lock them away for good. He broke away, breathing heavily, and from the look on his face at that very moment, Elizabeth knew they were in for the fight of their lives.
Chapter Eight Grant knew his aeronautics. In addition to being designed to handle intense heat, the turbo prop they were on was also built to land without a paved runway. Still, if he forced the plane down, he could kill everyone on board, including himself and Liz. At a glance, that would be forty-six, maybe fifty lives, max, including the pilots. But if he didn't force a crash-landing, thousands more would die.
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And crashing the plane now just might save Elizabeth and her child; their deaths and a global pandemic were certain if he did nothing. If Liz didn't survive an emergency landing, the bead casing around her neck would still biodegrade and release the deadly virus. But at least the area was remote—they were flying over dense jungle. The mortality rate in this area would be minimal compared to LAX with its enormous globally mobile population. He'd use his satellite phone to contact the FDS base. They could send in a clean-up team if they all died, using the GPS in his phone to track the wreckage. Maybe they'd be able to contain the spread of virus that way, or at least limit it to a remote part of the African jungle. Grant didn't have a choice. He had to do this. "Liz, listen to me," he whispered urgently. "I'm going to force an emergency landing. I'll contact the FDS base before we go down. If we make it out alive, they'll arrange for an immediate helevac. In the meanwhile they can start setting up a level 4 quarantine at the hospital on São Diogo. They have experts on-call who can try and take that thing off you. Here, take this." He pushed a small knife into her hand and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. She opened her mouth, but he placed two fingers over her lips. "No questions. Buckle up, get into crashland position. Protect the baby. Protect those beads. The exit door is back there, see? Get out as soon as you can. Run for cover to the left of the plane, understand? I will find you." She forced out a breath, nodded, but her face was pale. Grant kissed her, got up. She grabbed his hand. "Grant…be careful." He looked deep into her eyes. For a moment, beyond the drone of the engine, time seemed to stretch. He squeezed her hand. "We can do this, Liz," he whispered, more to convince himself, than her. Grant moved up the aisle. The woman who'd been sitting behind the man tailing Elizabeth had vacated her seat to go to the washroom. Grant moved into her place. The man was now in front of him, clearly edgy, uncertain of Grant's motives. But Grant didn't give him time to react. He pulled one of the tiny knobs on the side of his watch, unraveling a fine titanium wire that spooled around the face—a garrote, one that easily passed airport security. He lurched forward, looped the wire over the man's neck, and jerked back hard. The man made a gurgling sound, reaching wildly for his throat. Grant maintained the pressure. The man went stiff, his limbs jerking. Then his arms dropped to his side and he slumped in his seat. Dead. The woman beside him screamed. Everyone else on the plane seemed momentarily suspended between shock and action. Grant used those few crucial seconds of inaction to move quickly into the aisle and to the front of the plane, where he took the lone flight attendant by surprise. He whipped her round to face the passengers, placed the blade of his hunting knife across her throat, thankful that airport security had been virtually non-existent. He'd surrendered a firearm in an overt display before boarding the plane, along with a wad of U.S. currency. That had been enough to distract anyone from searching him further for the knives. Bribery was the way of business in these parts. "No one move," he barked in Arabic to the passengers. "And no one else gets hurt." He repeated the command in both French and Nubian. A woman near the back started to sob loudly. "Get me in to see the pilot," he whispered against the flight attendant's neck. "Trust me, I won't hurt you as long as you do what I say. Understand?" She made a small sound of fear, nodded, edged slowly round, and knocked on the cabin door. "Captain?"
Chapter Nine A wing ripped away from the fuselage as the plane hit ground, yawed sideways, and plowed into a red-dirt road with a grinding screech of metal, sparks and flying debris.
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Grant swore violently as the fuselage smashed into another obstacle and the plane pivoted, mowing into thick jungle foliage. They came to rest with a harsh jolt. The plane creaked, listed and an eerie silence enveloped the survivors. The engines smelled, waves of intense heat coming off of them. Smoke began to seep into the cabin. The electric devices sparked and spat. Grant fumbled with his belt buckle, climbed over stunned passengers and stumbled toward the exit door. Eyes watering from acrid electrical smoke, he shoved open the emergency hatch. "Get everyone out!" he yelled to the attendant. "Before this thing blows!" He tried to force his way to the rear of the plane, to Elizabeth. But a tide of desperate passengers converged on the aisle. Through the blackening smoke he could see the rear door had finally been opened, thank God. If Elizabeth was okay, she'd make it out. He'd find her on the outside. Darkness was falling fast and Grant's throat felt tight with something akin to panic as he searched desperately for Elizabeth, first among the wreckage, then broadening out in concentric circles toward the jungle fringe. He found her among the trees to the left of the plane, just like he'd told her. Hot relief surged through his chest. He grabbed her, held her tight. "You okay?" She nodded, but her skin was cold, deathly pale—she was clearly in shock. They'd been forced to veer way off course and come down in Tibuti. This was not good. Tibuti airspace was closed, the hostile country in civil war. The FDS would not be able to fly in without being shot at. He needed to get Elizabeth over the border, into either Burkina Faso or Niger for a safe helevac, and that meant a jungle trek. In the dark. "Listen, Liz, we have to move. I've called the FDS. They're pulling together emergency quarantine facilities on our island off Angola, and they've already got a chopper on the way, but we need to get out of Tibuti." "Do you think they can get the beads off? " "They're flying in the best bioweapons experts. This is the kind of thing we're good at, Liz. It's why those quiet arms of the Pentagon and CIA keep calling on us when they want to pull strings behind the scenes." He hooked a knuckle under her chin, forcing a grim smile. "If anyone can get that thing off you, it's our guys." She managed a weak smile in return, and Grant's heart buckled. He consulted his GPS, rolled the two water bottles into a blanket he'd taken from the plane, and he began to lead Elizabeth down a crude jungle path, aiming west for Burkina Faso as the sky grew black. They'd traveled for almost a mile when they heard the plane explode. A ball of bright orange illuminated the sky beyond the distant tree line. Elizabeth froze. "Oh, God, do you think they're okay? I should go back, help—" "Everyone got out, Liz," he said, taking her hand firmly. "But it means we have to move even faster. The Tibuti militia would have picked us up on radar, and now that explosion is going to pinpoint the wreck. Once they speak to witnesses, they'll be hunting us." They trekked deeper into the jungle, the thickening canopy obscuring the pale moon until darkness became complete. Elizabeth was taking the strain, supporting the weight of her stomach with her hand, her breathing ragged. When she stumbled again, almost falling, Grant caught her. "You okay, Liz?" "Fine," she said. But she was lying, he could tell. He had no idea how long the bead casing around her neck would contain the virus—time was critical. Yet he didn't want to lose the baby in a fall. Or Elizabeth in the process of giving premature birth. Grant blew out a slow measured breath. They were going to have to hole up for the night. He found a hollow formed by the massive buttress roots of a forest giant, and he laid the blanket down. He nestled his back against the tree trunk and drew Elizabeth close, placing his legs on either side of her. He
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wrapped his arms around her and felt a fierce possessiveness ride through his body as he held his knife ready, listening for the soldiers.
Chapter Ten Elizabeth rested her face against Grant's chest, feeling the solid protection of his thighs bracketing her, the roughness of the hair on his arms. She closed her eyes and for the first time since Jali'l's people had tied the lethal noose of beads around her neck, Elizabeth allowed herself to fall asleep, thinking faintly of her ironic situation. She'd tried for so long not to surrender her independence to Grant. Now she'd certainly die without him.
*** The faint gray light of morning heralded a cacophony of new jungle sounds – comforting noises to Grant, and in them he could detect nothing out of the ordinary, no sign that they'd been followed. He drew Elizabeth closer and allowed himself to momentarily rest his head back against the smooth bark of the tree as he listened to monkeys chatter up high in the canopy. There was something humbling about being in the wilderness, being part of the food chain, man and beast on equal footing. It distilled humanity to its most basic, most pure. He put his nose against Elizabeth's hair, inhaled softly, a little guiltily. Sweet pain blossomed through his chest and choked his throat. Grant's eyes burned. He put his head back against the tree. He couldn't give her up again. Wouldn't. He'd give his life first to make sure she and the baby survived this somehow. A scuffle and soft grunt sounded suddenly in the dense growth to his left. Grant stiffened, swung his knife toward the noise, waiting. But whatever it was moved off with a crackle of leaves. His heart thudded softly. But his movement had awakened Elizabeth. She stirred between his legs, her butt moving sensually against his groin, the weight of her swollen breasts pressing firmly against his chest. The sensation triggered such a sudden and raw surge of heat through Grant's belly that he clenched his jaw, trying to control his physical reaction. But she moved again, and his control was shot. His pulse kicked up light and fast, and his breathing became shallow. Her eyes fluttered open, the look sleepy, sexy. Soft. She glanced up and smiled. "Hey," she said. "Are we still alive?" Oh she'd made him come alive all right. "Morning, beautiful," he said. He smile faded, an inscrutable look darkening her eyes as she studied him. She could see the lust in his features, he was certain of it. And he could read response in her eyes. She wanted him, too. Heat began to pound rhythmically through his blood, making him so hard, so hungry, it hurt. He swallowed, trying not to move, not to heighten the exquisitely painful sensation. But she took his hand and guided it over her stomach, and once again he felt the magical hardness of her pregnant belly. This time he allowed his hand to linger, to explore the mystery of life growing inside her. "Your belly button has popped out," he said, his voice thick. "You used to have an inny." She made a sound of pleasure, guided his hand a little lower. "Feel that?" she whispered. "It's kicking, moving!" He did feel it. Awe and a sense of unbridled delight washed over him as he felt the child move under his fingers. His eyes turned moist. "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" "No," she said. "We don't have ultrasound at the camp."
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"We'll just have to wait and see then." She glanced up, her eyes suddenly unguardedly innocent. "We?" His heart squeezed at the note of hope in her voice. He put his lips against her neck, lowered his hand around the base of her swollen belly, and moved the other up to cup the fullness of her breasts. "Yes, Elizabeth," he whispered into her hair. "We." She said nothing. She leaned back against his chest and guided his hand lower, underneath her sarong, down between her legs where she warm. Moist. Grant closed his eyes, cupping the hot mound between her thighs. Elizabeth moved her legs apart, giving him better access. Grant's vision swam with the delirious sensation. He edged down, lowering them both onto the blanket under the canopy of trees and dappled light.
Chapter Eleven Every molecule in Elizabeth's body screamed with a desperate need to tap into the powerful energy that emanated from Grant. She ached to feel him deep inside, to embrace life in the face of possible death. She moved her legs apart, sighed softly as she felt his hand hot against her skin. "We… We don't have time for this, Liz." "I need you, Grant," she whispered simply as she rolled over, and undid his zipper. "Liz, we've…got to move…to reach the border before—" "All of you." She lowered his jeans, watching his eyes as she did. The look in them erased what little control he had left. Grant tried to focus on the green biohazard beads around her neck, not the bewitching green of her eyes, but a rough groan of pleasure involuntarily escaped his throat as she positioned herself on hands and knees. She guided his hands over her belly, and Grant felt reason retreat to some dim and distant place in his mind as his body took charge. He slid her sarong up over her hips, her panties down. Her skin was so incredibly soft, so very smooth, under his battle-hardened palms. He found her folds, sliding his fingers into wet heat. She moaned, moving down onto them, forcing him deeper, coaxing him, arching her back in pleasure. Grant's last desperate attempt at restraint was obliterated in that instant. He covered her with his body, and he took her like that, on the forest floor, in the most elemental of positions. He held her belly, her breasts, as he moved inside her, the heat of sex, the poignancy of life and death bundled into one explosively powerful sensation. She widened her legs, dipped her back, giving him deeper access. And with a soft cry, she threw back her head, tension rippling through her body upon her release. Birds scattered high up in the trees. It tipped him over the edge, and he climaxed with a blinding thrust. They sank breathless onto the blanket. Hot. Damp. Elizabeth laughed lightly, turned to face him and kissed him, her hair tickling his face. And in that instant, Grant's love for her had never been more profound or more complex. Emotion welled hot and sharp in his eyes and he closed down instantly. Enough! He'd been a bloody fool. He had a job to do—get her and her baby out of this jungle. Alive. And they'd lost precious time. Anger bubbled deep inside him. Anger at himself. And fear braided tightly through it. For the first time in his life Grant McDonough was actually afraid. He didn't want to even begin to think about what he could lose this time. Fear bred failure and that was something he could not—would not—tolerate.
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"We've got to move," he said, his voice suddenly brusque. He stood, did up his jeans, his mouth tight. Elizabeth watched him, her eyes first showing confusion, then hurt. But he focused only on the darker green of the deadly beads around her neck, not the mercurial hues of her beautiful eyes. It centered him. It was better this way. He needed cool emotion. So did she. Hot emotion was cousin to panic. It bred ridiculous decisions, like making love in the jungle while the clock was ticking down on her life. While men might be hunting them— Suddenly something cracked in the undergrowth to his right. Grant stilled instantly, listening. He heard it again, a sound that separated itself from the others to his trained ear. Adrenaline pumped through his system. His fingers curled slowly over the familiar hilt of his knife. Panic crossed Elizabeth's features. "What—" His hand shot up, silencing her. He motioned for her to get up, to move quickly behind the tree…away from the sound.
Chapter Twelve Grant disappeared into the undergrowth with the stealth of a jungle predator. This terrain was his element, guerilla warfare his expertise. He circled round, approaching the sound from the opposite angle. He found only one man—a Tibuti soldier judging by his combat gear, probably a scout searching for them. Grant couldn't afford to let this man live. There were too many other lives at stake if the virus wasn't contained. Grant never made a decision like this lightly, but when he did, he always moved fast and his kills were clean. He stalked the man slowly, with total focus and zero emotion. He took the soldier by surprise with a quick slice of his blade across his neck. Emotion rushed back into Grant as the soldier's body slumped to the forest floor with a soft thud. The taste of remorse and anger lay bitter on his tongue. He could have spared this man's life if he hadn't been such a bloody fool as to make love to Elizabeth in the jungle. It had been a passionate, hot-blooded mistake. He'd lost focus. Grant cursed and hardened his jaw— it would not happen again. And now they had to move even faster because there would be more men where this one came from. Stoking his anger he stalked through the jungle to find Elizabeth. Elizabeth stood up from her hiding spot as soon she saw him approach. The sudden physical change in Grant was profound, almost frightening. His warm golden eyes had narrowed and turned cold like a jungle cat's. His stride was aggressive, angry, dangerous. Her eyes slid down to the knife in his hand, the hand that had minutes ago moved so tenderly over her skin. The blade was covered in fresh blood. Elizabeth swallowed as she watched him wipe the blood off on vegetation. She was a born healer. He was a killer. The contrast couldn't be starker. As she watched his brusque movements she began to remember all the reasons they could never be together. She also thought of all the reasons she wanted him. Confusion twisted into conflict and tightened sharply in her chest. Her baby kicked again and she placed her hand over her belly, thinking of its future, whether there would even be one. And Elizabeth realized just how badly she actually wanted one. If she ever made it out of this nightmare alive, she had her child's prospects to consider. That meant she was going to have to find a safer environment than the Sudan. And being in love with a warrior nomad like Grant McDonough just wasn't going to cut it, because for whatever reason drove him, Elizabeth could see now that Grant would never be capable of stopping. Something buried deep inside held him to his killing path. She wondered what it was. She wondered why he never spoke of his past. He gathered up the blanket and took her arm, but Elizabeth resisted.
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"Grant?" Her voice felt thick. He stilled. "Why can't you quit?" She couldn't help it. She knew her timing sucked. She knew pregnancy was making her overly emotional, but she just had to ask him one last time before she forced her heart to shut down in self-preservation. His brow arched. "What?" "I mean…what drives you, Grant? What compels you stay with the FDS? Why must you keep on fighting?" A small muscle pulsed softly at the base of his jaw. "It's my job, Elizabeth." She noted his use of her full name. "I know that. But…" She gave up. It was futile. They'd been through this before. A frown furrowed across his brow. "What are asking, Elizabeth?" Her mouth flattened. "Nothing." Nothing that you'll tell me anyway. He might want her. He might love her. But she was second to this other powerful drive. Elizabeth wasn't prepared to settle for second-best. Tears filled her eyes and she turned away abruptly, hating herself for being so emotional.
Chapter Thirteen The sun was white-hot, the air a thick hazy soup when they broke through the jungle into a Savannah plain. Grant drew Elizabeth down to the forest floor along the jungle fringe. "Let's rest here in the shade in a minute," he said, handing her the last of the water he'd taken from the plane. Elizabeth crouched down and accepted the water. She noticed her feet were cut, her clothes plastered to her body. Insect bites covered her arms. But she felt nothing now, only a burning drive to get rid of the lethal noose around her neck, to find a place she could rest in peace until it was time to have her baby. In her fatigue, her maternal hormones had taken complete control. She was programmed to protect the life inside her at all costs. As exhausted and detached as she was, the doctor in her distantly marveled at the physiological and mental shift pregnancy induced in a woman. A cramp contracted sharp and sudden around her waist. She gasped, spilling the last precious drop of water. Grant's eyes flared in alarm. Elizabeth didn't want to see his fear. His distant coldness, was ironically what had pulled her through these last miles from hell. Seeing raw fear in Grant's eyes suddenly sapped her of the last iota of strength she had left. Elizabeth sunk back against the trunk of a tree as another cramp rocked her body. "Oh, God," she whispered, her vision beginning to swim with pain. "Is it the baby? Is it coming?" She squeezed her eyes shut tight. Willing herself to calm down, to breathe. Willing the cramps to stop. "It's…it's nothing," she lied as another spasm gripped her violently. "Liz… Can you hold on long enough to get across this plain?" She opened her eyes, stared out over the hot, endless expanse of tall, gold grass, the waves of thick heat oscillating above the blades. She honestly didn't know.
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He crouched down besides her, the look in his eyes suddenly so damn tender her heart felt as if it were going to break. "Liz, the Burkina Faso border is right there on the other side," he said pointing. "That's where our guys will meet us, by those trees. They're tracking us via the GPS in my sat phone. As soon as they see us moving to the border, that chopper is going to come from there, from the north." He cupped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. "We're almost there, Liz" She shook her head. She wanted to be there, with him. But they were further apart than ever, like that impossible savannah plain that stretched between them. She couldn't bridge the gap. She felt her head swim, her vision going black. She was delirious. She knew she was dehydrated, beyond exhausted… "Liz!" His voice snapped her back. "Listen to me, dammit!" He placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. "I know you. I know your strength. You can do this. Think about the people you'll save. You're a doctor, Liz— you save lives. Think about your baby. Liz, come back to me!" Come back to me… Elizabeth pulled on the thread of his words, the urgency in his voice drawing her consciousness back to the surface. Her eyes fluttered open and she winced against the bright heat. He smiled, such a big warm smile of pure relief she could feel it blossom in her chest. His eyes were warm again, life-affirming. What she'd give to see him smile like that everyday of her life… He took her arms, urged her slowly to her feet. She wobbled slightly, but he held her steady. "You ready for the last haul, doctor?" The last haul. That's what it was going to be. Then she was going to make sure she never saw Grant McDonough again, because he was killing her. She'd known in the Sudan it would be like this if she saw him again. Nothing had changed in him, while everything had changed in her. "Yes," she whispered, forcing herself to focus on the distant tree line across the savannah, supporting the weight of her stomach with her hands as she swayed slightly on her feet. "Let's get this over with."
Chapter Fourteen Grant was terrified that Elizabeth was going to go into labor before they got over the Burkina Faso border. And he was worried about the Tibuti soldiers he knew were tracking them now. The dash across the savannah was going to flush them out, expose them to the enemy. They'd have to be fast. Very. They couldn't wait until nightfall, either, because he had a feeling the bead casing that contained the lethal virus around her neck wasn't going to last that long. He didn't want to tell Elizabeth that that the high gloss on her necklace had already faded and the color had changed to a dull black. The salt from her perspiration might even be hastening the biodegradation, shortening their time window. Every damn second counted now. He held her hand tight as they hunkered down and ran into the clearing. They staggered over uneven ground as sharp blades of grass tore at their clothing. Urgency mounted in Grant as they reached the exposed centre of the small savannah, and he tried to drag Elizabeth even faster behind him. But she stumbled and fell. With the reflexes of a cat, Grant swung round and threw himself to the ground under her, absorbing her impact. She came down hard on him and his shoulder smashed into a sharp rock. He felt the warm blood dampening his skin. Breathing heavily, they lay like that in the grass for a moment, catching their bearings. A grasshopper clicked near his head. Insects buzzed softly over the blades of grass, the scent reminiscent of warm hay, all so ordinary. Grant closed his eyes for a moment, trying to center himself again. What he'd give to lie with her under the sun again, for just one day…
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No. Stay focused, aware. Think in the moment. He ignored the now throbbing pain in his shoulder, and helped her slowly to her feet. The febrile look in her eyes worried him. "Last few yards, Liz, and we're in the clear—" But just as he spoke, a gunshot rang out over the grass. He swore violently, pulling them both back down into the cover of the tall blades. His heart raced. Sweat and blood drenched his body. These last few yards were going to be a gauntlet from hell. Elizabeth cried out softly and doubled over, her skin sheet pale, her hair damp against her face. He placed his hand on her shoulder. "More cramps?" he whispered. She nodded, her features tight with pain and fatigue, her eyes feverish, her skin glistening with perspiration. "Liz, please hang in. We can do this. We're almost over the border. We just need to get onto that chopper. If the baby wants to come then…" She bit her lip, so hard and so suddenly, she drew blood. It seemed to return her focus, and she nodded bravely. Grant's heart twisted with love. Damn, he adored this woman. He could not stay distant no matter how hard he tried. This woman and this child were his destiny. He wanted to keep them safe for him. Never mind the thousands of lives he could save if he got the virus to quarantine. He just wanted to save her life right now. For himself. Forget the FDS. Forget saving the world—he wanted to be selfish. Focus, McDonough. Focus. They lay still in the grass for what seemed like an age. He listened for further signs of the men tracking him, but there was only eerie silence. "We're going to have to try and stay low," he whispered. "They know we're out here, but they don't know where." They worked through the grass carefully, half crawling half walking. It was sticky, hot, dirty work that was costing precious minutes. Grant checked his GPS. They were almost over the border now, and his comrades would see them. "As soon as we see the chopper, Liz, we start to run, okay?" "What about the soldiers tracking us? They'll shoot." "They'll be too far out. They'll miss." He said, hoping to God the Tibuti militia wouldn't dare cross the border in pursuit. They heard it before they saw it, a heavy thwock thwock thwock reverberating thorough the thick jungle haze. A shimmering speck materialized out of the white-hot sky, banked and veered in. Grant closed his hand tightly around hers and pulled her to her feet. "Run!" Shots rang out immediately.
Chapter Fifteen They sat opposite each other, belted into seats in the cavernous military chopper. The door was open, the sound deafening, the jungle canopy dark green and far below them. The wind tossed Elizabeth's hair about her face. The FDS had alerted the Burkina Faso army to a possible Tibuti border infraction. The army had covered them with fire as they'd run for the chopper. They were out of the jungle, but Elizabeth knew she was far from safe. She still had the lethal viral beads around her neck, and she could feel they'd changed. They were less smooth, slightly sticky against her skin. She sat very still, afraid that any movement would hasten the biodegradation of the casing and the release of the deadly viral spore.
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She looked at Grant. His eyes were locked onto her, his concern raw in his features. Her heart spasmed in pain, and she looked away. The chopper veered sharply out over the ocean, and they traveled into the dusk, the ocean shimmering like beaten metal under a rising silver moon. They both knew what still lay ahead. And what didn't.
*** Grant paced like an expectant father, clenching and unclenching his fists outside the quarantined area as the team of medical experts, outfitted in protective hazmat suits, worked on Elizabeth behind thick, airlocked glass. He was powerless now. It drove him nuts. He stepped up to the glass. They'd put a breathing apparatus over Elizabeth's face, and were now cutting the beads; they theorized that when the virus became airborne, at least her lungs would be protected. They'd covered her body as best they could, but if the virus was transmitted through contact with skin, Elizabeth was doomed. Grant's body burned with tension. He watched as they packed the beads into a biohazard canister. They were going to ship them to the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases—USAMRIID—for analysis. The Pentagon had been alerted. Homeland Security had been informed. And now they could do was wait to see if Liz got sick.
*** It was past midnight, the medical team gone. The lights in the level 4 area glowed a dim orange. Grant had ordered Elizabeth's bed be pushed right up against the glass so that he could be as close as possible. He'd also insisted an intercom system be set up so he could talk to her. She was attached to machines, her baby being monitored. She was deathly pale, her eyes wide and afraid, but not once did she mention her fear. She placed her hand against the sterile glass. Grant touched the other side, emotion welling up in his chest. He forced a smile, and she smiled back bravely. "Grant," she said softly, "why don't you go get some sleep?" "I'm not tired. I can rest here if I want. Besides, I like the company." But they both knew what he was really waiting for—signs that she was dying. Elizabeth coughed suddenly, and Grant's heart stopped. He jerked to his feet. "Liz!" "I'm okay," she said with another forced smile that did nothing to hide the alarm in her eyes. "Sit, please." He remained standing. He was at a loss. He didn't know how to help her and he couldn't handle it. "Why don't you tell me about this island, Grant, about São Diogo, how things got set up here with the FDS." He snorted softly. She was trying to put him at ease by taking his mind off the present. He should be the one distracting her. "Please," she said urged softly. "Just talk to me, Grant. I want to hear your voice." So he did. He rambled on through the night, telling her how the FDS came to be established on the once impoverished island. How they'd signed a deal with the São Diogo government, brought industry and military protection to the island. He spoke about the island children and the school and clinic they'd set up. He told her about the three men who'd formed the FDS—ex-French Legionnaires Jacques Sauvage, Hunter McBride and Rafiq Zayed. He told her that many of the FDS mercenaries, like him, were ex-Legion, and he
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told how the French Foreign Legion worked, how no questions were asked of a man's past, how a man could be "rectified," how a man could get a new identity and bury his past. Elizabeth's eyes widened suddenly. She sat up, gasping and clutched her stomach.
Chapter Sixteen Grant lurched to his feet as Elizabeth doubled over in pain. But she raised her hand, shook her head. "It's okay…just the baby." "Did…did it kick?" His voice came out strangled. She smiled weakly, nodded. "A whopper." She was lying. He knew it. Grant wanted to smash that damn glass, go to her. Hold them. He didn't care if he got infected. He wanted to be there with her when she died. His eyes whipped around in desperation and he made straight for the airlock. "Don't do it Grant!" she yelled as he touched the door. She lifted the panic button the medical team had given her, held it up in warning, her eyes wild. "I'll press this if you dare move that lock! They'll be here before you can turn that thing twice." He didn't care. He began to turn the lock "Grant! Dammit! Don't let me die knowing I've taken your life, too! Please do not do that to me." The desperation in her voice stopped him. "Come sit down, Grant, for God's sake, please. I need your calm." He swore viciously and dragged his hands over his hair in frustration. Damn, he was letting her down. He returned slowly to his chair, sat. "It's the worst thing anyone could do to you, isn't it? Make you powerless," she said. He glared at her through the glass, not trusting himself to answer. "Grant," she said softly. "Who are you really?" Surprise rippled through him. "You know who I am Liz. " "You're ex-French Foreign Legion. Were you also rectified? Did you change your name and get a new identity when you came out?" He closed his eyes. That man didn't exist anymore. It's not that he wanted to hide who he was, he just didn't want to think about it, talk about it. Ever. It was in the past. Elizabeth studied him through the thick, sterile glass. He suddenly looked as defeated as she felt. She was certain now that he'd had his identify changed, gotten a new passport when he left the Légion étrangère. Grant McDonough was hiding something serious about his past. A secret he wouldn't share with her.
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He jerked to his feet, began to pace as if were a caged animal, his masculinity apparent and economy of movement fluid. As a doctor and a woman, he was a beautiful specimen. Would it matter if she learned Grant had done something terrible in his past, before hiding in the Legion? He did good now. He was committed to fighting for global justice. And it hit her like a lightning bolt. That was it—that's why he couldn't quit, why he was driven to keep fighting like some damn global cop for hire. It was guilt. It was his way of doing some kind of self-imposed time. How could she have not seen this before? Did it really matter that he wouldn't tell her what he'd done? Yes, dammit, it did. It hurt. He was such a straight shooter, yet there was this one secret part of himself he wouldn't share. He just didn't trust her enough. An incredible tiredness overwhelmed Elizabeth. Her vision swam. Was it the virus making her weak? She didn't care. And if it was the virus, she didn't want him to see it take her. She suddenly, desperately, needed her own privacy. Just as he was holding onto his own. "Grant? Will you leave?" He stopped pacing, spun to face her. "What?" "I want to be alone. I want sleep." "Liz…" He stepped right up to the glass. She flattened her mouth. "Please. I need privacy." His brow furrowed, and then his eyes narrowed. "Are…you sure?" "Dead sure." He stared at her, confusion twisting his features. "Now, Grant. Please. I don't want you here." Hurt registered in his eyes, and then his mouth went flat. "Fine. I'll be back…in an hour." He spun round and stalked angrily away. Elizabeth watched the door swing shut behind him. The room went quiet, save for the hum of machines. When she was sure he wasn't coming back, she let the tears come. She wasn't upset, she told herself. She just needed release. But deep down, she'd never felt more alone.
Chapter Seventeen Grant stormed out the room. "Go watch her!" he barked to a nurse. The woman's head jerked back in surprise at his tone. He stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Please…please just watch her. She needs someone in there." Just not me. She doesn't need me. Grant stepped out of the clinic building into the warm morning sunshine and stared at the shimmering ocean in the distance. He didn't know what to do. For the first time in his life, he truly was lost. He started to run toward the beach, going faster and faster, until his lungs began to burn.
***
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USAMRIID knew exactly what the virus was. They'd made it. Somehow, someone on the inside had smuggled it out, sold it on the black market. A joint Pentagon-CIA force had been immediately convened and tasked to find the source of the leak. USAMRIID had also informed the FDS that if Elizabeth hadn't shown signs of illness yet, she wasn't going to. Elizabeth had a new lease on life—a future. The contractions had finally stopped and the medical team gave her an ultrasound. For the first time, she saw her baby. A boy. Tears of joy and relief and exhaustion streamed down her cheeks. And in that instant, the one person in the world she wanted to share the news with was Grant. But he was nowhere to be seen. She'd sent him away. And he'd gone. The doctors told Elizabeth they wanted to hold her in quarantine for another forty-eight hours, just to be safe. If she was still clean after that, she was free to go. Grant did not return to see her. Elizabeth began to walk around and she chatted to the doctors as they worked. They told her that most of them were under contract with FDS, but that the company was seeking a full-time medical specialist to head up the mercy program FDS had initiated a year ago. "These mercs don't just kill for good. They heal, too," a nurse said with a smile as she took Elizabeth's blood pressure again. "They fly medical teams into some real hot spots, and sometimes they bring victims back here, to the São Diogo hospital. Mostly children, war orphans." It made Elizabeth think about Grant's proposal. He was right when he'd said she could be fulfilled here. She just hadn't been listening to him—she'd been so driven by the immediate and desperate plight in the Sudan. But if she really dug deep, which was something she had plenty of time to do now, she could see that she'd been afraid. She was scared of the depth of her feelings for Grant, the power it gave him over her. She'd been afraid that an alpha warrior like Grant McDonough would somehow steal her autonomy, dominate her life. Like her father had dominated her mother's. But now she had a son—a son—to think of. Her eyes misted with maternal warmth. Her boy would need a role model, men in his life. Good men. Men like those who fought…and healed for the FDS A man like Grant. But what did that make her? Incapable of being an independent role model? She'd always hated the notion of a subordinate female. She didn't need a man now, any more than she needed one before. Elizabeth paced all day, between arguing with herself, and smiling when her son kicked. And for the first time she began to think of names. She wondered what name Grant would like then stopped. She must not think of him, or his part in this. But it was fruitless. She gave in. What name would Grant and Maddock like? What would she like? Mac! She grinned broadly as it hit her. Mac, for Maddock, and McDonough. Grant would like the symbolism. She suddenly felt deeply sad. Elizabeth cursed softly and ran her hands through her hair. She was on an emotional roller coaster. She had to get out of this clinical prison. She had to see Grant again. Even if just to say thank you, but she knew there was more to say. She was desperate to share with him the news she was carrying a boy. And she wanted to ask him one last time to trust her enough. If he refused, she'd be able to walk away. For good.
Chapter Eighteen Grant worked himself to his VO2 max, until every last ounce of oxygen and glycogen in his muscles had been depleted, until his lungs burned raw. And then he left the gym and gave some more.
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He ran along the hard-packed sand of the beach, breathing hard, heart pumping to the limit, shadow boxing, hitting back those ancient demons Elizabeth had brought back to the surface. He didn't want to see the images. Ever again. He didn't want to think of the family he'd been forced to desert. He didn't want to think of his homeland. Of his old village in the hills of Scotland. That was history. No one here at the base ever talked about a man's past. It was an unspoken pact, a rule, an understanding. They all had pasts. It took a special kind of man to be an FDS soldier. What mattered was that these men would die for him, and he for them. That was all. They were family. Family, loyalty and honor were major deals to Grant. Why did some woman have to threaten that! Why did it have to be a goddamn choice—one for the other? He couldn't desert the FDS. He ran faster, punched harder. Sweat dripped from his brow and dribbled into his eyes. He welcomed the burn of the salt, the taste of it on his lips. Hitting back, physically fighting—that's what he understood, That's why he did what he did. He was not a criminal. He was not a bad person. He did freaking good for a living, dammit! And she was not going to make him talk about that dark day in his past. He'd been only nineteen. He'd taken the law into his own hands only when it couldn't protect him anymore. He came to a stop, panting hard, resting his hands on his knees. And he saw, crystal clear, that his very passion for family, loyalty and honor was exactly what made him want to protect Elizabeth and the baby. He wanted them. Fiercely. A real family of his own. Like the one he'd defended and lost because of his actions in Scotland. He'd lost his one chance at that when he'd left Elizabeth in the Sudan. But he'd been given a second chance. Grant knew now that Elizabeth wasn't going to get sick, that'd he'd managed to save her. And the baby. How often did a man—and a woman—get a second lease on life like that? A chance to get it right? Should he not have learned something from this, from the Sudan? He stood up, lifted his face to the warmth of the sun and faced the horizon. Family. Love. That's what had driven him in his youth. And it was still what he wanted. He would give it up all for her, dammit. He'd give up the FDS, this base. His brothers. What in hell was life about anyway? He smiled, grinned, then he laughed out loud. Yeah. He'd go tell her. And he'd propose, like a real gentleman, on his knee. He ran into the surf, and struck out into the waves, heading away from shore, the sea clearing the crap, the memories, cleansing his soul. He wanted to be ready. Wanted to be sure. Or was a part of him still running?
Chapter Nineteen Elizabeth stood at the top of the dunes, waiting for him. They'd told her she'd find him out here. She watched him come out of the ocean, the sun dipping into the horizon, making his skin gold. He looked like a bronzed Olympian god.
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He glanced up, saw her and stilled. For a second she thought he might turn away. But he came slowly up the beach as she began to walk toward him. They stopped, a short distance from each other, as if the future hung, unarticulated in the space between them. Elizabeth's pulse began to race. He took the first step, and relief flooded through her body. As he neared, she studied his physique with brazen female appreciation. Water droplets clung to the golden hairs on his tanned pecs; his body glimmered like copper with the light from the setting sun. His muscles were worked to their max, the veins on his forearms standing out. And she understood what he was doing. He was a physical man; he was trying to bludgeon everything into place with testosterone and muscle. She couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lip, the warm glow that spread through her belly at the sight of him. He smiled, too. And it broadened to a grin that instantly lit the gold in his eyes. That's one of the things she loved about him, the ease with which he could smile and put it all behind him. She only hoped he could do it now, on a bigger level. Because even though she really hated to admit it, this was a test. He came up to her, so close she could feel energy and heat rolling off him. He reached up and gently touched the hollow at the base of her neck, where the beaded necklace containing a lethal biological weapon had rested just hours ago. "They told me you were going to be fine. Both of you." His voice was thick, cracked with emotion. "Thanks to you," she said. "Your guys told me they already have a suspect in custody who might have sold USAMRIID technology to the Russians, who in turn flipped it to Jali'l's people." He nodded. And then an awkwardness descended upon them. "Come sit by me, Grant, on the dunes over there. I want to watch the sun set." He studied her eyes, his smile fading. He nodded again, and took her hand, leading her up to the ridge. They sat there, in absolute silence, listened to the rhythmic crash of the waves, the sea breeze rustling the dune grasses and watched the sun sink into the Atlantic. But Elizabeth couldn't hold it in anymore. She turned to him suddenly. "I need you to tell me, Grant. What are hiding? " His eyes whipped to hers and held them. She could feel tension crackle around him like an electric current. Fear rose in her throat. He wasn't going to do it. He wasn't going to trust her. "Is—is it a criminal past, is that what it is? Grant studied Elizabeth's eyes. He knew what she was doing. It was a test. Could he pass it? Could he do this? Could he tell her? "I killed a man. In cold blood," he said finally. "I have nothing to hide from you, Liz." There, it was that simple. For the first time in his life he'd owned the words, spoken them out loud. And it was done. Over. Whatever came next was fate. His future was in her hands. She stared at him in silence, dusk beginning to cloak them. "You mean you killed a man before you joined the Legion? It—it wasn't war or anything?"
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He nodded. "Murder."
Chapter Twenty She looked away. "Why?" she asked quietly, staring at the sea. "He raped and killed my kid sister." Shock rippled through her body, and her eyes flashed back to his. But she said nothing and waited for him to go on. Grant drew in a deep breath. "The law failed her, Liz. It failed my family. We all knew he did it, but he walked because of legal technicality. He murdered my beautiful baby sister in the most horrific fashion, and walked a free man. My mother just about died from the pain of it. My father retreated into himself. My brothers went off the rail, My older sister went into psychotherapy. I was nineteen, Liz. Hot-headed. I loved my sister and family above all else. I went after him, completely blinded by rage. Frustration. Need for justice." He sucked in another breath, and blew it out slowly. "So I took his life." He twisted to face her fully. "And you know what? I felt no remorse. Zip. Zero. I still don't. That scared the bejeezus out of me." "You discovered you could kill, and were good at it." "It's not a fun realization." "And then you ran from the law, you joined the Légion étrangère." "It was all that was left for me. I'd die behind bars. It would have killed my mother to know that I was wasting away in jail for defending my sister, for seeking the retribution the courts were incapable of meting out. In my heart, I know my parents are better off knowing I am somewhere in the world, that justice has been served." "You've never told anyone?" "Would you? Telling my story could send me to prison. Still. " He'd just trusted her with the secret that could destroy him. This powerful male had just placed himself totally in her hands. He'd given her control—the control she'd been petrified of losing. And he'd given her his ultimate trust. Elizabeth blinked back her sharp jolt of emotion. She understood him totally now. "That's why you can't leave the FDS, isn't it? It's your own way of doing penance, of absolving yourself of this…this perceived sin." "Is it a sin?" She reached for his hand, seeking connection. "I don't know the answer to that, Grant," she said softly. "I crossed my own line with Maddock and the arms dealers, in an effort to help others. That, too, was a crime. I can't tell where the lines are anymore." "I'll leave," he said suddenly. "I'll quit the FDS. For you. For the baby. Go wherever you want." Tears sparked into her eyes. Her heart clenched. "Oh God, no, Grant. I don't want you—" "You don't want me?"
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"No. I mean … I—" He stood. "It's okay. I love you, Liz. I'll do anything for you and the baby. But I can't make you love me back." He turned, began to walk down the beach. "Grant—" She lurched to her feet, stumbled down the soft dune after him. She caught up to him, breathless from her cumbersome body. "Grant, what I wanted to say, was—" she tried to regain her breath "—the doctors at the clinic told me about your mercy program. The FDS offered me a job. I said yes. I said I would work for the FDS. But only—" she caught another breath "—only if you want me to…to stay…if you want…to be a dad." He stilled. Fear welled inside her. "I—I'm going to have a boy, Grant. He's going to need a dad." Still he didn't speak. He turned his face slightly away from her. And then she caught a glimpse of the sheen on his face. She reached up, touched his cheek. It was wet with tears. She'd made her invincible mercenary cry. She leaned up on tip-toes, her pregnant stomach butting into lean abs and she kissed away the salt on his lips. He drew her closer and deepened the kiss, consuming her, his arms holding her so tightly she felt like she was his. Almost. She broke away. "Is—is that yes?" He looked away, gathering himself for a moment. "Did you just propose to me, Elizabeth Waring?" "I…" She laughed nervously. "I guess I did." He cupped her face firmly. "Then that," he said, "would be a yes!"
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The Laws of Love by Debra Salonen Arley McNamara has always been an idealist. So when he learns about an old woman on the verge of losing her pet pig thanks to the complaints of her neighbors, he can't help but get involved. Fortunately, his trust fund can buy him representation from one of the finest law firms in Boston! After a series of missteps, hot-shot lawyer Gwyneth Jacobi is lucky to still be employed by the prestigious firm of Silver, Reisbecht and Lane. So when she's assigned the case of eccentric blue blood Arley McNamara and his quest to save a pet pig from being evicted, she can't afford to say no….
Chapter One "No. My God, no. Nolan, you can't be serious?" Gwyneth Jacobi had suffered more than her share of setbacks in the past few months. She'd lost her firm's largest West coast client. She'd watched the man she'd thought she could care for cast her aside in favor of his wife. And her brief tenure as head of the San Francisco branch of Silver, Reisbecht and Lane had come to an unceremonious and abrupt end when the other lawyers in the office had mutinied. But those humiliations were nothing compared to this. "Now, Gwyn, Arley McNamara is a very important client," her mentor, eighty-year old Nolan Reisbecht, said. "We've served his family for years." "You handled his divorce. The man caved." "He chose to be generous." "To a woman who willingly signed a prenuptial agreement. I'm the barracuda, Nolan. I need something challenging." To keep me distracted. "I won't let you down. I promise." Unlike her father. Who promised to take his meds religiously while she was in California. Who vowed to be in remission by the time she returned. She considered sharing her dad's health crisis with Nolan but wondered if he'd even believe her. After all, she'd worked hard to appear invincible. "This is something entirely different. Arley wants to help an old woman who is being forced off her land." "Why does he care?" "I don't know. He's a bit of a rogue. Takes after his grandmother. Arlene came from cotton mill money. Silver spoon shipped over from England and all that. Not that she acted the part, but she was the true force behind that family. By naming Arley after her, his parents secured the bulk of Arlene's estate in his name." Great. A trust fund baby. Spoiled and entitled. "It doesn't matter where the money came from. Tilting at windmills is a waste of my time and talent. Nolan, my friend, please. I beg you. Give him to somebody else." "Alas, my dear, you are not only low lawyer on the totem pole, you are persona non gratis among the partners." Gwyneth got up and walked to his desk. She sat her fanny on the corner of the highly polished teak surface and crossed her left leg over her right—a surefire distraction that never failed with men under the age of ninety.
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Nolan looked down. Her vantage point gave her a perfect view of his freckled bald spot. But only for a second. His chin snapped back. "Now, don't you try your sexpot tricks on me, Miss Girl. This is business." Make that men under the age of eighty. She jumped to her feet, poised to stomp from the room. The old Gwyneth would have. The new Gwyneth couldn't. She needed this job, now more than ever. She drew herself up proudly. "Very well. I'll contact him today." "I already took care of that. Meet him at Molly Murdock's at ten. The address and directions are on your desk." As she turned to leave, he added, "Oh, and, dear, you might want to change your shoes." She looked down at her favorite pair of Manolos. Not likely. High heels and Armani weren't just her style, they were her armor.
*** The pig's skin was tough and bristly. Why had Arley thought it would be smooth? Perhaps because of his china piggy bank, the one he'd smashed when he was seven so he could give the money to a panhandler who had been outside their Manhattan apartment. His father had been appalled. "Give those people money and they'll never quit asking for handouts." But Arley tended to do the opposite of what people wanted him to do. The bum on the street had disappeared with his bounty wrapped in one of Arley's father's monogrammed handkerchiefs and never again appeared on their doorstep. Probably because Father had him arrested, a cynical voice whispered. Arley hated that voice. "Her name is Cuddles," Molly called out. The pig made snuffling noises that seemed to generate from the underside of her belly, which was hanging just a few inches above the ground. Her eyes displayed a complete and utter lack of interest in him, which didn't surprise Arley. After all, they weren't exactly old friends. He'd only met Molly last week after reading about the old woman's plight in the newspaper. "She's never at her best this early," Molly was saying. "Pigs aren't morning people." "She seems pretty lively to me," Arley said to be polite. Actually, the porcine pet lumbered after the tottering old woman like a dog at heel. The image would have been comical if the situation weren't so dire. Molly was being told Cuddles must go. Nobody seemed to care that Cuddles was here first, that Molly had raised the animal from a bottle. The two were as close as his grandmother had been with Fritz, her demented Yorkie. "Bring her a watermelon next time you come," Molly said, motioning him to follow her to the house. "Then you'll see her dance with excitement. I had to stop buying them. Luxuries like that are a little out of my budget." Arley's heart did a little flip-flop. To his parent's annoyance, he'd always been a sucker for the old, the weak, the ones who just couldn't seem to make sense of the world. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial number for the offices of Silver, Reisbecht and Lane. "Arley McNamara calling for Nolan Reisbecht or whomever he put on my case." "That would be Gwyneth Jacobi. I'll ring her for you now, sir," the receptionist said.
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Arley thought he detected a certain air of amusement in the woman's tone. His speculation was sidetracked when a voice came on the line. "Hello, Mr. McNamara. This is Gwyneth Jacobi. I was just leaving for our ten o'clock. Has something changed?" Her voice had a rich, throaty timbre. Businesslike. Falsely perky. And sexy as hell. Ridiculous as it was to make assumptions, he pictured her as beautiful, slightly exotic and wholly desirable. I need to get out more. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I'd like you to pick up three or four watermelons on your way. Any variety." The line went suspiciously quiet. "Hello? Did you get that? I'm on my cell and—" She cut in. "I heard you. I just wasn't sure I understood the request. Do you know how much you're paying my firm for my time? Wouldn't it be more cost effective to call a nearby market and ask for a delivery?" She was irked. He grinned. "One of the best parts of being filthy rich is never worrying about trifles," he said. "Make it ten melons." Molly, her watery blue eyes alight with glee, clapped. "Did you hear that, dear girl? We finally have a friend who cares." She reached down and patted Cuddles, whose snout came up as if looking for more food. Arley held his breath fearing the animal might take off one of Molly's gnarled fingers, but the pig gave her palm a little smooch then focused its attention on Arley's shoes. Arley stepped onto the porch. He cared. But not enough to sacrifice his favorite pair of loafers.
Chapter Two Gwyneth pulled to a stop in front of the single-story home engulfed by overgrown bushes. Not old enough to be on anybody's historical register nor the least bit interesting architecturally. Boxed in by McMansions of the newly prosperous, the place clearly was a tear-down waiting to happen. She parked beside a shiny black Hummer that looked as out of place as she felt. Her heart was pounding with uncharacteristic trepidation. She'd just talked to her father's doctor. The word "hospice" had come up more than once. She checked her lipstick in her visor mirror and caught a glimpse of the fat green globes piled into two boxes on her back seat. Her ire swelled. Instead of visiting her father, she was buying produce for a pig. "Watermelon," she muttered, getting out of the car. Her heels twisted slightly in the gravel. Maybe Nolan had been right about her choice of footwear. "Hello," she called out, holding on to the car door. A boy emerged from a detached garage to her right. He paused to stare at her. She guessed his age at ten or eleven, although she knew squat about kids. "Do you know where Arley McNamara is?" His arm lifted robotically, pointing toward the rear of the house. She didn't see a sidewalk and wasn't about to hike cross-country in heels. Before she could ask the boy to go find him, the kid reached down, picked up a rock and threw it at her.
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Reflexively, she ducked. Fortunately, the projectile missed her, but it bounced off the trunk of her car, leaving a quarter-sized dent. "Hey!" she cried. "What the hell—heck did you do that for?" The boy took off running. Gwyneth was completely nonplussed. From the notes Nolan had given her she recalled something about the woman having custody of her great-grandson, but nowhere did it say the kid was a rotten little brat. She was about to check out the dent when her client rounded the building, walking at a swift pace. She recognized him from a photo in his file. A photo that hadn't done him justice. Fit and attractive, he was casually dressed, but the quality of his clothes was impossible to miss. His long legs cleared the distance between them too fast for her to get her game face in place. "Hi, I'm Arley. Thanks for coming." He pocketed his designer sunglasses and took her hand in a firm shake. "Not that Nolan gave you any choice, of course." His eyes were an unremarkable hazel but so alive with humor, intelligence and purpose she couldn't look away. He had a presence that sucked her into his space, compromising her ability to breathe. She only managed to yank her hand free after she realized an elderly woman had joined them. "Nolan spoke highly of you and your grandmother," she said, trying to reclaim her usual equanimity. His grin widened, displaying an adorable pair of dimples. "I believe they might have been an item at one time, but Gran told me she flirted with her heart but married with her head. Just the opposite of me, obviously." His frankness left her even more off-balance. "I…um…I brought the watermelon." "Cuddles, your treat is here," he called to the very large pig waddling toward them. Gwyneth barely had time to glance at the hog before being introduced to Molly Murdock. "My great-grandson's around here somewhere. T.J.?" she called in a shrill voice. "Where'd that boy run off to? Poor dear is terrified we're going to lose the place. He still clings to the notion his mother's coming back for him. Not that she will, of course. Too far gone on the drugs, you know." Gwyneth's complaint about the boy's vandalism died on her lips. I'll put in for hazard pay. "I believe we're under time imperatives. Is there some place we can sit?" she asked instead. "The picnic table out back," her client suggested. "You two go on around. I'll make us some tea, but if you'd toss one of those melons on the lawn, Cuddles would give your shoes some peace." For a man used to having people do his bidding, Arley took orders well. He snatched up a fat round globe, hefted it to his shoulder and sent it sailing. He was no athlete, but Gwyneth found his effort wholly real and strangely endearing. The hollow thump and aroma of watermelon drew the pig's attention. The beast almost pranced toward the feast. "Molly was right. Cuddles does love her melon. Thank you." His obvious sincerity made her heart do a funny little prance of its own. Flustered, she bent over to collect her briefcase and keys then started toward the back by way of a clearly defined rut in the grass. She tried to walk on the pads of her feet, but one heel became stuck in the soil. She lunged awkwardly, arms flapping. "Bad shoes for the country," her client said, rescuing her with one hand at her elbow.
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"There's a high-end strip mall less than five blocks away. That hardly qualifies as country, Mr. McNamara." "Arley. Please. Mr. McNamara sounds like my father, who definitely wouldn't give a damn about Cuddles." When they reached the weathered bench-style picnic table, Gwyneth sat down gingerly. The thing looked ready to collapse. Once he'd joined her, she asked the question foremost on her mind. "How you do know Molly?" "I don't. I just met her last week." Gwyneth had assumed Molly was an old family retainer or related to someone he knew. "You're spending thousands of dollars in legal fees to defend a stranger's right to keep a farm animal within city limits?" The impish grin returned. It was almost as if he was waiting for her to add, That's crazy. Instead, she asked, "Why?" The question seemed to surprise him. "Fairness. The satisfaction of helping an old woman keep her pet in a home that was here long before the neighbors moved next door." "You're a Boy Scout." "Never had the honor. My mother's idea of camping out is staying at a three-star hotel, and my father wouldn't dream of spending time alone with one of his children." His casual admission surprised her. Her father had never been actively involved in her life, either. Not that she planned to tell Arley that. "Well, I did a cursory check of zoning laws. Once this lot was annexed into the city it fell under new restrictions. Homeowners are not allowed to keep farm animals on lots under three acres." She checked her notes. "This place is on less than one acre. So, technically, Molly is in the wrong." "Cuddles isn't a farm animal." "She's a pig." There was that smile again. "She's a pet. Molly has the license to prove it." "License?" He nodded. "The vet makes house calls. Cuddles is not only current on her shots, she's entirely flea-less." She didn't acknowledge his joke. "Are there receipts?" "There certainly are," Molly said from the doorway. Arley jumped up to take the tray she carried. "Thank you, dear. Go ahead and pour yourselves a drink while I find my file box. T.J.," she called again. "Now, where is that boy?" Gwyneth almost brought up the issue of the vandalism but changed her mind. The kid had enough problems.
***
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An hour later, Arley was certain his face was going to ache from smiling so hard. His gorgeous, cosmopolitan lawyer in her overpriced shoes had managed to exceed his expectations in a way very few people ever did. He liked her. Even if she wasn't a pig person. "So, you've owned this place since 1951?" "My late husband was one of the last ones back from Europe. I'll never forget the day we paid off the mortgage. Our children tried to get us to borrow against the place, but this was all we had." Arley saw a softening in Gwyneth's face that told him Molly's story touched her. "Can I take this box with me, Molly?" Gwyneth asked. The box was haphazardly stuffed with every tidbit Molly felt needed saving. "I'll carry it," Arley said. They started toward the front of the house, but made a detour when Molly insisted on showing Gwyneth Cuddles's living quarters. Gwyneth's nostrils crinkled with distaste when Molly opened the gate to the straw-littered stall. "What do you say to your neighbors who complain about the smell?" Molly shrugged. "God made pigs. Cleanest animal you'll ever meet, but I haven't been too good about picking up the poop, lately. Been a bit tired. T.J. tries, but…" Arley looked around. T.J., who had practically stuck to him like glue in past visits, had yet to put in an appearance. Arley was surprised but not alarmed. The child seemed older than his years and extremely selfreliant. He shifted the box to his hip and juggled the set of keys Gwyneth had handed him. He was just about to open the BMW's trunk when he noticed a dent in the middle of the pristine paint job. Very recent. Glancing around, he spotted the source. A rock that couldn't possibly have fallen from the sky without a little help. He put the box into the spotless trunk and closed the hatch, then turned to study the woman walking toward him. He didn't know why she hadn't said anything, but her silence impressed him. When she looked his way, her line of vision detoured momentarily to the trunk. Their gazes met. Her chin came up defiantly, and at that moment, Arley knew he'd found his soul mate.
Chapter Three "All I'm saying is it's a good thing Gwyneth wasn't on the McNamara divorce—she'd have sided with the wife." The giggles that followed confirmed what Gwyneth had known since seventh grade—eavesdropping in bathrooms wasn't a good idea. You undoubtedly weren't going to like what you overheard. "I think you're wrong. Our resident barracuda would have gone for the opposing attorney's nuts and played the blame game in the press. She'd have found a way to make the wife look like an ambitious, conniving slut from hell." Gwyn put her eye to the crack of the door. Whomever her sole supporter was deserved an extra long lunch. "After all, it takes one to know one, right?" the woman added.
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The roar of laughter masked the sound of her door opening, but the automatic flush made the four secretaries turn to see who had joined their group. Their embarrassment and mortification assuaged her ego a tiny bit. Gwyneth washed her hands then looked at the four in the mirror. "You're right about one thing. If I'd handled Arley McNamara's divorce, the ex-wife bitch wouldn't have seen a dime outside her pre-nup." Turning to face them, she dried her hands. "In fact, the conniving slut might have wound up owing my client money." Chin high, she left the room. Pausing outside the door, she heard the whispers and repressed laughter. Gwyneth liked to think it didn't matter to her what other people thought about her— especially other women—but the churning sensation in her stomach told her otherwise. "What is wrong with me?" she muttered, returning to her office in search of an antacid. Her secretary, fortunately, hadn't been one of the four in the restroom. She motioned Gwyneth to hurry. "Arley McNamara on line one. He's been holding for several minutes." In the four days since their meeting with Molly, he'd called daily to check on her progress. She wasn't used to this hands-on kind of client relationship, and she was pretty certain she didn't like it. "Mr. McNamara, what now?" "Ms. Jacobi, I want a son." Gwyneth's involuntary gasp told him he had her full attention. He went on without giving her a chance to speak. "I spoke with Molly last night at length. Her health is deteriorating rapidly. She's worried about what will happen to T.J. after she's gone. I told her I might like to adopt him. What do you think?" "Have you always had a problem with impulse control or is this something new? Adopting a child isn't the same as buying a dude ranch because you've always wanted to try riding a horse." Her tone should have made him defensive or angry—nobody talked to him like that. Instead, he smiled. "Do you ride?" "Do I look like the kind of woman who rides large smelly animals in the sun and dust?" "You have great legs. Definitely made for riding something." She cleared her throat in a way that said she'd heard better pick-up lines at the grocery store. "Returning to your impulse control issues, perhaps you should see a therapist." "Been there, done that, as they say. The official verdict? I'm in reasonably good shape—mental healthwise—for growing up the way I did. I could probably get my doctor to sign off on this, if you want to make it official." "I don't want anything from you, Mr. McNamara. I was thinking about T.J." "Because you like him so much." There was a long pause. "Are you asking me to look into the adoption process?" "Yes."
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"Very well. I will. Is there anything else?" "Not at the moment." But there will be. "Then, I'll call you when I can give you that information. In the meantime, I'll be out of the office this afternoon on a personal matter, but you can leave any message you have with my secretary," she said. "What kind of personal matter?" "It's personal." "You know my secrets." Her soft snicker sent a shiver through him. "But the attorney-client relationship is by nature one-sided. You tell me all and I tell no one anything." "That hardly seems fair." "Tell that to the neighbors who have to smell pig poop. Fair is relative." His smile grew. Who could have predicted that a simple news article would have led him to a path that offered a new life, a new family and a new love?
*** Gwyneth gazed out the window at the bucolic scene on the lawn below: a young family playing on the grass while someone—daughter, son, mother, father—visited their dying relative. Hospice. The word sounded so austere. Last gate at the end of the road. And, dammit, she wasn't ready to let her father go. She turned to look at the man lying peacefully in the narrow hospital bed. The back was angled to facilitate his breathing, the knees lifted slightly. No breathing apparatus, heart monitors, bells or whistles. Nothing but peace and quiet. She hated it. Noise meant life, effort, chaos. "Would you like a radio, Dad?" she asked, stepping to the bed. He opened his eyes. "No." "But it's so quiet here." Like a morgue. "Then you talk. Tell me about your new case." Arley McNamara's latest whim, you mean? "My client thinks he wants to adopt a ten-year-old kid. The same brat who threw a rock at my car. You wouldn't believe how much the body shop is charging to fix the damage." Her father's lips twitched. He'd never smiled much that she could remember. He was the stern, serious, detached member of their small family. At one time, she'd believed Daddy and God were the same person. "You set fire to my aunt's barn when you were about that age."
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"I…I…what? I did not." His gaze turned toward the ceiling as if seeing the incident playing out above him. "Your mother was having some surgery and she made arrangements for you to spend a week with my aunt in New York. When I picked you up, Aunt Rachel told me you'd gotten into a little trouble." "I don't remember ever spending a week at some farm." "You picked berries and made jam. Fished in the creek with your second cousins. And when they told you you had to come home, you took a magnifying glass outside to fry ants. Instead, you caught some hay on fire and nearly burned down the barn." She pulled up a chair and sat down. As he'd been speaking the memories had started to bubble up. She'd always thought of her childhood as small—her parents, school, and the synagogue. An only child. A loving but demanding mother. A distant, judgmental father. How had she blocked what sounded like a lovely adventure from her mind? "How come we never visited this aunt again?" "Your mother insisted on paying for the damage but then became convinced my aunt overcharged her. You know how your mother was about money." Gwyneth sighed. She did, indeed. She knew what her mother would have said about Arley McNamara. "You can fall for a rich boy just as easily as you can fall for a poor one. You just have to set your mind on it." And Gwyneth had tried. She'd made sure she only dated prosperous professional types. But had she ever fallen in love? Not once. Rich or poor. And if that changed now… She brushed the thought aside. She was a professional and she could honestly say she'd never become involved with a client. Besides, even if she did allow herself to feel some sort of attraction to Arley, the man was seriously contemplating adopting a destructive, antisocial brat. Gwyneth Jacobi didn't do motherhood. Period.
Chapter Four "Arley, when are you going to give up playing Don Quixote? This is beginning to get embarrassing, darling. You should hear the rumors flying about." "I thought about playing Zorro, Mother, but the costume costs were outrageous. Plus, there's a liability factor with swords." The long pause on the line wasn't due to the trans-Atlantic call. He'd grown used to the talk-wait-listen routine when he'd been in school and his parents had been part of the jet-set crowd. Now, although they traveled less, he still saw them about as often. "Missy Gamble e-mailed me that you are dealing with a pig. A pig. Whatever for? I told your father we should have sent you to work on a farm when you were ten or eleven." About T.J.'s age. The kid was really something. He helped his grandmother as much as he could. He even loaded pig poop into plastic shopping bags and put it in dumpsters at the shopping mall after their new neighbors started to raise a ruckus about the smell. But he couldn't do anything about Cuddles's size or noisy grunts. "That's it! I think I'll buy a farm." "Stop teasing. You're less qualified to raise livestock than you were to run a camp for cancer children."
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Arley frowned. She loved to bring up his altruistic failure. He'd jumped at the chance to create Camp Sunshine. He'd poured tons of money into the project and served as director the first summer. But when his focus turned in other directions, the people he hired to run the program took advantage. They robbed those poor dying children of a summer of fun and broke Arley's heart in the process. The camp still existed, but only because his father had called on several friends to sit on the board of directors. Now, Arley limited his hands-on involvement to smaller causes because he knew his limitations. As his mother once told a friend's mother, "Arley has a unique form of attention-deficit syndrome. Once something ceases to be interesting, he's done with it. Probably one reason he's not married." She was wrong about that. He hoped. "It's been great talking to you, Mother, but I have to run. I'm taking my lawyer and Cuddles to lunch." "Your lawyer's name is Cuddles? Good lord, what kind of people is Nolan hiring these days. Sounds like a stripper." "She's got the body for it. Gwyneth, not Cuddles. Gwyneth Jacobi is my lawyer. Cuddles is the pig." "Is she Jewish?" "Can pigs be Jewish? I know quite a few Protestants who are boars, but…" "Oh, stop. You know what I meant." "I did. I do. And I'm done talking about this subject. Have a good day, Mother. I'll see you when you and Father get back. Ta." Arley hung up the phone and left his grandmother's two-hundred year old brownstone. He loved Boston, but sometimes life seemed a little tight around the collar. Maybe it was time to move on. He wondered what Gwyneth would think of that idea.
*** Gwyneth had returned for some papers Molly needed to sign, and as she got out of her car, she found the boy standing beside the back end of her car. Her first impulse was to shoo him away, but something about the way his shoulders were hunched—as if the load he was carrying was more than any ten-year-old should have to bear—made her hesitate. "The repair shop fixed the dent last weekend. It took them four days and cost more than your grandmother gets in social security in three months." He jumped back as though she'd struck him, but his chin lifted defiantly. "I got money saved. From cans I find in the garbage." Gwyneth crossed her arms and tilted her head to study the boy. "What do you plan to do with it?" "I'm gonna find my mom." He looked down. "After." After Molly died.
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In a way she was envious. At least he had a purpose, a goal. She'd lived her entire life hoping to impress her father, and now that he was poised on the brink of death, she had no idea whatsoever what she really wanted to accomplish, who she wanted to be when she grew up. "Do you know where she lives?" "New York." "City?" He shrugged. "I guess." "Well, FYI, New York is also a state. A rather large state. And New York City is a very dangerous place for young boys." On impulse, she added, "Do you want me to look for your mother online?" His onyx eyes narrowed. "I hit your car." "I know, but dings are a part of life. One day I came out of my apartment and found all my tires flat. Another time, someone carved a gang symbol in the door." "Is that why you didn't tell Gran?" She wasn't sure why she hadn't mentioned the infraction to Molly. Or Arley. Although she knew he'd figured it out. "Maybe. Maybe, I just wanted you to know that you can trust me. I'm not the enemy. I assume you thought I was someone trying to take you away from your grandmother, but you know that's not true, correct?" He nodded. "We're on the same team. Okay?" He nodded again. "Good." She unlocked the car and picked up her briefcase. When she turned around, he was directly in front of her. Short, skinny, too serious. What possible potential Arley saw in the kid was beyond— He moved so fast she didn't have time to react. He wrapped his arms around her middle and pressed his cheek against her belly. A clumsy, little boy hug. Then he bolted. Gwyneth tried to catalogue her reactions but couldn't get past the tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes. If she weren't the professional she was, she'd have crawled into her car and wept. Why? She had no idea. And to make matters worse, a gleaming black Hummer pulled in beside her car a few seconds later. Only years of practice allowed her to stifle her emotions and focus on her job. That was what this man had hired her to do—even though he changed the parameters of her job daily. "Mr. McNamara, bad news. Although Molly is T.J.'s guardian, his birth mother would still have a say in any outside adoption, which—" "Is impossible," he said, interrupting her. He came forward so quickly and crowded her space that Gwyneth wobbled on the heels of her frightfully expensive shoes as she backed into the fender of her car. "Why?"
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"Because his mother is dead. Nasty, drug-related circumstances that no one's next of kin should have to learn about. Molly hasn't told T.J. because he's already had so many disappointments in his life. She wasn't sure he could handle one more. She knows that he fantasizes about his mom coming back for him." She could barely swallow the lump in her throat. Poor kid. "Everybody has fantasies, right? I'll tell you mine, if you tell me yours." His leer was just ridiculous enough to make her laugh, which, she realized, had been his intention. The man was impossible, but surprisingly likable.
Chapter Five "You did it. You won!" Gwyneth looked across the table at Arley. His smile seemed to light up his whole face. It was an unexpected reward, but she knew the results of today's hearing were temporary, at best. "Arley, the mitigation measures the board agreed to consider are a Band-Aid. You could build Cuddles a high-tech, sanitary stall that passed the most rigorous sniff test, but the neighbors still aren't going to be happy." "Tough. We're within our rights. Molly has as much right to have her pet as somebody with a Great Dane." Spoken as a person who was used to getting his own way. And at the moment, Gwyneth couldn't handle complacent. She'd spent the better part of the night with her father, not holding his hand—he wouldn't have liked that, but sitting by his bed, watching. Listening. Feeling the gulf of things that needed to be said widen with each tortured breath. For the first time in her life, she knew the truth—some things couldn't be fixed. "You don't get it, do you? For you this is a lark. Something to keep you from being bored, but the harsh reality is you're going to fix this then walk away. Molly and T.J. aren't that lucky. Someday in the very near future, I fear, Molly is going to die. T.J. is going to inherit the property, but as a minor without a parent or family to care for him, he automatically becomes a ward of the court. The house and your high-tech smellproof barn will be sold at auction. Cuddles will either find a new home or…not." His smile disappeared. "That's a bleak outlook." "It's reality. Don't you watch T.V.? It's the hottest thing around." She stood up, leaving her meal mostly uneaten, her drink untouched. Arley had invited Molly and T.J. to join them, but Molly had called to say she had a touch of the flu and needed T.J. to help. That left Gwyneth and Arley, as unlikely a pair of crusaders as you could ask for, to carry on the fight. She'd done her best. She'd bought Molly some time, and now she was fought out. "I'm sorry. I have to go." "What? Wait. No. We're celebrating." She was too frazzled, too emotionally depleted to explain. She turned and walked out of Hooligan's, a wellknown and popular pub she'd always planned to visit. Her car was two blocks away. The evening air was cool and damp in that unique Boston way that reminded her how much she loved this city. "Gwyneth, what's going on? Something's wrong. I've felt it ever since you arrived at the hearing. Are you okay?" She couldn't explain. Even one mention of the turmoil in her life would open a floodgate that she might never be able to close. "It's personal."
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His hand landed on her shoulder. "Screw personal." Fury, her emotional safety net, made her pivot to face him. "No, screw you. My life is my own. It doesn't involve you. You are a client. I am your legal advisor and representative in the court. We're not friends or buddies or pals. Now, excuse me, but I have to be somewhere." Screw you? Arley's arm dropped to his side in complete and utter shock. Had anyone ever said that to him before? He doubted it. There might have been a time in his life when he would have been angry or upset, but this was Gwyneth, a cool, composed professional. For her to lose it meant something bad—something very bad—was going on. "We might not be friends, but there's a good chance we're soul mates," he said. Her eyes widened with incredulity. "The office gossip was right. You are nuts." "I prefer eccentric." "Tough. I'm out of here." "Sorry. I can't let you go. Not until I'm confident that you're okay to drive." "I didn't even take a sip of my Cosmopolitan." "No, but you're upset. You can pretend that you're upset with me, but we both know—" She sliced her free hand across the space between them. "What part of 'It's personal' don't you get?" He closed the distance in one step and put his arms around her. "This part," he said, his lips brushing hers. He expected her to struggle, to push him away. She didn't. She didn't react in any way for a second or two then she gave a small cry and leaned into him. An instant later, he heard her briefcase hit the pavement and her arms returned the hug. Her scent, the taste of her lipstick, the wet heat of her mouth pushed him past his comfort zone. He wasn't a hugger. He hadn't grown up in a family of huggers, but this wasn't about friendly. It was about lust. And more. He was afraid to stop kissing her, afraid the chilly persona she showed the world would return. As long as they were locked in each other's arms they could avoid that nasty thing called reality. Click. He knew that sound. He jerked back, roughly shoving Gwyneth behind him. Click. Click. Click. Even digital cameras made the sound that Arley, a private person, dreaded. "Evening, Mr. McNamara. Ms. Jacobi. Congrats on the win today. Give my best to the pig." Arley swore. He'd met the twenty-something newshound before. A stringer, actually. Sold his photos and briefs to the highest bidder. Who knew how much this would be worth? Less now than it would have been during his scandalous divorce, but still…the image would be juicy.
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"I take it my reputation will now be shredded," Gwyneth said, stooping to pick up her briefcase. "Great. Just what I needed." "I'll call Nolan. Give him a heads up. We're unmarried, heterosexual adults." "You're my client." "I'll fire you." "Thank you. I feel so much better now," she said dryly. "Gwyneth, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have followed you. You have every right to a private life. You probably have a boyfriend at home. Is he the reason you're upset?" She shook her head and sighed. "You don't give up, do you? There's no boyfriend. There's no cat, dog, fish or living plant at my condo. I'm not going home. I'm going to Serenity Hills Hospice to see my father." "Your father? I'm so sorry. Should I come with you?" She laughed resignedly. "No. You shouldn't. You should go home and brace yourself for whatever fallout this imbroglio will produce in your life. At worse, I'll lose my job. There was a time when I would have considered that the end of the world, but now I realize it's just a job." He reached for her, but she stepped away, avoiding his touch. "This shouldn't have happened, Arley. I don't know how you came up with the idea that we were soul mates, but you're wrong. Barracudas don't have souls. Ask anyone." Then she left.
Chapter Six "My god, son. What were you thinking?" The photo had appeared in the paper five days earlier. It reminded Arley of the famous post World War II shot of the sailor kissing a girl on the street. He'd rushed out and bought four copies to have for posterity. Not that he intended to tell that to his parents, who had arrived at his home an hour earlier, straight from JFK. Both looked fit and relatively refreshed given the trans-Atlantic flight. First class, of course. "He wasn't thinking or he'd have realized this choice was every bit as irresponsible as that woman he married the first time," his mother said before Arley could respond. "An actress, a lawyer, they're practically the same thing." He blinked. "How is that?" "They stand up in front of people and emote." He shook his head. His mother was many things but a great thinker wasn't on the list. "Gwyneth's father is dying. I'd intended to comfort her." His parents exchanged a telling look. "I told you," his mother said. "Another woman who needs rescuing." He didn't agree. Gwyneth was the most independent person he'd ever met. She needed him like his father needed a tax audit. But he knew from experience that they wouldn't hear his argument—regardless of its validity—until they were finished ranting.
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"I called Nolan," his father said. "She's his girl. His protégé, I guess you'd say, but even Nolan admits he's seen a change in her in recent weeks." "Apparently there was some kind of scandal in San Francisco," his mother added. "She lost a case," Arley said. Gwyneth had been upfront about her position in the firm from the very beginning. "Nolan said she's under intense scrutiny by the partners and this public display of affection would certainly fall under questionable ethical conduct." "She might lose her job," his mother put in, her tone indicating she considered that recourse to be fair. Arley's stomach started churning. He hadn't really considered how this would impact Gwyneth's career. She'd been a bit cavalier about the subject when they were talking that night at the restaurant, but her attitude could be attributed to the stress she was under. People dealing with a dying loved one often made impulsive decisions they later regretted. Heck, Arley was pretty sure his grandmother's death had been the catalyst behind his disastrous marriage. "I'd be very upset with SRL if they let her go," he said. "This was my doing, not Gwyneth's." "Then, you'd better give Nolan a call and tell him you want a different lawyer and you have no intention of seeing this woman socially again," his father stated. His mother nodded. "As I've said before, you can't go around interfering in other people's lives. It's not as though this pig woman were someone who would fit long-term into your social life, and it's just not fair to them, either, for you to flit into their lives then leave." The complaint echoed Gwyneth's. And as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, Arley hadn't been able to quit thinking about what she'd said. "Nor fair to us. The gossip is most unpleasant." Arley looked at his mother. He'd never understood why she put so much stock in what people thought. His grandmother for the most part had thumbed her nose at society and Arley felt the same way. But his parents were never going to change. Did he want to subject Gwyneth to the kind of scrutiny his mother and father would give her? And what kind of grandfather would his father be to a troubled little boy like T.J.? Maybe Gwyneth and T.J. would both be better off without him in their lives.
*** Gwyneth lifted her hand to knock on the highly polished mahogany door. Nolan's office imbued old-world constancy and trustworthiness, a place where secrets slipped into the tight knots of the wood and never left. She had a secret to share, but that wasn't why she'd been called in. She rapped firmly, knowing his hearing wasn't what it used to be. Her father was past the point where he heard anything she or the nurses tried to tell him. "Come in, Gwyneth." She didn't bother sitting, even though her knees felt wobbly and she couldn't remember the last time she ate. She was certain what he had to tell her wouldn't take long. "My goodness, dear, you're extremely pale. Do you feel well?"
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"I'm going to need a week or ten days of personal leave." His eyes widened behind his bifocals. "Because of this brouhaha over Arley and the newspaper photograph?" She shook her head. She hadn't actually seen the shot, although she'd heard titters of laughter and knew others in the office were talking about it. "My father is dying. He's in hospice care and they tell me he could go at any time. I don't have to be there. He doesn't know me now, but…my mind doesn't seem to…I just can't do this, Nolan. I've failed you again and I apologize. Are you firing me?" He stood up quickly and walked around the desk. "No. Of course, not. There was some chatter among the partners, but they quieted down when Arley called to ask for a different lawyer." Her head snapped back. "He did?" "He called me at home last night. He wanted to make it clear that he thought you were a wonderful lawyer, and he took full blame for the photograph. But given the circumstances, he felt it would be better all around if you two didn't continue to work together." He put his hand on her shoulder supportively. "You understand, don't you?" Gwyneth's insides went from cold and numb to hot and hurt. She understood all right. He was a coward who ran at the first hint of controversy. He didn't deserve to adopt a kid like T.J. Drawing on her deepest reserves, she kept her voice calm and dispassionate. "Of course. I expected no less. I should have resigned from his case that same afternoon." "You argued admirably, Gwyn, and accomplished what you were hired to do, but somewhere along the line, you became emotionally connected to these people. That truly isn't like you." She nodded. "You're right, Nolan. It isn't. I've changed, and in all fairness to you and the other partners, I think it's time I leave Silver, Reisbecht and Lane." He stepped back, his jaw dropping. "Gwyneth, dear, you don't mean that. You're under incredible strain at the moment. I know you weren't terribly close to your father, but this impending loss will still have a—" She stopped him. "This isn't about my father. It's about me—the person I thought I needed to become to earn my father's love and respect. Now, I'm not sure he liked that person either." Nolan didn't say anything right away. "Take your leave of absence. You've earned it. We won't discuss the other again until you're absolutely sure. Give yourself time to heal, dear girl. Then we'll talk."
Chapter Seven Gwyneth gently lifted the delicate bloom and bent low enough to smell it. The arrangement was the largest of the dozen or so that had arrived after her father died. He'd held on another two weeks after her meeting with Nolan. His tenaciousness had surprised even his seasoned nurses who had predicted his passage to be swift and easy. It hadn't been easy. Gwyneth was sure she'd never forget the sound of his tortured breath toward the end. But the long and agonizing end had been a gift, of sorts. Not the type who could sit still and do nothing for long periods, she'd used the time to go through the dozens of boxes of papers her parents had saved. She'd borrowed a dolly from her neighbor and carried three at a time to his room at the hospice. Sitting in a comfortable chair by the window just a few feet from her father's bed, she would sift through letters, bills, receipts, her school records, ancient bank statements—anything and everything her mother and father had deemed important.
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From time to time, Gwyneth would make comments or ask questions. Once, she'd exclaimed in surprise over a ticket stub for a ferry boat ride in North Carolina. "When did you and Mom drive down South? Was it the time you went to Florida to see her sisters? I thought Mom hated Aunt Bonnie? I never understood her antipathy, did you?" She could only imagine his answer, but the sentiment felt very real to her. Your mother was overly sensitive at times. Her feelings were easily hurt and once something was said, there was no un-saying it. Other things had surprised her, too. Box seats at a showing of Annie. Playbills from music recitals she couldn't imagine her father attending. Menus from restaurants she'd had no idea they dined at. Slowly a picture of her parents' life emerged into a collage of companionship, mutual respect and love. She didn't know why she'd assumed their marriage was indifferent and bland. Because she'd been too close? Her perceptions altered by the personal dramas in her life? The arguments with her mother. The distance she'd felt whenever she tried to talk to her father. She didn't know, but she used the time to ask questions. "How come you and Mom never talked about the early years? I heard about how you met, but here's a contract to deed for a house in New Jersey. You lost it, didn't you? This says 'foreclosed.' Maybe that's why you never talked about it. Maybe that's why Mom was so frugal and you pushed so hard for me to choose a career that paid well." The last thing she ran across was a letter addressed to her at college. She'd changed dorms three times in one year. Apparently the letter had been returned instead of being forwarded after the second try. The envelope was sealed; the postmark was blurred so she wasn't sure of the exact date. Her hands had shaken as she opened it because her father had written to her at most half a dozen times in her life. Dear Gwyneth… After a few lines of hoping everything was fine with her and she was studying hard, he got to the reason for the letter. Her mother's cancer had returned. The prognosis was poor. They both wanted her to stay in school rather than come back home. There wasn't anything she could do. Children are the light of their parents' world. You certainly are ours. Your mother and I are both very proud of you. Our only concern is that you don't short-change yourself by focusing entirely on your chosen career. You are a loving, generous person who would make a wonderful wife and mother. And if some day you give us a grandchild or two, we will love your children as much as we love you—even if God deems that be from heaven. And now it would be. She'd burst into tears and walked on her knees to his bedside. Sobbing, she'd held his hand and told him how much she loved him. He stopped breathing a moment later. Although it had nearly killed her, she'd managed to recall enough of her early religious training to sit Shiva and get through the rituals of a Jewish funeral. Friends of her fathers had been quick to call. A great many of her co-workers sent cards of sympathy. Nolan and a few others attended the service. Family members she barely knew came out of the woodwork. Arley—the one person she'd hoped might attend—only stopped by long enough to drop off the flowers. A millionaire delivery boy, who obviously couldn't wait to get away. "I'm not good at this kind of thing, Gwyn," he'd said, barely making eye contact. "I didn't even attend my grandmother's funeral and she practically raised me. While everyone else was at the church, I took my boat out and played Frank Sinatra tunes." "Why?" "Grandmother loved Old Blue Eyes."
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"I meant, why did you come here, then? You could have had these delivered." "I may be a flake, but I have a conscience. I really feel awful about the timing of what happened. The last thing you needed was bad publicity on top of your loss. I'm sorry, Gwyn. I really am." She believed him, but didn't dare let his sympathy touch her. She couldn't fall apart. Not yet. So she merely nodded. He studied her a moment then leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "You're the strong one. You'll be fine." She didn't feel strong. She felt shell-shocked, bruised and needy. She wanted to crawl into his arms and disappear, but before she could move, he turned around and left. If not for the flowers, she might have thought she'd imagined the whole thing. Instead of attending Gwyneth's father's funeral as he should have, Arley spent that afternoon at Molly's. He'd set up an appointment with a contractor to talk about rebuilding the garage to make it more sanitary and less stinky. The man had arrived late, vacillated about the best options, refused to back his work with any kind of guarantee and just plain annoyed Arley so much he snapped. "This is ridiculous. What I'm asking for isn't rocket science. We're not putting in a livestock barn for a small herd. I want one stall. Pig-friendly and smell-free. Is that too much to expect?" "I can give you concrete that washes up with a hose, but I'm not aware of any stall that cleans itself. You still have to get in and muck it out on occasion. If you wait too long between times, it will smell," the man said with finality. Arley knew he was right. The guy was being honest. He had a good reputation and charged plenty. Arley had agreed to pay extra to get him to start right away, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was Arley. He was miserable. He missed Gwyneth. Their knocking of heads, constant testing of wills. He'd tried to keep his distance from Molly and T.J., too, but the contractor had insisted on an on-site meeting. Arley could tell the man was now regretting his pertinacity. "Look, you're right. I am being unreasonable, but Molly is getting to the point where she can't care for Cuddles. I just want to make this barn as user-friendly as possible." The guy shrugged. "Maybe you're gonna have to hire a pigsitter." His grandmother had had three paid companions in her later years. Two had been charming, helpful young women who blended seamlessly into Arlene's world. The third had stolen jewelry, art and money from the old woman's account before anyone was the wiser. Molly didn't have much to lose, but Arley would feel horrible if someone he hired to help took advantage of her. "Thank you for coming. I'll review your plans and be in touch." He shook hands with the man then went to the house. T.J. hadn't been around. Arley assumed he was in school. That's what someone T.J.'s age did, right? "Hello, dear boy," Molly said opening the rickety screen door for him. "I saw you poking around outside with the other gentleman. Cuddles wanted to come out, but I told her she'd only distract you from your work." Arley looked around the cluttered room. The pig wasn't anywhere in sight.
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"She's in the kitchen helping make soup. She takes care of the potato peelings," Molly said, holding his elbow as they walked through a narrow, dark hall to the kitchen. Sure enough, the pig was lying on its side beside the sink area. Cuddles lifted her head to glance at him, her large ears flapping back and forth, but a second later, she heaved a sigh and sank back to her resting position. "A cup of tea?" Molly asked. "It'll cheer you up. Such a sad thing about Gwyneth's father, isn't it? I thought about taking T.J. out of school for the service, but his teachers don't like him missing. We had quite a row about it when I was sick a while back." She shook her head. "They started making noises about putting him in a foster home." This would have been the perfect opportunity to bring up the subject of Arley's desire to adopt the boy—if his parents hadn't persuaded him out of the notion. He knew he was making the right choice for T.J.'s sake, but the change of plans still galled him. "My parents were just here," he said. "They've returned to England. Just dropped in long enough to point out all the errors of my ways and remind me what a fool I am. Kind of them, huh?" She poured his tea then sat down opposite him. Her shoulders hunched forward in a way that broke his heart. He'd bet anything she was a force to be reckoned with when she was younger. "Funny thing about families," she said. "They're big on giving advice, but not very good about taking it." He smiled. True, indeed. "Like my granddaughter, T.J.'s mama. She was going to be a singer. Had a beautiful voice, but not one I'd call special. I warned her that she should make a plan in case the singing didn't work out. She didn't. She got all depressed and turned to drugs." "I'm sure that hurt." Molly shrugged. "Hurt T.J. the most. He thinks it's his fault his mother didn't make it as a singer. She got pregnant by some guy claiming to be a producer. All he produced was a child then he overdosed on heroin. No singing. Just a lot of pain." They sat in silence, interrupted by an occasional grunt from Cuddles. Finally, Molly said, "Your folks gave you life, but once you started to breathe that life became yours. I brought my children into this world, did my best to raise them with values. I hoped they'd do the same with their children. Some did, some didn't." She sighed. "I still love the whole lot of them—even when they do things that make no sense. Pigs and dogs have the right idea. Leave 'em alone, forget to feed 'em, short 'em on water, but they don't hold a grudge." He wasn't sure the same was true of blue-blood parents. True, Arley had pretty much done what he wanted when he wanted for most of his life, but that hadn't included falling in love with a Jewish lawyer or adopting the child of a dead drug addict. They might never get over the plan he was about to spring on them, which was why he needed to do it in person. He would fly to London, tell them that he intended to buy Molly's house, remodel the garage, hire a caretaker and adopt T.J. For starters. He also planned to ask Gwyneth to marry him—after he begged her forgiveness for missing her father's funeral.
Chapter Eight
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He was only gone a week. In that time he didn't try contacting Gwyneth, figuring she needed space to mourn and deal with her father's estate. He called Molly twice, but never got an answer. Worried about what he'd find, he hurried to her house the morning after his red-eye flight. The last thing he'd expected to find was a BMW and a moving van in the driveway. He jumped out of his Hummer and raced into the house. The senior member of the movers directed him to the barn. Winded from the dash, he rounded the corner of Cuddles's stall to find Gwyneth and T.J. shoveling manure into a wheelbarrow. The stench was almost enough to make him head back into the open air. The sight of Gwyneth with her hair in a ponytail, jeans and faded man's shirt knotted at her waist was enough to draw him closer. Gwyneth obviously hadn't heard him approach over the pulsing beat of hip-hop music. Hip-hop? "Good lord, it stinks in here." Pausing mid-toss, she glanced from him to T.J. They both put down their shovels, and T.J. turned off the iPod that was connected to a boombox. "Well, it's about time," Gwyneth said. "Another day and you'd have been too late." "Too late for what?" "To help with the move." "We're going to a farm in New York. The state not the city," T.J. added, pointedly. "Me and Grams and Cuddles are gonna live with Gwyn 'cause me and her are orphans. Grams didn't want to tell me, but I kinda knew already once Ma stopped coming back when the welfare check came in. Gwyn says it's a waste of time and money to fight the neighbors. Besides, Cuddles needs a bigger place, and Gwyn doesn't want to be alone no more." "Any more," Gwyneth corrected. "Any more." Arley felt an intense pressure on his chest, similar to the pain he'd felt when his grandmother passed away. She'd left him alone with his parents. "I just got back from England. I planned to buy this place, remodel the barn and hire help to care for Molly and Cuddles." Gwyneth shrugged. "Too bad. I got here first." If there'd been a hint of triumph in her tone, he might have walked away, but all he heard was trepidation. She was scared spitless but wouldn't admit it in a million years. That was so Gwyneth. He looked at T.J. and asked, "Where's your grandma?" "Out back with Cuddles. She was being a pest. Tripping the movers by trying to sniff their boots." "Would you do me a favor and tell her Gwyneth and I could use some tea, if it hasn't been packed?" T.J. looked at Gwyneth, who nodded and smiled encouragingly, then he stripped off his gloves and left. She leaned her shovel handle against the wall of the garage and crossed her arms defensively. "If you're here to talk me out of this, forget it. Nolan already tried. He gave me the speech about waiting a year after a loved one passes away before making any big moves, but the harsh reality is Molly probably doesn't have a year."
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Arley winced. He'd guessed that, but an actual prognosis was difficult to hear. "T.J. needs to be in a home that isn't going to get ripped out from under him when the time comes." He stepped closer, his boots sliding on the slick, stinky concrete. "That's what I had in mind, too. Why upstate New York?" "My father left me his aunt's old place on sixty acres. When the renters found out I didn't plan to sell, they moved. I don't know what shape it's in but I have a little money saved and there's room for Cuddles." Is there room for me? he wanted to ask. Yet the man who'd known privilege but never unconditional love couldn't find the words. Gwyneth had had seven days and nights to prepare for this meeting. As a lawyer, she knew the value of going into every negotiation with a game plan. Unfortunately, her well-thought-out arguments flew out the barn door when she looked up and saw Arley. She was pretty sure she loved him, but asking him to join them on this new adventure required a leap of faith she wasn't certain she could make. Or could she? A happy life with a mate and children was all that her father had wished for her. She looked up at the heavens a second then said, "I'm sure we could find a windmill or two in the area for you to joust if you want to join us." His smile lit up her heart and gave her hope. They met halfway. He didn't seem to mind her smell. His kiss was the answer she'd hoped for, but she still wanted to hear the words. Instead, he took her hand. "I need witnesses," he said, towing her out the door. "For what?" "You'll see." He led her to the picnic table where four tall glasses were resting. T.J. and Molly were seated on one side. Gwyneth could hear Cuddles's contented grunts coming from beneath one of the nearby bushes. Arley made her sit, too, then he went down on one knee. "First, I owe you an apology. I should have been here for you when your dad—" She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Molly and I talked. This was my path. I had to walk it alone." He looked at Molly and smiled. "She gave me the same advice, which is why I went to clear the air with my parents. I told them I was coming back here to date you. Well…to court you. Okay, in all fairness, I have to admit, I plan to pursue you with dogged steadfastness and passion until I finally wear down your resistance enough that you agree to marry me." Joy swelled inside her, bringing tears to her eyes. Her throat was too tight to speak. She looked at Molly and T.J. for help. "Tell him, yes," T.J. prompted. "Then you can adopt me and Cuddles, right, Gran?" Molly was beaming, but before she could reply, Cuddles erupted from beneath the bush, apparently answering to her name. She put her snout in the air and sniffed a couple of times before heading straight for Gwyneth. She firmly nudged Arley out of the way then gazed up at Gwyn with a look that mixed adoration and expectation. "Oh, you are such a pig," Gwyneth said, sighing. "One more, but that's it until we get to our new home."
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She reached across the table to a large shopping bag sitting beside T.J. Closing her eyes, she reached in and pulled out a shoe. A strappy high heel. Cuddles let out a squeal of joy, snatched the treat from her hand and disappeared out of sight. Arley scrambled back to his gallant position. "Was that one of your Manolos?" he asked. Gwyneth shrugged. "Couture fashion isn't a requirement where we're going. I thought about trading them in for rubber boots, but I knew Cuddles would enjoy them more." Arley looked at the sack that held a small fortune worth of shoes – and understood what this gesture meant. Once those shoes were gone, there was no turning back. Her tenure at Silver, Reisbecht and Lane was over. "Well, you know what they say. Styles change, but love never goes out of fashion," he quipped. Gwyneth and T.J. looked at each other and groaned. "Promise you won't ever say anything that cheesy after we're married." "After we're married? Is that a yes?" She gave him a flinty stare that undoubtedly made judges sit up and take notice. "Only a crazy person would agree to marry someone who's never even told her he loves her." "I love you, Gwyneth Jacobi. I have since the moment T.J. dinged your car and you didn't say anything." "Why? What did that prove?" "That you have a big heart and you don't do everything by the book. Have you ever thought about giving up law to grow watermelons?" Gwyneth assumed he wasn't serious about farming, but she could tell he meant what he said about marrying her. She didn't plan to say yes right away. One huge, impulsive, life-altering decision was all she could handle at a time, but this move would be a good test of Arley's self-professed attention deficit issues. If he hung in there for a year or two, she'd probably be ready to tie the knot. After all, she did love him, too. "Get real," she said. "The law is my life, but who knows? If you stick around long enough, I might find use for a rich, slightly eccentric philanthropist." He laughed and pulled her into his arms, then kissed her to the happy cheers of her newfound family and contented grunts of her newly acquired pig.
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Season of Wonder by Marta Perry Allison March has returned to her family's vacation home on Caldwell Island in search of peace. She has promised her young daughter, Kristie, that they will spend Christmas there to prepare for Kristie's upcoming surgery. The last thing Allison wants is help from anyone, including her childhood friend David Caldwell. David is content with his laid-back island life, and sees no reason to want anything more — until he finds his old friend Allison on the beach one winter afternoon and realizes what he's been missing. But the girl that once reminded him of a Christmas tree angel has changed. Can he help her find her sense of wonder again?
Chapter One It was his angel-girl. David Caldwell stopped dead, letting the waves wash over his feet. He hadn't seen Allison March in fifteen years, but he knew her instantly, with the kind of bone-deep knowledge that didn't require explanation. Once again, Christmas had brought Allison back to Caldwell Island, South Carolina. He waded out of the surf, his footsteps marring the smooth wet sand as he walked toward the two figures on a blanket near the weather-worn cottage in the dunes. He didn't have to think twice about the identity of the child. The little girl must be about six, the age Allison had been that first Christmas, and she looked the way Ally had then — hair the pale platinum of the sea oats, a delicate heart-shaped face, and huge blue eyes. Just like the angel on their Christmas tree. "Allison." He stopped short of the blanket. "Merry Christmas." It was what he'd said then. She shaded her eyes against the December sunshine with her hand. "Hello, David." He grinned. "You're supposed to say, 'Hello, boy.'" Her answering smile was as cool and brittle as a shell washed up in the tide. "You're not a boy any longer." She'd changed. Fine lines spelled worry on her face, and her lips were stiff. Even her hands, thin and elegant, seemed clenched for battle. David squatted, careful not to track sand on the blanket. "What happened to you, Allison?" That was blunt, but he and Allison had always been able to speak their thoughts, as if they'd known each other forever and always would. She didn't answer. Instead, she turned to the child. "Kristie, this is David Caldwell. He lives here on the island. David, my daughter, Kristie." "Hi." He held out his hand. The child hesitated, then nodded and put her small hand in his. It was like holding a sand dollar, soft and quivering on his palm. He didn't let his gaze stray toward the heavy brace on her leg, nor the child-size wheelchair at the edge of the blanket. But maybe he understood what had wiped the sense of wonder from Allison's blue eyes. "So you've come to spend Christmas at the beach, just like your momma used to do when she was your age." Her eyes lit. "Did you know my mommy when she was little?" "I sure did. I taught her everything she knows about the ocean." He glanced at Allison. No wedding band on her left hand, only the faintest pale line. "Didn't I?"
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"I'm afraid I've forgotten most of it." Her smile brushed him off as coolly as a sweep of her hand would a sand fly. "It's too long ago." He lifted an eyebrow. "Is it?" "Yes." Her mouth clamped shut on the word, dismissing their friendship as if it had never been. Well. He sat back on his heels. Allison clearly didn't want to go back to the way things had been. But as for him — He hadn't changed. He wanted to see his angel-girl again.
Chapter Two David didn't look as if her rebuff had had much effect on him, Allison decided. He sat barefoot in the sand, much as he had at ten or twelve. He was sun-browned, as he'd been years ago; his hair streaked to a sand color, and his eyes the changeable blue-green of the ocean. And he still had that easy lopsided smile that had once lodged itself in her heart. But he wasn't that boy any longer. The height and breadth of him startled her, as if some trick of photography had taken the boy she knew and turned him into a man. David sifted sand through his fingers, apparently content to laze on the beach all day. A spurt of irritation hit her. Was that what he'd turned into — a beachcomber? "What brings you back after all this time?" he asked. It had been a lifetime, but he didn't need to know that. "I promised to show Kristie the island. What are you doing these days?" Besides walking on the beach. She didn't add that, but he probably caught the implication in her tone. His eyes crinkled, as if he laughed at her on the inside. He'd always done that when she'd betrayed her ignorance of this natural space between mainland and ocean that he called home. "A little of this, a little of that. I help at the inn, run dolphin tours for the tourists." Exasperation filled her. "You're a bright person, David. You could have done anything with your life." The moment the words were out, she regretted them. Her own track record wasn't exactly stellar. "This is what I want to do." His voice was gentle. "Maybe you and Kristie would like to go with me one day to see the dolphins." "I'm afraid we won't have time for that." She glanced at the cottage, her only tangible asset she'd held on to since the divorce. It was a wonder Richard hadn't tried to take that, too. "I'll be too busy getting the cottage fixed up." She'd have to work quickly if she wanted to get the place on the market soon. At least she had her priorities straight now: sell the cottage so she'd have a nest egg; get Kristie through her next surgery; start the new job in Atlanta that would make her and her daughter independent. That left no time in her schedule for something as frivolous as a dolphin tour.
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"I guess you'll want the cottage in shape for a real sea-island Christmas. Maybe I can give you a hand." "I can take care of it myself." She stood, brushing sand from her slacks. "Time to go now, Kristie." David picked up the wheelchair. "Let me." She snatched it from him. "I don't need any help, thanks." No help, no one to depend on. She'd learned that the hard way. From now on she would be tough and practical, and she'd depend only on herself. "If that's the way you want it." A hint of sadness showed in David's eyes. "It is." He shrugged. "See you around, then." No, she wouldn't see him. She'd been rude enough that David wouldn't come back again, and that was for the best. So why did she feel as if she'd just lost something important?
Chapter Three "Are you sure she won't come over to supper?" David's mother turned from the stove to give him a perplexed frown. "There's plenty, and we'd love to have them." He couldn't help but smile. There was always plenty to eat at the Dolphin Inn, even when there were no guests checked in. His mother and his gran were used to cooking for a horde of Caldwells. "Not today, Momma. Maybe later." Maybe not at all, judging by the way his angel-girl had brushed him off. Gran, her blue eyes wise behind her wire-rimmed glasses, handed him a cookie tin. "You take these cookies for the little girl, then. She won't turn down something for her child." He kissed her firm cheek. "What makes you so smart?" "A lot of livin'." She swatted him gently on the arm. "You remember, boy. Whatever's wrong there, Christmas works wonders on the heart." *** Gran's words lingered in his mind as he drove down the lane to Allison's cottage. Christmas works wonders. Would even Christmas be enough to bring back the friendship he'd cherished? He pulled into the drive, turned off the engine, and hesitated, recognizing the tightness in his belly for what it was. When had he ever been nervous about seeing Allison? Something's hurt her bad, Father, he prayed silently. Something even worse than the child's problems. Show me what I can do. He went to the back door. "David." Allison clearly hadn't expected to see him. "I'm rather busy."
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"This won't take a minute." He edged past her into the kitchen. The child sat at the round oak table, looking at him warily. "I brought something." He held up the tin. Allison stiffened. "I don't need —" "It's not for you." He handed the tin to Kristie. "My gran was baking Christmas cookies. Thought you might like some." "For me?" Her cheeks grew pink when she lifted the lid and saw the iced bells and reindeer. "May I, Mommy? Please?" Allison's shell seemed to melt when she looked at her daughter. "Just one now. I'm making supper." She glanced at the elderly gas range. "If I can get that monster lit, anyway." He'd learned his lesson when he'd picked up that wheelchair without permission. "May I?" he asked. She studied his face before she nodded. "Okay." She watched him as he got the burners going, her attitude that of someone looking at a museum piece. "Are you sure it's safe?" Her glance toward Kristie was fiercely protective. "Seems okay. But you'd best not use the oven until I can check it out." Her face tightened. "I can hire someone to do that." "Sure you can. But why should you?" He leaned against the stove. "Way I see it, you've got a lot to do to get this place ready for Christmas. I'm not busy just now. I'd like to give you a hand." There. He'd said it. He held his breath, waiting for the rejection he was sure would come.
Chapter Four David's offer of help hung in the air between them. Instinct told Allison to reject both his help and his friendship. He reminded her too much of the girl she used to be — the dreamer who'd expected promises would last forever. But she already felt overwhelmed by the amount of work that had to be done on the cottage, and despite her quick words, she really couldn't afford to hire someone. "Maybe you'd better see how bad the cottage is before you make an offer like that." She didn't miss the relief on his face, and it gave her a twinge of shame. David couldn't help it that he reminded her she'd once seen the world with a foolish sense of wonder. She led the way into the living room. Showing him around didn't commit her to anything, after all. "This doesn't look bad." He tugged at a piece of dangling wallpaper. "The paper will come off, and a coat of paint will do wonders." A wave of relief swept over her at his assessment. He nodded toward the steps. "How's the upstairs?"
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"Not as bad as this." She hesitated, caught between what she wanted and what she needed. "Are you sure you have time to help?" His smile was like sunlight on the water. "Absolutely. It'll be pure pleasure getting this place ready for you and Kristie to enjoy. It's been empty too long." She almost told him she wasn't getting it ready to enjoy. She was getting it ready to sell. Some instinctive caution stilled the words. David might not be so eager to help if he knew she had no intention of staying. Thoughts of her dwindling bank account and Kristie's upcoming surgery hung heavy. Perhaps it would be best if David didn't know her plans. She wasn't lying to him. She just wasn't telling him everything. "Well, that's great." She managed to produce a smile. "Since you're here, maybe you'd give me a hand with these windows." Anyone buying the place would want to enjoy the ocean breezes. "They're stuck." "Sure thing." He gave the nearest window an experimental tug. "Do you have a knife I can use to loosen this paint?" She should not be noticing the way his muscles flexed, nor the glint of sunlight on his tanned arms. "I'll get one." She scurried to the kitchen and back. She gave him the knife, then started to step away. David took her hand. "Just hold this for a minute —" he pressed her palm against the frame "— until I can wedge the blade in place." Inches separated them. He was so close she could count the sun wrinkles around his eyes, smell his fresh masculine scent, hear the quick intake of his breath. She was not attracted to David Caldwell, she told herself sternly, trying to control her own breathing. He was nothing but an old childhood friend. So why couldn't she get her pulse under control?
Chapter Five "Please, Kristie." Allison's voice floated down the stairs of the cottage the next day. "You have to exercise to get well." The child's answer was muted, stubborn, and uncooperative. Clearly Allison had a basketful of troubles. Talking with an old friend might help, if David could get her to open up. He resumed scraping as she came down. "Hey, Ally." "I see you still say 'hey' instead of 'hi.'" Her smile flickered. "I guess things don't change on the island." "Not much. Folks get married, have babies, have troubles, but life keeps on going." She picked up a scraper and started working next to him. If she'd seen his words as a conversation opener, she ignored the invitation.
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Maybe he'd best be a bit more direct. "Sounds like that little girl of yours is as stubborn as her momma." Allison ripped a strip of paper loose. "She won't exercise. The doctors say she has to build up strength for her next surgery." "Next surgery?" Poor child. Poor mother, too. She was silent for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to confide in him. "Kristie was born with a malformed hip. She's had a series of operations. The one next month should be the last." His heart hurt for them. "So you feel like you have to push her." "It's not just the exercises. She doesn't want the surgery." She shoved the scraper so hard it dug into the plaster. "I understand that, but we can't give up now." He leaned against the wall, studying her determined expression, trying to understand. "So you brought her here." She turned, her arm brushing his as she looked out at the beach. "I remembered how peaceful the island is." He had a brief, fleeting memory of the angel-girl who'd loved the island so much on her vacation visits. She wanted Kristie to have that, too. "I thought this place would be good for her — that the change in scene would encourage her to try again." She was talking to him as easily as she always had. Maybe that meant he could ask the question that was haunting his thoughts. "What about Kristie's father? Doesn't he help with her?" Her face tightened. "No." He waited, sure there was more. "Everything always had to be perfect for Richard. His wife, his car, his apartment. When his daughter wasn't…he walked away." She looked at him, blue eyes direct. "Was that what you wanted to know?"
Chapter Six Maybe she'd been wrong to come back to the island. Allison unloaded groceries from the car, frowning. She'd thought this would be good for Kristie, but Kristie hadn't responded. She longed to see her daughter running along the beach the way she used to, arms spread wide as if to take flight with the gulls. No classes, no dance or music lessons, no approved play dates with children from her mother's social set. Just freedom. And David. She seemed to see two figures on the shining sand left by the ebb tide. Always the tanned gangly boy had encouraged, taught, shared the wonders of his world. How much credit was David's for the happiness she'd found here? That was past. This was now. She hauled the remaining bag from the truck and slammed the lid. David had his life, such as it was. Peaceful, probably, but certainly lacking in ambition. And she had hers. She had to keep her eyes pinned on her goals. Sell the cottage. Get Kristie through her final surgery. Start the job that would make them independent.
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Repeating the words in her mind, she went into the cottage. She set groceries on the table, registering the sounds from the living room. David seemed to be using her absence to play a game with Kristie instead of getting on with the painting. She couldn't complain, she supposed, since she wasn't paying him. But still — She stopped in the doorway, her annoyance draining away. "Simon says, 'Put your hand on your head,'" Kristie said importantly, doing the motion. "Sit on the floor." David, smiling, sat down. "I caught you!" Kristie crowed. "I didn't say 'Simon says.' You have to be it." "Maybe your momma should," he suggested. For a moment Allison's throat was too tight to respond. Kristie, moving as if the heavy brace on her leg weighed nothing. Laughing as she hadn't laughed in what seemed like months. "I'll be it," she managed finally. "Just let me put the cold things in the fridge first." She turned away before either of them could see the tears in her eyes. "I'll give you a hand." David followed her to the kitchen. "Hope you don't mind," he said softly. "I didn't let her do anything too lively." "Mind?" She reached to him impulsively. "I'm grateful." He caught her hand in a strong grasp that warmed her to her heart. "No need. She's a great kid. Just like her momma." She tried to ignore the way her heart thumped. Perhaps David's low-key approach would be as good for Kristie as it had once been for her. "Mommy, guess what?" Kristie stood in the doorway, bracing herself with her hands. "David's going to take us out on his boat tomorrow to look for dolphins. Isn't that great?" Allison pulled her hand away from his, her gaze chilling. Maybe David was good for Kristie. But he had no right to make plans for her — for them — without talking to her first.
Chapter Seven David steered the Spyhop slowly into the channel. Kristie, life jacket bright over her navy jacket, bounced with excitement. Allison clasped her daughter, every tense line of her body saying she didn't want to be here. "I've never run you aground before. I won't today." She turned a startled face to him. "I don't think that." "You grip that rail any tighter, you're going to bend it." "Not unless I've been eating my collard greens."
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The unexpected response took him back to evenings when Allison had joined the Caldwells for supper. Gran had teased her to try things her own mother wouldn't have served on her table. "Come to supper and you can have some." He liked seeing her face relax at his teasing. Allison shouldn't have to go through life tensed up as if waiting for a blow to fall. "When will we see the dolphins?" Kristie edged forward. "We're headed for the sound on the other side of the island. The pod is usually there about now." "And if not?" Allison smiled as she got in a little teasing of her own. "How will the dolphin expert explain that?" He shook his head in mock sorrow. "I don't know. They might make me give back my degree." "Degree?" He enjoyed her surprise. "Oceanography. Sorry, sugar. I know you had me pegged as a beach bum." "I did not." But the flush in her cheeks said differently. "I remember you talked about college that last Christmas." He nodded, making the wide turn around the end of the island. They skimmed over the waves toward the sound. He remembered that last Christmas, too — especially the look on her mother's face when she'd seen them walking along the beach, hand in hand. "You never came back. I was sorry." "My mother always had other plans for Christmas." She smoothed her hand along Kristie's hair, ruffled by the wind. "And then — well, college, marriage..." "Life intervened," he suggested. "I guess." Her face tightened again. "I haven't had much time for vacations. I've had to be practical." Practical. It seemed a sad word in connection with the girl who'd danced along the beach, hair flowing in the wind. "Look." He throttled back, letting the Spyhop idle on the waves. "There they are." He pointed as first one, then another dolphin made a silver arc through the waves. "Oh." Eyes shining, Kristie clasped her hands in awe. She should look that way more often. The child needed a sense of wonder to sustain her through the difficult times ahead. Didn't Allison see that? He looked at Ally, and his heart seemed to stop at her expression. Ally needed to regain that sense of wonder, too, just as much as her daughter did. And if he thought all he wanted from Allison was friendship, he'd been kidding himself.
Chapter Eight
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Allison held her breath as the dolphins cartwheeled through the waves. How could she have forgotten that incredible sight? "They seem so —" she sought for words "— free." David leaned on the rail next to her, letting the boat rock gently. "They are that. I remember you always loved them." His voice was soft, recalling the past they'd shared. Somehow in the busy stressful years she'd forgotten that, but now it seemed to be here, waiting for her. "Look at that one, David." Her daughter's face was lit with wonder. "Do they live here always?" "They travel, but they always come back to us." He bent close to Kristie as he began telling her some fanciful story about dolphins saving a shipwrecked sailor. Their faces wore identical looks of childlike innocence. Allison had felt that way, too, when she was Kristie's age. A longing swept over her, powerful as a riptide, to feel that way again. No. Her rejection was almost panic-stricken. She couldn't go back. She had to be practical. She had to take care of herself and Kristie, because no one else would. "Do you remember counting dolphins with me, Ally?" David's smile invited her back into that world she'd left. "No." That was a lie. She remembered. But she shouldn't. "Is this what you're doing with your oceanography degree?" She wielded the question like a weapon to push him away. He shrugged, refusing to take offense. "Maybe the degree helps me appreciate it more." "You can't build a career on appreciation. Or dreams." "You can't build a life without both." He didn't seem to expect a response to that. He just leaned on the railing next to Kristie, watching the dolphins, apparently content to let the day slip away with the tide. She should be telling him how improvident he was. Instead all she could think was how secure he seemed. "You're happy, aren't you?" The fine lines crinkled around his eyes. "Why not? I live in a place I love. A place my family has loved for generations. Gran says that Caldwells always come back to Caldwell Island, because this is where we belong." Suddenly, Allison realized he wasn't searching for anything, because he already had it all. "You're a lucky man, David. You have everything you want." Some emotion she couldn't identify touched his eyes. "Nobody has that. Maybe someday." He stretched, muscles flexing under his denim shirt. "Today, I'll settle for this." His gesture took in the sea, the dolphins, even her and Kristie. That sense of freedom she'd felt when she caught her first glimpse of the dolphins seized her again. Maybe today she could push away all the things she should do in favor of what she wanted — to be here, right now, with David and Kristie.
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Just for today.
Chapter Nine David eased the boat toward the dock, watching Allison's relaxed expression harden. Her cares were a visible weight, making his Ally into the brittle, determined woman she'd become. "Thank you." Her voice surprised him with its softness. "I guess you were right. We both needed this." "A little relaxation never hurt anyone." He had to keep it light, or he'd give in to the longing to try and take her cares away permanently, and that was beyond him. He nodded toward the dock. "You'd better get ready. Looks like they've sent out the big guns." "What are you talking about?" "Gran's waiting for us. My loving interfering family thinks you should stay for supper. Nobody ever refuses Gran." "I can't. I have to go home and get some work done." He shrugged. "Don't tell me. Tell Gran." He busied himself tying the boat while Ally and his grandmother skirmished. The result was predictable. *** "Have another piece of key lime pie," his mother urged. Allison shook her head. "I couldn't possibly." They'd had dessert and coffee in the living room, watching as his sister Miranda and her boy, Sammy, lured Kristie into making Christmas tree ornaments out of shells. Kristie, shy at first, had thawed under the flow of warmth from his family. Ally had, too, but she was fighting it. "I really have to go home and get some work done," she said for the third time. "No need to hurry off." His father stretched long legs out toward the fire. "If David's not giving you enough help, you say the word and I'll bring Daniel and Theo over to work." Allison looked a little overwhelmed at the thought of all those Caldwell men in her small cottage. "Thanks, but we're doing fine. I do need to get Kristie home before she falls asleep." "I'm awake." Kristie's words were interrupted by a yawn. David grinned and got up. "I'll drive you." Daniel and Theo embarked on a mock battle over who got to carry Kristie to the car that had the child giggling. David's mother shoved a plate of pie into Allison's hands. "Come again tomorrow," she urged. "Or if you can't do that, at least promise you'll spend Christmas Eve with us."
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Ally evaded the invitation politely, and they finally escaped the clutch of family. David paused for a moment on the porch, waiting while Theo put Kristie in the backseat. "Do you remember telling me once you wanted a family like mine?" He looked at Allison, laughter in his voice. "I remember." For an instant, unguarded longing shone in her eyes. David's heart clenched. Was that what she'd tried to have with Richard? And after a failure like that, would she ever be willing to try again?
Chapter Ten What on earth had gotten into her? Allison stared at live oaks draped with Spanish moss as David drove them back to the cottage. She'd practically agreed to spend Christmas with the Caldwells. She was as drawn to their warmth now as she had been years ago, when she'd seen the contrast with her cold, barren home life. But now she had Kristie and her own independence to hold on to. The car pulled up to the cottage. She'd left lights on, and they showed yellow and welcoming through the new curtains. "It looks like home," he said lightly. "Yes." She shook off the tempting thought. "I'm afraid our apartment in Atlanta isn't quite so cozy." "How soon will you go?" He sounded as if it mattered. "I promised Kristie we'd stay until her surgery. Mid-January." She glanced toward the backseat. "She's asleep." "I'll get her." He was lifting Kristie before Allison could get out. Having David around didn't do her drive for independence a lot of good. She opened the front door and nodded toward the couch. "Just put her there. I'll take her up in a bit." David settled Kristie on the couch, tucking the afghan around her gently. He smoothed her tousled hair. "What a sweetheart she is." There was a lump in her throat the size of a baseball. He saw the beauty in Kristie that her own father had never discerned. "Yes. I wish —" She wished so much for her child. "She's going to be fine." "Yes." She had to believe that. She cleared her throat. "Thank you, David. For everything." She held the door open. He started through, then paused on the threshold and touched her arm, nodding toward the ocean. "Look."
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She stepped out onto the porch with him. A nearly full moon cast a shimmering silver pathway across the dark water, mesmerizing in its beauty. "Your grandmother used to tell us a story," she said softly. "Something about sailing off on a stream of moonbeams to wonderful adventures. I dreamed about that for years." "Good dreams, I hope." He was very close, his voice a low baritone rumble. "The best." An odd, somehow familiar longing touched her. She wanted — What? She didn't know. That sent a tinge of panic through her. She knew what she wanted — sell the cottage; get through Kristie's surgery; start her new job. Why did she feel so uncertain? She shivered. "You're cold. You should go in." David touched her, his palms warm on her arms. She should. But somehow her gaze tangled with David's; somehow his hands were drawing her close, his lips finding hers, and the world went spinning away along the path of moonbeams. She pulled away, her lips cold where his had been. This was crazy. She turned and bolted into the cottage before she could do something even crazier, like kiss him again.
Chapter Eleven David whistled as he drove down the lane. Ally was going back to Atlanta in three weeks, but she and Kristie would come for weekends, maybe longer while Kristie recuperated. Even Allison's rapid retreat after their kiss didn't discourage him. They had plenty of time for their relationship to grow, and they had years of friendship to build it on. He parked and took the box he'd brought into the cottage, finding Kristie at the kitchen table. "Hey, sugar. I have something for you from Sammy." Kristie slid from the chair, grabbed her crutches, and went into the living room without even acknowledging his presence. So much for all his good cheer. "I'm sorry." Ally kept her voice low. "Kristie woke up when we were on the porch last night. She saw us." "Saw us kissing, you mean." Her gaze evaded his. "I tried to explain that we're just friends. That it didn't mean anything." He put the sand dollar he'd brought on the table, then arranged the glue and glitter in a neat row. "Didn't it?" "No." That sounded firm, but she didn't meet his eyes. "Maybe I should talk to her." "I think it's better to forget it." She did meet his gaze then, and he saw that she didn't just mean Kristie. She might be able to forget, but he didn't think he would.
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"Well, guess I'd better get to work, then." He carried a paint can into the living room. Kristie was curled on the couch with a book. "Sammy sent you a sand dollar shell and some glitter and glue. So you can make a Christmas ornament if you want." Kristie put the book down, still not speaking. He bent to open the paint can. "If you need any help, just tell me." He started painting. By the time Allison got her brush and joined him, Kristie had made her way to the table and was bending over the shell. "Thank you." Allison concentrated on the paint she was applying. "And tell Sammy thanks, too." He suppressed a smile. Ally and her daughter were alike in more than just looks. By the time they'd finished the woodwork along one wall, Allison was talking normally again, as if determined to show him that she had forgotten that kiss. "David?" Kristie's voice was small. "Could you help me?" "Sure thing." He found her ready to attach the hanging string. "Hey, great job. Do you know why we use the sand dollar for Christmas?" He felt Ally move, standing behind him. Kristie shook her head. "Tell me." "See, on this side is the shape of an Easter lily, and inside it is a star." He turned it over. "On the other side is a poinsettia. So the sand dollar is perfect for Christmas." Kristie dangled the ornament from one finger. "Thank you for helping me. I'm sorry I acted mean." He touched her cheek lightly. "Friends help each other." Kristie's smile flashed. Apparently their crisis was over. But Ally — he could feel the tension that went through her at his words. And he didn't have the slightest idea why.
Chapter Twelve Allison had felt guilty all afternoon, and nothing she had said to herself seemed to help. She scrubbed paint off her hands at the kitchen sink, trying to ignore the feeling. She couldn't. David had gone home after painting all day, whistling as happily as if she'd given him a gift by letting him work. She didn't feel that carefree, unfortunately. His innocent comment to Kristie about friends helping each other had stung her. David helped because he had a good heart, and because he lived in a place where such simple acts of kindness were routine. And all the while she was deceiving him — carefully avoiding the truth about why she was fixing up the cottage. If he knew she intended to sell it… Well, what? Did she imagine he'd stop helping her if he knew that? That was silly. David wasn't that kind of person.
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Maybe she was just afraid of the disappointment in his eyes if he knew she'd kept it from him. David's honesty had always made her want to measure up. Somehow that hadn't changed. A car pulling into the drive brought her to the window with a ridiculous leap of her heart. It wasn't David. His grandmother came toward the door, carrying a basket. She opened the door. "Mrs. Caldwell, how nice to see you." "Just dropping by with a little something for your supper. I know you and David have been painting all day." She bustled in, put the basket on the table, and started unloading it. "You didn't need to do that." She felt helpless in the face of all this goodwill. She couldn't very well close the door to keep out kindness, but it only increased her guilt. "This is chicken pot pie, and that one's pickled beets. And I brought another tin of my Christmas cookies, 'cause David said your little girl really enjoyed them." "You're all being too kind." "I don't reckon there's such a thing as too kind." Her faded blue eyes, sharp behind her glasses, inspected Allison. "David's here every day helping, and now you come with food." There was a ridiculous stinging behind her eyes. "David comes because he wants to. After all, the two of you were always special to each other. Now that you're back, it's only natural he wants to help." Special to each other. "I'm not here to stay for good, you know. I'll be starting a job in Atlanta in a few months." Gran Caldwell just smiled and shook her head. "You still belong here, even if you spend some of the time away." "I don't —" But David's grandmother was already picking up her basket. "I'd best get home. Don't you worry about David. Land, that boy was over here fixing the roof when we didn't know if you'd ever come back. He's not going to mind a bit of painting." She whisked out the door before Allison could say anything, even supposing the huge ball of guilt in her throat would have allowed her to speak. David had fixed the roof, and he'd never even mentioned it. How much more did she owe him?
Chapter Thirteen Allison waited, nervous but determined, for David to arrive. She had to find out how much the materials had cost to fix the roof, even if he wouldn't take money for labor. And she also had to tell him the truth about why she was fixing the place. This was no big deal, she assured herself. But that didn't seem to erase the sensation of dread in her stomach. It was just as well that she had to be out for the rest of the day. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and they'd skip working. By the time the holiday was over, they'd both be back to normal.
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The sound of his footstep on the porch sent her pulse accelerating. Yes, indeed, normal was certainly a good idea. "Hey." He stopped, taking in her business suit. "What's happening? You don't look ready for painting." "I have to go to Beaufort today. The firm I'm going to be working for asked me to take care of something for them." "The day before Christmas Eve? Can't they wait until after the holiday?" She'd asked herself that, but it annoyed her coming from him. "This job could take me right to the top. I can't refuse the first thing they've asked me to do." His gaze assessed her. "Fine. Kristie can stay with me." "No, I'll take Kristie along." She swallowed. Just say it. "But I wanted to ask you something. Your grandmother said you fixed the roof on the cottage. I'm sure that must have cost something for materials, and I want to pay you." He looked just as offended by that as she'd thought he would. "You don't owe me a thing," he said flatly. "But the roofing materials —" "We always have stuff like that around the inn for repairs. We don't want money for doing a neighbor a good turn." Her frustration probably didn't make sense, but she felt it anyway. "But I wasn't even here then. And after the way my parents let the place deteriorate, I'd think you'd be glad to see it fall down." "I knew you'd want the cottage someday." "How?" She wanted to shout at him. "How did you know?" He shrugged. "I knew. People don't change all that much. You always loved this place, even though your folks didn't. I knew you could never sell it." Now was clearly the moment to tell him that she was doing just that. Unfortunately the words seemed lodged in her throat, unwilling to come out. As little as she wanted to acknowledge it, she knew why. She didn't want to lose what they had. It could never be anything but friendship, but she didn't want to risk it. Kristie appeared in the doorway, still in her pajamas. "Kristie, what are you doing? I said to get dressed." "I don't want to go. I want to stay with David." "You can't." She glanced at her watch. This had taken more time than it should, and she was already late. "She can stay with me." David smiled. "No problem."
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No problem for him. For her, it was just one more reason to feel grateful to him. And one more reason to feel guilty.
Chapter Fourteen "The wise man built his house upon the rock," Kristie sang as she patted sand onto her sandcastle. David grinned. "We just have sand to build on here." Kristie glanced toward the cottage. "Do the houses fall down, then?" Her small face was serious. "Not your house," he assured her. He patted the sandcastle. "The tide will take this away, but your house is structurally sound. That means it's strong inside, even if we did need to do a little painting to make it look nice." His thoughts slipped to Ally, as they had a tendency to do too often. When he'd seen her dressed in her power suit instead of her jeans and sweatshirt, every hair in place, she'd been a different person — smart, ambitious, determined. But that brittle sophistication was on the surface, wasn't it? Underneath, where it counted, Ally was sound. Kristie scraped at the sand with a shell. "I wish we didn't ever have to go away from here." I wish that, too, sugar, David thought. But he couldn't say it. "Your momma told me you don't want to have your operation," he said carefully. "But it sure would be nice if next time you come, we could play sandpiper tag." Kristie looked up, intrigued. "What's sandpiper tag?" "Your momma and I used to play that." He saw Ally running, laughing, happy. He pointed to a row of sandpipers strutting along the wet sand. "It's like tag, but you can't tap someone without running between the sandpipers first." "I can't do that." She frowned at her brace. "After you have your operation, you will." Please, God. "But if I'm well —" She paused, digging her fingers into the sand. "If I'm better, Mommy will go to work all the time." He hesitated, aware that Ally probably wouldn't appreciate his interference. But the child deserved someone to listen. "I guess maybe she'll have to, so she can earn money to take care of you. She'll still spend a lot of time with you." Kristie shook her head, her silky blond hair obscuring her expression. "She'll work all the time, like Daddy. I heard her one time. She told him he was doing it to stay away from me." "Oh, honey." His heart hurt for them. "That's not true for your momma. She loves you more than anything." Her lower lip came out. "Maybe that's why Mommy wants me to have the operation. So she can go to work every day instead of staying with me."
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He took her sandy hand in a firm grip. "Now, that's just plain silly. Your momma wants you to have that operation so you can be better. So you can run and play and have fun. I know that as well as I know that the tide's gonna come in." Kristie looked up at him, fear and hope battling in her blue eyes. "You sure?" "Positive." He made it just as strong as he could, relieved when hope won out in her expression. He'd talk to Ally. He'd help her understand Kristie's fears. They'd find a solution to make both of them happy. To make all three of them happy.
Chapter Fifteen If Allison's mind whirled any faster, she wouldn't be able to drive. She crossed the bridge onto the island, trying to think this through rationally. The firm actually wanted her to start her new job two days after Christmas. Her initial reaction had been that it was impossible, but that wasn't an option. Needing someone in the office immediately, her future boss had made it clear: She started, or the job went to someone else. So she had no choice. She'd have to put the cottage on the market tomorrow, if she could find a Realtor open. Get a nanny for Kristie — Kristie would not be happy. She'd remind Allison of her promise to stay on the island until the time of the surgery. Somehow, Allison would have to make her daughter understand. This job would secure their future. She had to tell someone else, too. David would be — what? Sad? Disappointed? Angry? She didn't know. But as she pulled in next to his car, she knew she was about to find out. They were sitting at the table in the kitchen, playing a board game. She paused for a moment. They made a nice picture. "Mommy!" Kristie's face lit up. "I beat David two times!" "That's great, honey." She put her bag down and took a deep breath. The moment was here, and she didn't know how to say it. "Has something happened?" David read her too easily. "I have some news." She took another breath. It didn't help. "I talked to my new boss today. He wants me to start my job right away. Right after Christmas." Kristie went from smiling to tearful in a second. "Mommy, no! You promised we'd stay here until my operation. I don't want to go back." "I know I promised, Kristie, but I have to do this. It'll be okay. I'll find someone really nice to stay with you." "I don't want someone nice. I want to stay here!" Kristie slid off her chair and lurched toward the other room. "I hate you!" "Kristie —" Allison started after her, her eyes swimming with tears. But David caught her hand.
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"Wait." She tried to shake him off. "I have to go to her." "There's something you have to hear first." His eyes were very serious. "Something Kristie told me today." She stopped, held by his expression. "What?" Now David looked reluctant to speak. "She talked about why she doesn't want to have the operation." She seemed to feel his heart beating through his hand. He was going to say something she didn't want to hear — she knew it. "Kristie said she doesn't want to have the operation because if she's well, you'll leave her to go to work. She said that's what her father did. He worked a lot, so he didn't have to be around her." The words stabbed straight to her heart.
Chapter Sixteen David didn't want to cause her pain, but however it hurt, Ally had to know why Kristie was so opposed to the surgery. "I'm sorry." His words were inadequate. "Why did she tell you? What did you say to her?" "I tried to reassure her that you love her, that's all. We were talking about all the things she could do when you come back to the island after her operation." "We won't be back." Now it was his turn to stare, stunned. "What?" Her face had lost all the softness it had acquired since she'd returned. "I'm selling the cottage. I can't afford a vacation house, and our future is in Atlanta, not here." He shook his head slowly, trying to take it in. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Because I thought you wouldn't help if you knew." "Ally —" He didn't know what to say to that. "You know that's not true. We're friends." She rubbed her forehead, and for an instant he thought her eyes shimmered with tears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I just couldn't figure out how to tell you." He tried to push away his own feelings long enough to figure out what she needed. "Look, are you sure this is what you really want? A job so demanding it will consume your life?" "It's a good job," she said, looking as stubborn as Kristie sometimes did. "Good for you and Kristie? Or good because it will bring in a high salary?"
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Her temper flared. "That's not fair. I have a child to support. I can't afford to work only when I want to. I need a real job." This was probably not the moment to say that his job was real, even though it wasn't as prestigious as the position that waited for her in Atlanta. "You don't have to go back to the city for that. You could work in Beaufort and live right here in the cottage. Kristie could have friends around her and the kind of life you always said you wanted." "I was twelve when I said that. I didn't know anything." Her mouth firmed. "I've learned, believe me. I can't count on anyone else. I've made my plans, and I'll follow them." "Gran would say we're not in charge of planning our own lives." "Your grandmother is a lovely person, but I have to do what I think is best for my child." With her face hard and determined and her voice brittle, she didn't look anything like the girl he remembered. "All right, Ally." He felt a flicker of anger. "But while you're doing what you've planned, just be careful you don't turn into the same kind of person your husband was."
Chapter Seventeen "Come on, Kristie. Help me put some ornaments on the tree." Allison had run out on Christmas Eve to get a small tree, in spite of the fact that they'd be leaving soon, hoping that might make her daughter happy. It wasn't working. "I want to go to David's house." Kristie shoved her lower lip out. "They invited us, remember?" "I know, but —" But what? She could hardly tell her daughter that she wasn't sure of her welcome there. Or that she didn't want to be confronted by David, challenging her decisions. I'm right. I know. I have to take care of my daughter. But David's words kept coming back to her every moment that she wasn't actively pushing them away. Are you sure you're doing what's right for Kristie? That was what his argument amounted to. Are you sure you aren't turning into the same kind of person your husband was? Of course she wasn't. Was she arguing with David or with God? You gave me this special child. Surely You expect me to take care of her as best I can. Turning into the same kind of person your husband was? Had she really begun measuring herself by Richard's standards? She rejected that, a little panic-stricken. If she didn't have the plans she'd been relying on, what did she have? Help me. Please, she prayed. Show me that the decisions I've made are right for us. The knock at the door came on the heels of her prayer, almost like an Amen. She opened it to find David standing on the porch. For a moment she could only stare at him. "David."
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He lifted an eyebrow. "It's Christmas Eve. You promised to spend it with us, remember?" "I don't remember promising anything." "Mommy, you did. You promised." Kristie's pout had vanished as she hobbled to the door. "We have to go to David's. I want to put my sand dollar on his tree." David smiled at her. "You go get it, okay?" "Okay." She hurried toward the kitchen, eyes shining. David looked at Allison, and she felt a ridiculous longing to step forward into his arms and rest her head on his shoulder. "Well?" "I wasn't sure you'd want us to come now." He reached out, taking her hands in both of his. "Sugar, if that isn't the silliest thing I ever heard, I don't know what is." His warmth flowed along her skin. "Come on," he teased. "You know we're friends, no matter where we are." She did know that, didn't she? "Okay. Christmas Eve with the Caldwells it is."
Chapter Eighteen The whole downstairs of the inn overflowed with Caldwells — sisters, brothers, cousins. And kids, running around, dodging between adults, filled with all the excitement of Christmas. His mother, Gran, and Miranda had filled countless trays with more food than anyone could possibly eat, but everyone who came through the door brought more. The air was filled with the mingled scents of pine, cookies, baked ham, roast turkey. David spotted Kristie in the living room near the tree. She wasn't running, of course, but she seemed to be having a good time. Sammy, bless his good heart, was sitting on the rug playing a game with her. When David had lifted her up to hang her sand dollar on the tree, she'd put her arms around his neck and squeezed. He'd felt as if she was squeezing his heart. He'd managed to put himself in a position so he could see Ally wherever she moved. Right now she was helping his sister arrange cookies on a platter. Their heads were together, and they were laughing. In a few days she'd be gone. She and Kristie would go back out of his life as suddenly as they'd appeared, and he might never see them again. There's nothing you can do, he told himself. Ally's changed. She's not the girl you remember. Had she changed? Maybe. Or maybe he was being a coward. He'd given her every reason she should stay on the island. Except the real one. Don't go. Stay with me. I love you.
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He couldn't say that to her. She hadn't given him any indication that she would welcome it. Except for the kiss. That had been real. It wasn't very practical of him, falling in love on the basis of one kiss. But it hadn't just been one kiss — it had been a lifetime of knowing her. And she already thought he wasn't very practical. His gaze found her again. Now she stood in the archway, chatting with his grandmother. As if she felt his gaze, she looked up at him. Her eyes, wide and startled, were the eyes of the girl he'd known. Ally was actually the one person who might understand if he came right out with what was in his heart. They'd always been able to speak to each other heart to heart, without worrying about what they should say or how it would sound. He'd tell her. He owed it to both of them to say it at least once before she left. He shoved away from the mantel he'd been leaning against. It shouldn't be hard to detach her from Gran. Gran always had a sixth sense about things like that. He'd taken one step toward her when he heard a clatter, a crash, and a cry. He spun around, searching automatically for Kristie. One of the running children had bumped into the Christmas tree. Kristie stood, hands pressed against her lips, eyes desolate. Her sand dollar lay shattered on the floor.
Chapter Nineteen Allison would have recognized that cry anywhere. Kristie. She turned toward the living room, gaze searching for her daughter. She was all right. At least, she didn't seem to be hurt. Allison hurried across the room toward the tree, weaving through the running children. David had reached Kristie first. He knelt next to her, drawing her into the circle of his arms. Allison was caught by the tender expression on his face and by the way her daughter leaned against him. She vaguely heard Miranda shepherding the other children into the dining room. The room grew quiet around them, and she moved closer to David and Kristie. "I know," David's soft drawl was even softer than usual. "I know how disappointed you are, sugar. It was a beautiful ornament, and you made it yourself." Kristie sniffled. "You gave me the shell. I wanted it to be on your tree forever and ever, so you wouldn't forget me." Allison tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn't work. David had been more of a father to Kristie in one week than Richard had in her whole life. "Honey, I couldn't forget you." David sounded as if he had trouble with his throat, too. "No matter how far away you go, I could never, ever, forget you. We're friends for always. And I'll find you another sand dollar. Promise."
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Kristie wiped tears with the back of her hand. "It won't be the same." She looked down at the shattered shell. David held her closer. "You remember the story I told you about why we use the sand dollar for Christmas?" "Because it has the poinsettia on it." "That's right. But there's something else I didn't tell you." He leaned over the broken shell, pointing. "See those five white things that came out of the shell?" Kristie nodded. "They look like little birds." "That's what they are. There are five tiny doves inside each sand dollar, and when it's broken, they go free." Allison knelt next to them carefully, as if the moment might shatter like the shell. "That's a beautiful story, isn't it, Kristie?" Her daughter nodded slowly, as if unwilling to give up her sorrow. "I guess so." She leaned closer. "They really are like little doves." Free. The thought confused Allison. They're free. Kristie's smile flickered, lighting her face. "Can I get Sammy and show him?" David tousled her hair. "Sure thing." Kristie hurried toward the other room, her brace thumping. Allison's vision blurred with the tears she hadn't wanted her daughter to see. Oddly enough, she could still make out the doves, flying free. They gave her an odd sensation, the way she'd felt when she'd watched the dolphins arcing through the waves. She'd asked for a sign, hadn't she?
Chapter Twenty David saw the tears on Allison's cheeks. He caught her hands, drawing her to her feet, wanting to wipe away the tears and not quite daring to. "She's going to be all right." "Thanks to you." It looked as if he had the chance he'd wanted. "Can we talk?" She nodded. "There's something I need to tell you." Kristie was coming back into the living room, accompanied by a flood of kids who slowed their steps to hers. "Looks like privacy's going to be in short supply in here." David nodded toward the door. "Let's step out onto the porch." The wraparound porch was dim and cool. Out in the darkness, the Christmas lights strung on the boats reflected the stars. This was Christmas for him — not sleigh bells and snow, but lights shimmering on the water.
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He turned to Ally. "You said you wanted to tell me something." Whatever it was, he couldn't let it deter him from telling her how he felt. "I couldn't get away from what you said yesterday." She looked at him, her eyes troubled. "I kept thinking about it all day. That I was turning myself into someone like Richard." "I shouldn't have said that." "Yes, you should." She hesitated, and he heard the whisper of her breath. "I'd begun to see that the life I had with Richard wasn't right, even before Kristie. But I intended to hold our marriage together. I was devastated when it broke apart." The Ally he remembered didn't give up once she'd started something. "It wasn't your fault." "No. But I didn't realize…until you said what you did. I've been trying to rebuild that same world for Kristie, even though it was never what I wanted. I didn't realize I could be free. I could create a different life for us." Like the doves. Freed by breaking. She drew a shuddering breath. "I'm not taking the job. It wouldn't be fair to Kristie. I need to get her through the surgery before I do anything. Then…we'll see." That was his cue, wasn't it? He took her hands. "Don't go away, Allison. You belong here. Stay." He breathed a silent prayer. "I love you. No pressure. I know you're not going to rush into anything. You have Kristie to consider. But I love you. Both of you. And I'll wait as long as I have to." She tilted her head back, her hair flowing over her shoulders. The starlight seemed to be reflected in her eyes. She looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled. "You don't have to wait." She lifted her face for his kiss. He had his angel-girl back…to stay.
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A Home for Christmas by Laura Marie Altom When Rachel's husband, Wesley, is presumed dead, she does what she thinks is best for her and her unborn child — she disappears, determined to make it on her own. Her husband's best friend Chance is determined to track her down. After all, he did promise to look after her if anything happened to Wes. As the months drag on, there's no sign of Rachel…even though Chance is sure he'll see her around every corner.… Now it's Christmas, a time for miracles and celebrations, so Chance is hopeful when he gets a lead on Rachel's whereabouts. But is she ready to be found?
Chapter One "Rachel!" Ignoring Chance Mulgrave, her husband's best friend, Rachel Finch gripped her umbrella handle as if it were the only thing keeping her from throwing herself over the edge of the cliff, at the base of which thundered an angry Pacific. Even for Oregon Coast standards, the day was hellish. Brutal winds, driving cold rain… The wailing gloom suited her. Only ten minutes earlier, she'd left the small chapel where her presumed dead husband's memorial service had just been held. "Please, Rachel!" Chance shouted above the storm. Rachel didn't see Chance since her back was to him, but she could feel him thumping toward her on crutches. "Honey…" He cupped his hand to her shoulder and she flinched, pulling herself free of his hold. "Don't." "Sure," he said. "Whatever. I just —" She turned to him, too exhausted to cry. "I'm pregnant." "What?" "Wes didn't know. I'd planned on telling him after he'd finished this case." "God, Rache." Sharing the suffocating space beneath her umbrella, his demeanor softened. "I'm sorry. Or maybe happy. Hell, I'm not sure what to say." "There's not much anyone can say at this point," she responded. "Wes is gone. I'm having his child…but how can I even think of being a mother when I'm so emotionally…" "Don't worry about a thing," he said. "No matter what you need, I'm here for you. Wes and I made a pact. Should anything happen to either of us, we'd watch after each other's family." "But you don't have a family," she pointed out. "Yet. But it could've just as easily been me whose life we were celebrating here today." He bowed his head. "Seeing you like this…so sad… makes me almost wish it was." Me, too.
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There. Even if Rachel hadn't given voice to her resentment, it was at least out there, for the universe to hear. Ordinarily, Chance and her husband worked together like a well-oiled team, watching each other's backs. But then Chance had had to go and bust his ankle while helping one of their fellow Deputy U.S. Marshals move into a new apartment. If Chance had really cared for Wes, he'd have been more careful. He wouldn't have allowed his friend to be murdered at the hands of a madman — a rogue marshal who'd also come uncomfortably close to taking out one of the most key witnesses the Marshal's Service had ever had. Her handful of girlfriends had tried consoling her, suggesting maybe Wes wasn't really dead…but Rachel knew. There had been an exhaustive six-week search for Wes's body. Combined with that, of the five marshals who'd been on that assignment, only two had come home alive. Another two bodies had been found, both shot. It didn't take rocket science to assume the same had happened to her dear husband. "Let me take you home," Chance said. Despite his crutches, he tried to angle her away from the thrashing sea and back to the parking lot, to the sweet little chapel where less than a year earlier she and Wes had taken their wedding vows. "You're soaked. Being out here in this weather can't be good for you or the baby." "I'm all right," she said, again wrenching free of his hold. This time, it had been her elbow he'd grasped. She was trying to regain her dignity after having lost it in front of the church filled with Wes's co-workers and friends, and she just wanted to be left alone. "Please…leave. I can handle this on my own." "Rachel, that's just it," he said, awkwardly chasing after her as she strode down the perilous trail edging the cliff. His every step tore at her heart. Why was he alive and not her husband? The father of her child. What was she going to do? How was she ever going to cope with raising a baby on her own? "Honey, you don't have to deal with Wes's passing on your own. If you'd just open up to me, I'm here for you — for as long as you need." That was the breaking point. Rachel stopped abruptly. She tossed her umbrella out to sea, tipped her head up to the battering rain and screamed. Tears returned with a hot, messy vengeance. Only, in the rain it was impossible to tell where tears left off and rain began. Then, suddenly, Chance was there, drawing her against him, into his island of strength and warmth, his crutches braced on either side of her like walls blocking the worst of her pain. "That's it," he crooned into her ear. "Let it out. I'm here. I'm here." She did exactly as he urged, but then, because she'd always been an intensely private person and not one prone to histrionics, she stilled. Curiously, the rain and wind also slowed to a gentle patter and shush. "Thank you," she eventually said. "You'll never know how much I appreciate you trying to help, but…" "I'm not just trying," he said. "If you'd let me in, we can ride this out together. I'm hurting, too." "I know," she said, looking to where she'd white-knuckle gripped the soaked lapels of his buff-colored trench. "But I — I can't explain. I have to do this on my own. I was alone before meeting Wes, and now I am again." "But you don't have to be. Haven't you heard a word I've said? I'm here for you." "No," she said, walking away from him again, this time in the direction of her car. "Thanks, but definitely, no."
Chapter Two
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Eighteen months later… Through the rain-drizzled, holiday-themed windows of bustling Holman's department store, Chance caught sight of a woman's long, buttery blond hair. Heart pounding, his first instinct was to run that way, seeking an answer to the perpetual question: Was it her? Was it Rachel? No. It wasn't her. And this time, just as so many others, the disappointment landed like a crushing blow to his chest. That day at the chapel had been the last time he'd seen her. Despite exhaustive efforts to track her, she'd vanished — destroying him inside and out. When eventually he'd had to return to work and his so-called normal life, he'd put a private investigator on retainer, telling the man to contact him upon finding the slightest lead. "You all right?" his little sister, nineteen-year-old Sarah, asked above an obnoxious Muzak rendition of "Jingle Bells." She was clutching the prewrapped perfume box she'd just purchased for their mother. "You look like you've seen a ghost." "Might as well have," he said, taking the box from her to add to his already bulging bag. "Got everything you need?" "Sure," she said, giving him The Look. The one that said she knew he was thinking about Rachel again, and that her wish for Christmas was that her usually wise big brother would once and for all put the woman — his dead best friend's wife — out of his heart and head. Two hours later, Chance stuck his key in the lock of the Victorian relic his maternal grandmother had left him, shutting out hectic holiday traffic and torrential rain. Portland had been swamped under six inches in the past twenty-four hours. The last time they'd had such a deluge had been the last time he'd seen Rachel. "Where are you?" he asked softly, as the wind bent gnarled branches, eerily scratching them against the back porch roof. Setting his meager selection of family gifts on the wood bench parked alongside the door, he looked away from the gray afternoon and to the blinking light on his answering machine. Expecting the message to be from Sarah, telling him she'd left a gift or glove in his Jeep, he pressed Play. "Chance," his P.I. said, voice like gravel from too many cigarettes and not enough broccoli. "I've got a lead for you on that missing Finch girl. It's a long shot, but you said you wanted everything, no matter how unlikely…" Despite the fact that Rachel had run off without the decency of a proper — or even improper — goodbye, her tears still haunted him when he closed his eyes. Chance listened to the message three times before committing the information to memory, then headed to his computer to book a flight to Denver.
*** "Wesley, sweetie, please stop crying," Rachel crooned to her ten-month-old baby boy, the only bright spot in what was becoming an increasingly frightening life. Having grown up in an orphanage, Rachel was no stranger to feeling alone in a crowd, or having to make it on her own. So why, after six months, was this still so hard? Despite her hugging and cooing, the boy only wailed more. "Want me to take him?"
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She looked up to see one of Baker Street Homeless Shelter's newest residents wave grungy hands toward her child. She hadn't looked much better when she'd first arrived, and Rachel still couldn't get past the shock that she and her baby were now what most people would call "bums." After reverting back to the name she'd gone by at the orphanage, Rachel Parkson, she'd traveled to Denver to room with her friend Jenny. But while Jenny had gotten lucky, landing a great job transfer to Des Moines, Rachel had descended into an abyss of bad luck. A tough pregnancy had landed her in hospital. While she'd been blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby, at the rate she was going, the hefty medical bill wouldn't be gone till he was out of high school. Wes's life insurance company had repeatedly denied her claim, stating that without a body it wouldn't pay. Making a long, sad story short, she'd lost everything, and here she was, now earning less than minimum wage doing bookkeeping for the shelter while trying to finish out her business degree one night course at a time through a downtown Denver community college. She was raising her precious son in a shelter with barely enough money for diapers, let alone food and a place of their own. She used to cry herself to sleep every night, but now, she was just too exhausted. She used to pray, as well, but it seemed God, just like her husband, had deserted her. Baby Wesley continued to wail. "Sorry for all the noise," she said to the poor soul beside her, holding her son close as she wearily pushed to her feet with her free hand. She had to get out of here, but how? How could she ever escape this downward financial spiral? "Rachel?" That voice… She paused before looking up. But when she did, tingles climbed her spine. "Chance?"
Chapter Three After all this time, was it really Rachel? Raising Wes's child in a homeless shelter? Why, why hadn't she just asked for help? Chance pressed the heel of his hand to stinging eyes. "Y-you look good," he said, lying through his teeth at the waiflike ghost of the woman he used to know. Dark shadows hollowed pale blue eyes. Wes used to brag about the silky feel of Rachel's long hair cascading against his chest when they'd made love — but it was now shorn into a short cap. "And the baby. He's wonderful, Rachel. You did good." "Thanks," she said above her son's pitiful cry. "We're okay." She paused. "What are you doing here?" "I'm here to see you…to help you…" "I don't need help." "Bull," he said, taking the now screaming baby from her, cradling him against his chest, nuzzling the infant's downy hair beneath his chin. "What's his name?"
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"Wesley," she said, refusing to meet his gaze. He nodded, fighting a sudden knot at the back of his throat. Such a beautiful child, growing up in such cruel surroundings. And why? All because of Rachel's foolish pride. "Get your things," he growled between clenched teeth, edging her away from a rag-clothed derelict reeking of booze. "W-what?" "You heard me. You tried things your way, honey, and apparently it didn't work out. Now we're doing it my way. Your husband's way." "I — I'm fine," she said, raising her chin, a partial spark back in her stunning eyes. "Just a little down on my luck. But things will change. They'll get better." "Damn straight they will." Clutching the infant with one arm, he dragged her toward the shelter's door with the other. "You don't want charity from me, fine. But is this really what you want for your son? Wes's son?" While Chance regretted the harshness of his words, he'd never retract them. Years ago he'd made a promise to her husband, and he sure as hell wasn't about to back out on it now. He glanced away from Rachel to take in a nearly bald, fake Christmas tree that'd been decorated with homemade ornaments. Pipe cleaner reindeer and paper angels colored with crayons. Though the tree's intent was kind, he knew Rachel deserved better. While killing time on endless stakeouts, Wes would ramble for hours about his perfect wife. About how much he loved her, how she was a great cook, how she always managed to perfectly balance the checkbook. Wes went so far as to offer private morsels he should've kept to himself — locker room details that should've been holy between a man and his wife. But because of Wes's ever-flapping mouth, whether he'd wanted to or not, Chance knew everything about Rachel from her favorite songs to what turned her on. Another thing he knew were Wes's dreams for her. How because she'd grown up in an orphanage, he'd always wanted to have a half-dozen chubby babies with her and buy her a great house and put good, reliable tires on her crappy car. Chance had made a promise to his best friend; one that put him in charge of picking up where Wes left off. It was a given he'd steer clear of the husband/wife physical intimacies — she was off limits. Totally. But when it came to making her comfortable, happy…by God, if it took every day for the rest of his life, that's what Chance had come to Denver prepared — and okay, he'd admit it, secretly hoping — to do. Looking back to Rachel, he found her eyes pooled. Lips trembling, she met his stare. "Come on," he said. "It's time to go home." Baby Wesley had fallen asleep in Chance's arms. His cheeks were flushed, and he sucked pitifully at his thumb. "I — I tried breastfeeding him," she said. "But my milk dried up." "That happens," he said, not knowing if it did or didn't or why she'd even brought it up…just willing to say anything to get her to go with him. Shaking her head, looking away to brush tears, she said, "Wait here. I'll get our things."
***
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For Rachel, being at the airport and boarding the plane was surreal. As was driving through a fog-shrouded Portland in Chance's Jeep, stopping off at an all-night Wal-Mart for a car seat and over five hundred dollars worth of clothes, diapers, formula and other baby supplies. The Christmas decorations, hundreds and thousands of colorful lights lining each new street they traveled, struck her as foreign. As if from a world where she was no longer welcome. "I'll repay you," she said from the passenger seat, swirling a pattern in the fogged window. Presumably, he was heading toward his lovely hilltop home she'd always secretly called the real estate version of a wedding cake. "For everything. The clothes. Plane ticket. I'll pay it all back. I — I just need a breather to get back on my feet." "Sure," he said. Was it her imagination, or had he tightened his grip on the wheel? "Really," she said, rambling on about how Wes's life insurance company refused to pay. "Just as soon as I get the check, I'll reimburse you." "Know how you can pay me?" he asked, pressing the garage door remote on the underbelly of his sun visor. She shook her head. He pulled the Jeep into the single stall detached garage she'd helped Wes and him build, that same enchanted summer she and her future husband had become lovers. It is said a woman's heart is a deep well of secrets and Rachel knew hers was no different. Squeezing her eyes shut, she saw Chance as she had that first night they'd met at Ziggy's Sports Bar — before she'd even met Wes. Despite his physical appearance — six-three, with wide, muscular shoulders and a chest as broad and strong as an oak's trunk — Chance's shy, kind spirit made him a gentle giant to whom she'd instinctively gravitated. Never the brazen type, Rachel had subtly asked mutual friends about him, and every so often, when their eyes met from opposite ends of the bar during the commercial breaks of Monday Night Football, she'd thought she'd caught a glimmer of interest. And if only for an instant, hope that he might find her as attractive as she found him would soar. But then he'd look away and the moment would be gone. Then she'd met Wes — who'd made it known in about ten exhilaratingly sexy seconds that he didn't just want to be her friend. Handsome, five-eleven with a lean build and quick smile, Wes hadn't had to work too hard to make her fall for him — or his knack of making any and all occasions magic. Chance turned off the engine and sighed. The only light was that which spilled from the weak bulb attached to the automatic opener, the only sounds those of rain pattering the roof and the baby's sleepy gurgle.… Angling on his seat, Chance reached out to Rachel, whispering the tip of his index finger so softly around her lips…she might've imagined his being there at all. "Know how you can repay me?" he repeated. Heartbeat a sudden storm, she swallowed hard. "By bringing back your smile."
Chapter Four Rachel awoke the next morning to unfamiliar softness, and the breezy scent of freshly laundered sheets. Sunshine streamed through tall, paned windows. After a moment of initial panic, fearing she may have died and moved on to Heaven, she remembered herself not on some random cloud, but safely tucked in Chance's guest bed in the turret-shaped room she'd urged him to paint an ethereal sky blue. The room was the highest point in his home, reached by winding stairs, and its view never failed to stir her. Mt. Hood was to the west, while to the east — long ago, while standing on a ladder, paint brush in hand,
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nose and cheeks smudged blue — she'd sworn she could see all the way to the shimmering Pacific. Wesley and Chance had laughed at her, but she'd ignored them. To Rachel, the room represented freedom from all that had bound her in her early, depressing, pre-Wes life. The panoramic views, just as her marriage, made her feel as if her soul was flying. As she inched up in the sumptuous feather bed to greet a day as chilly as it was clear, the room still wielded its calming effect. She'd awakened enough to realize how late it must be…and yet Wesley hadn't stirred. Tossing back covers, she winced at the wood floor's chilly bite against her bare feet. With one look at the portable crib that had been among their purchases the previous night, Rachel realized that Wesley's cries hadn't woken her because he wasn't there. Bounding to the kitchen, she found her son sitting proud in his new high chair, beaming, covered ear to ear in peachy-smelling orange goo. "Morning, sleepyhead." Baby spoon to Wesley's cooing lips, Chance caught her off guard with the size of his smile. "You should've woken me," she said, hustling to where the two guys sat at a round oak table in a sunny patch of the country kitchen. "I'm sure you have better things to do." "Nope," he said. "I took the day off." "I'll pay you for your time." He'd allowed her to take the spoon as she'd pulled out a chair and sat beside him, but now, his strong fingers clamped her wrist. "Stop." "What?" "The whole defensive routine. It doesn't become you." "S-sorry. That's who I am." "Bull." "E-excuse me?" He released her, and the spoon now trembled in her still tingling wrist. "I knew you as playful. Fun. Now, you seem like you're in attack mode." "And why shouldn't I be?" she asked. "Aside from Wesley, name one thing that's gone right for me in the past year?" "That's easy," he said, cracking a slow and easy grin that, Lord help her, had Rachel's pulse racing yet again. Had the man always been this attractive? Judging by the massive crush she'd had on him all those years ago…yes. Making things worse — or better, depending how you looked at it — he winked. "One thing that's gone very right is how you're finally back with me."
***
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Sensing Rachel needed two gifts above all else that Christmas season — time and space — Chance returned to work Tuesday, and every day for the rest of the week. Come Saturday, though, despite her protests that they should stay at the house, he bustled her and the baby into his Jeep and started off for the traditional holiday ride he'd loved as a kid, but had given up as an adult. "Well?" he asked a silent Rachel an hour later, pulling into a snow-covered winter wonderland. "See anything that'd fit in the living room bay window?" She glanced at him, then at the sprawling Christmas tree farm that might as well have been Santa's North Pole as everywhere you looked, Christmas was in full swing. Kids laughing and sledding and playing tag while darting in and out amongst fragrant trees. Families hugging the fires built in river rock pits, sipping steaming mugs of cocoa. Upbeat carols played from a tiny speaker. "It's —" she cautiously glanced at the idyllic scene before them, as if they didn't belong, then back to him "— amazing. But if you want a tree, wouldn't it be cheaper to —" "Look —" he sighed "— I wasn't going to bring this up until it's a done deal, but I told my boss about your situation — with Wes's flaky life insurance — and fury didn't begin to describe his reaction. Wheels are turning, and I'd say you'll have a check by the end of next week." "Really?" Just then, she was seriously gorgeous, eyes brimming with hope and a shimmering lake of tears. "Yeah," Chance said. "I'm serious. So what's with the waterworks? I thought you'd be thrilled to be rich?" "I would be — I mean, I am. It's just that after all these months of barely scraping by, not sleeping because I've literally been afraid to close my eyes, it seems a bit surreal to have such a happy ending at all, let alone in such a happy place." He laughed, unfastening his seat belt to grab the baby from his seat. "Don't you think after what you've been through you two deserve a little happiness?" Turning away from him while she sniffled and dried her cheeks, he couldn't tell if she was nodding or shaking her head. "Well?" he asked. "Was that a yes or no?" "I don't know," she said with a laugh. "Maybe both. I'm just so confused. And grateful. Very, very grateful." "Yeah, well, what you need to be," he said, Wesley snug in his arms, "is energized." "Oh yeah?" she asked, again blasting him with a tremulous smile. "How come?" "Because me and this kid of yours are about to whomp you in a snowball fight."
Chapter Five "It's beautiful," Rachel said, stepping back to admire the nine-foot fir they'd finished decorating. Heirloom glass ornaments and twinkling white lights hung from each branch. "Perfect." With Chance beside her, carols softly playing and a fire crackling in the hearth, Rachel couldn't have ordered a more enchanting holiday scene. "I don't know," Chance said, finger to his lips as he stood beside her, surveying their afternoon's work. "Something's missing." "You're right," Rachel said. "We forgot the angel."
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"I didn't see it, did you?" "Not in the boxes we've been through. Maybe —" She looked down to see Wesley sucking the top corner of the angel's box. "Aha! Found it." "Thanks, bud." Chance took the box from the baby, replacing it with the teething ring he had been contentedly gumming. "How about you do the honors?" he suggested, handing the golden angel to her. "I'd like that," Rachel said, embarrassed to admit just how much the small gesture meant. At the orphanage, placing the angel on top of the tree was generally a task reserved for the child who was newest to the home. Since Rachel had gone to live there the summer just before her fourth birthday when her parents had been killed in a car accident, she'd never had the chance. By the time Christmas rolled around, she had only been the third-newest kid. Knowing this, Wes had made their first Christmas together as a married couple extra special by taking her to pick out an especially extravagant angel that they really couldn't afford. In Denver, at a desperation yard sale she'd held in a futile attempt to stay financially afloat, it had devastated her to have to sell that precious angel to a cranky old guy for the princely sum of three dollars. Rachel swallowed hard at the bittersweet memory of how dearly she'd loved sharing Christmas with Wes. There was a part of her struggling with the guilt that she was once again immersed in holiday cheer…but Wes was gone. It somehow felt disloyal for her to be so happy. Trying to focus on the task at hand, Rachel climbed onto the small step ladder she'd used to hang the ornaments from the highest branches, but she still wasn't tall enough to reach the tree's top. "Let me help," Chance said, inching up behind her, settling his hands around her waist, then lifting her the extra inches needed to get the job done. His nearness was overwhelming, flooding her senses to the point she nearly failed her mission. Had his hands lingered on her waist longer than necessary after he'd set her back to her feet? Was that the reason for her erratically beating heart? What kind of woman was she to one minute reminisce about her deceased husband, and the next wonder at the feel of another man's strong hands? "Thank you," she said, licking her lips, by habit going to push at her long hair that was no longer there. "You're welcome." As if he'd sensed the awareness between them, too, they both fell into awkward step, bustling to clean the wreckage of tissue paper and boxes. Once they'd finished hauling the mess to a spare bedroom Chance used for storage, they were in the dark upstairs hall when Chance asked, "Why'd you cut your hair?" The question caught her off guard, made her feel even more uncomfortable than she already did. "It was too much trouble," she said. "It was beautiful. Not that it's any of my business, but you should grow it back." She looked down to hands she'd clenched at her waist. "Not that you aren't still attractive," he said. "It's just that Wes always had a thing for your hair. I think he'd be sad to see it gone." What about you, Chance? Did you like my hair?
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Rachel was thankful for the hall's lack of light — the question, even if asked only in her head, made her uncomfortable. Why would she even care what Chance thought of the way she used to style her hair? Worse yet, why did his question leave her feeling lacking? Suddenly, she was wishing she at least had a little more length to work into an attractive style instead of the boyish cut that'd been easy to keep clean and neat at the homeless shelter. This cut hardly made her feel feminine or desirable. But then until her reunion with Chance, she'd had no use for vanity. "Chance?" she asked, her voice a croaked whisper. "Yes?" "When we first met, you know, back when you, me and Wes used to just be friends, hanging out at Ziggy's, did you find me pretty?" He cleared his throat. "What kind of question is that?" "I don't know." She shook her head. "Sorry I asked." Because she truly didn't know, Rachel returned to the living room, where holiday cheer and the sight of her contented child banished doubts and fears. The question had been silly. As was her growing awareness of her husband's best friend. For a moment she felt better, but then Chance returned, his essence filling the room. "For the record," he said, perching alongside her on the toasty fireplace hearth, "yes. I thought you were pretty back then, but you're even prettier now."
*** Chance had a tough time finding sleep. Why had Rachel asked him such a loaded question? Why did he feel his final, almost flirty answer had been a betrayal of his friend's trust? Yeah, Chance thought she was pretty — gorgeous, in fact. But for Wes's sake, couldn't he have just skirted the issue? Sunday morning, he woke to a breakfast spread fit for a five-star hotel. "Wow," he said. "What's all this for?" Looking more gorgeous than any woman had a right to first thing in the morning, she shrugged. "Guess I just wanted to say thanks for the great day we had yesterday. Never having had a family growing up, I always wished for that kind of traditional family fun." "Is that what we are?" he asked, forking a bite of pancake. "A family?" "You know what I mean," she said, avoiding his glance by drinking orange juice. He broke off a piece of bacon and handed it to Wesley. "Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean. But is that what we are, Rache?" Sitting with her and Wesley, from out of nowhere Chance was struck with the realization that no matter how she answered his question, he very much wanted them to be a family. They'd already fallen into husband and wife roles. The only things missing were emotional and physical closeness. And as reluctant as he was to admit it, from the day he'd set eyes on her all those years ago, kissing Rachel was something he'd always longed to do. And therein lay the rub. Somehow, he had to find it within himself to squelch that want.
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"We're sort of a family," she said. "But I suppose, once I get Wes's life insurance you'll probably be glad to get the house back to yourself." Boldly reaching across the table for her hand, stroking her palm, lying to himself by labeling it a casual, friendly touch, he said, "Actually, it's nice having you two here. Waking up to you in the morning, coming home to you at night." She laughed off his admission. "You're just being polite. No bachelor actually enjoys being strapped with another man's wife and child." "That's just it," he said. "Crazy as it may seem, I like you being here — a lot."
Chapter Six Another week passed, during which Rachel had too much time to ponder Chance's curious statement. He liked having her and Wesley sharing his house? If only he truly felt that way because truth be told, she liked being there, and judging by Wesley's easy grins, he did, too. Being with Chance made her feel safe — an emotion that'd been sorely lacking from the past eighteen months of her life. Being with him now told her what a fool she'd been for ever denying his offer of help and companionship. He was a wonderful man. The only reason she was now standing at the front window on a sunny Friday afternoon, watching for his Jeep to head up the winding lane leading to his home was because she was thankful to him…right? No way could it be something more. Trouble was, try as she might to pass off the growing feelings she had for him as simply affection between friends, she did feel something more. Twinges of attraction. Flickering flames. Whatever the label, it had wrongfully been there Sunday morning when he'd held her hand across the breakfast table. And Monday night when their hands brushed while Chance helped with Wesley's bath. Again still Tuesday and Wednesday when they'd shared the usually dull duty of cleaning up after dinner. Instead of being ho-hum, washing dishes with Chance towering beside her, making her feel small and cherished and protected, had been — in a word — intoxicating. But why? Why couldn't she keep at the forefront of her mind the fact that Chance had been Wes's best friend? To follow through on any attraction for him would be wrong. Finally, she saw him pulling into the drive. Though she wanted to run to the back door to greet him like a giddy school girl, she somehow managed to rein her emotions. Instead, with Wesley in her arms, she checked on the latest fragrant batch of sugar cookies still in the oven. "Smells wonderful in here," Chance said with a gorgeous grin on his way through the back door. "You must be psychic." "Why's that?" she asked, telling herself the heat from the oven had her cheeks flushed — not the pleasure of being the recipient of his smile. "My parents invited us for dinner. Sugar cookies are Dad's favorite — not that he'll need a reason to fall for you or my buddy Wesley." After slipping off his coat, then setting his keys and wallet on the blue tile counter, he took the baby from her, swooping him high into the air, then snug against his chest for a cuddle and kiss. "Mmm…I missed you," he said, nuzzling the infant's head. Rachel fought irrational jealousy strumming through her as she realized she wanted Chance to have missed her, too. Almost as much as she wanted a welcome home kiss…
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*** Relaxing over almond bundt cake and coffee with Chance's mother, Helen, while the men washed up after dinner, Rachel would've been hard pressed to name a time she'd ever felt more content. Helen had decorated her home from top to bottom in holiday décor ranging from elegant to goofy fun. The crackling fire and Elvis CD of holiday love songs playing softly in the background only made the night that much more special. "Please don't think me forward for bringing this up," Helen said after they'd had a few moments to finish their cake, "but my son's a different person around you and Wesley. Better, in every conceivable way." Rachel was so caught off guard by the woman's random statement that she darned near choked on her last bite of dessert. "Oh?" "He loves you, you know. Has loved you ever since you first met all those years ago. Bless his heart…" She paused for a sip of coffee. "He was always the strong, silent type. His father and I urged him to tell you how he felt before you and Wes grew close, but he missed his window of opportunity and seeing how he and Wes were always such good friends, he did the gentlemanly thing and bowed out." Not knowing what to say, her head and heart reeling, Rachel was hard pressed to say much else but another, "Oh." "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you all of this, it's just that —" she peeked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone "— I'm not getting any younger and the thought of having an instant grandson, as well as a daughter-in-law whose company I'm very much enjoying, fills me with indescribable joy."
*** Chance loves me. Lying in bed that night, listening to Wesley softly snore from the beautiful crib Chance had bought for him on a wondrously hectic shopping trip Tuesday afternoon, Rachel wasn't sure what to do with this knowledge. Part of her wished Chance's mother had kept her nose out of her son's affairs. Another part, the part of Rachel increasingly craving Chance's touch, was secretly thrilled. But if she was falling for Chance, what did that say about her love for her poor husband? What kind of wife was she to so soon be falling head over heels for Wes's best friend? Finding sleep impossible, she tossed back the covers and padded barefoot downstairs. Cookies and milk. That's all she needed to get this ridiculous notion from her head. She wasn't falling for Chance. He was like her brother. She was grateful to him. "Hey, gorgeous," he said from in front of the open fridge, the dim light washing over the muscles of his bare chest. "Fancy meeting you here." He winked. Her mouth went dry. That gratitude she was supposedly feeling for him? One sight of his rock-hard pecs and abs and there was no denying it. She wanted the guy — bad. Not in a friendly way, but in a way she had no business even thinking about, let alone aching to act upon. "Um, hi," she mumbled, biting her lower lip. "Want milk?" he asked, wagging the gallon jug.
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"Yes, please." While he poured, she grabbed the foil-wrapped plate of cookies from the kitchen's center island. They reunited at the kitchen table. "Why can't you sleep?" he asked. For a long time, she stayed silent, toying with her cookie. "Truth? You." Gracing her with a slow, sexy grin that turned her resolve to think of him as a brother to mush, he said, "I'm flattered. At least, I hope I have reason to be." Swallowing hard, she nodded. Everything about him was good. So why, then, did the realization that she was falling for him hurt so bad? "Rachel?" Setting his milk glass on the table, he asked, "You okay?" In a last ditch effort to prove to herself — to both of them — that the two of them as a couple would never work, she blurted, "Kiss me."
Chapter Seven Per Rachel's request, Chance did kiss her. At first, softly, reverently. But then, the closer she melded to him, the more he increased his pressure, dizzying her with fervent strokes of his tongue. And then, just as abruptly as their kiss had begun, it ended with Chance pulling away. Fingers sliding into the hair at his temples, breathing ragged, he said, "Sorry." "For what?" she asked, eyes welling with emotion. "That was beautiful. It's been so long since I've felt anything but pain. Your kiss…it was as if somewhere deep inside me, the wall of grief I've been hiding behind has been shattered." "That's all well and good," he said with a sharp laugh. "But what about Wes? Don't you feel guilty? As if our being attracted to each other is a betrayal of his trust?" Eyes closed, she took a deep breath. "Honestly," she said, eyes open, facing Chance straight on, "I know how awful it must sound, but from the moment your lips touched mine, all I could think about was you."
*** Two days later, with Wes's life insurance check safely in the bank and her bills paid, Rachel should've been on top of the world. But as she finished wrapping the last of the presents she'd purchased for Chance and his family, all she really felt was sad. He'd invited her to stay with him through New Year's — longer if she liked — but after their kiss, she was more convinced than ever that maybe what would be best for them both was for her and Wesley to move on. She'd already caused Chance so much trouble. Why stick around if their attraction would only bring him — not to mention, her — pain? "You look pretty," he said from the living room door, hands behind his back. "When's the last time you had your eyes checked? I'm a mess." From the oriental rug where she'd parked herself in front of the fire with a mess of bows, boxes and ribbons, she grinned up at him. Dressed in comfy,
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but hardly flattering sweats, her short hair sticking out at crazy angles and no makeup, she was sure she'd never looked worse. "My eyes are fine," he said, wading his way through the mess. "Seeing you like this, so at ease in my home…it's my heart I'm worried about." "Have you always been such a charmer?" she asked, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "I don't know, you tell me…" From behind his back, he withdrew a perfect cluster of mistletoe. With him kneeling beside her, holding the sprig over her head, it would've been rude not to follow through with tradition. Seeing how she'd long since put Wesley to bed, Rachel had no qualms about reaching Chance halfway for a mesmerizing kiss.
*** "You know," Chance said the next afternoon, Wesley gurgling high on his shoulders as they crunched their way through freshly fallen snow in the neighborhood's park, "at work this afternoon, I had some downtime while the jury was deliberating. I did some thinking." "'Bout time," Rachel quipped. Her sassy comment earned her a snowball fight. And like the day at the tree farm, the guys once again got the better of her. Laughing so hard her lungs burned from the cold, she cried, "Stop! I give up!" "Oh no," Chance said, setting a bundled Wesley beside him so he could tackle her with both hands. "You don't get to surrender until you apologize." "Sorry, sorry," she laughingly cried, her foggy breath mingling with his. He kissed her, and despite the fact they were lying in the snow, she felt warmed inside. Which was wrong. She shouldn't be on fire for this man who was her husband's best friend. "You're forgiven," he said a few minutes later, when her every defense had been shattered. "Now, back to what I was saying before you so rudely interrupted…I've been thinking about how you said you felt like you should find a place of your own. And then I got to thinking how much I enjoy having you both here. And how big this rambling old house of mine is for just me. And how Wesley made me promise to look after you if anything should ever happen to him…" Heart galloping like a herd of runaway reindeer, Rachel alternately dreaded, yet prayed for what she knew Chance would say next. "And so, anyway, what would you think of the two of us getting hitched? You could still keep your own room, if that's what you wanted, but at least then it'd be official. Me watching out for you and Wesley, I mean." Tears of joy and sadness stung her eyes. "Well?" he asked while she blinked. "Oh, Chance…" Holding her mittened fingers to her mouth, she bit off the fuzzy wool, then cupped her hand to his cold, whiskered cheek. "I would love nothing more than to marry you. If only there wasn't so much history between us…" "Say no more," he said, pushing himself off of her. "I understand." Snatching up Wesley, he trudged toward the house, telling her without a single word that he didn't truly understand — at all.
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*** After turning down Chance's proposal, to say there was tension between them would've been a major understatement — which was why Rachel sat alone in the kitchen that quiet Christmas Eve morning, scanning apartment ads while Chance had gone off to work. Sipping cocoa while Wesley crumbled a cookie in his high chair, she was startled when the doorbell rang. "Chance?" she said, running for the front door, hoping now that he'd had time to think about it, he was okay with her suggestion that they remain just friends. "Sorry," a well-dressed older man said, clearing his throat. "Are you Rachel Finch?" "Y-yes." She fingered the pearls Helen had given her at her throat. After introducing himself as Wes's old boss, he said, "Forgive me for dropping by, especially today of all days, but…there's no easy way to say this…a fisherman netted your husband's body. I thought you'd like to have his few personal effects."
Chapter Eight Within fifteen minutes of Rachel's call, Chance roared his Jeep up his normally quiet street. Yes, he'd been mortally wounded by her turning down his proposal, but that didn't mean he was now going to let her down. He heard the news through the office grapevine — and he also found out Franks had dropped by to pass the news along to Rachel. Chance fully planned to be by her side as she dealt with it all. "You okay?" he asked, finding her alone at the kitchen table. She had opened the watertight pouch Wes had been using as a wallet the day he'd been shot. His gold watch, wedding band and the navy wallet all lay in front of her. Wes had been the consummate Boy Scout, and he'd also hated boats. Back when they were kids, Chance kept a rowboat on his paternal grandparents' farm pond. One sunny afternoon when they'd been about ten, he and Wes had been out rowing when the boat tipped. Wes didn't get upset often, but when his prized baseball cards fell in the water, he'd freaked — kind of like when he'd learned he was the only guy from the Portland marshal's office assigned to that unconventionalas-hell mission, trying to protect a witness who'd refused to leave his private island. Had Wes known there was a chance he wouldn't be coming home? "Rachel?" She still hadn't answered his question. Looking shell-shocked, she nodded. "Yeah. I'm all right." "Where's Wesley?" "Down for his nap." Pulling out the chair beside her, he asked, "You sure you don't want to be alone for this?" She shook her head, and off they went on a journey down memory lane. Wes's driver's license and credit cards, photos and fast-food coupons — all of it was in pristine condition. In the last pocket was a folded slip of yellow legal paper.
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Hands trembling, Rachel opened it. "Oh, God," she said. "It's a note." "If you're reading this," she read aloud, "then I'm so sorry, sweetie, but…" She broke down. "I c-can't do this," she said. "Please, Chance. You read it." He cleared his throat, continuing where she'd left off. "…but I've apparently croaked. I know, I know, right about now you're probably wanting to smack me for trying to find humor in this, but I suppose everybody's gotta go eventually, and unfortunately, it seems my time's up. "That said, you're not allowed to be sad — well, maybe you could mope a little for the first week, or two, but after that, I want to be staring down from Heaven at your beautiful smile. I want you having babies and good times and toasting me whenever the top's popped on a beer." "You do this next part," Chance said, closing stinging eyes. "It's too personal." She took the letter and read on. "By now, Chance has no doubt told you about the promise he made me to always watch over you. But what he probably didn't tell you is how he's always had a secret thing for you. Back when we first started dating, he was too much of a gentleman and friend to stand in the way of me marrying you. If I have died, Rachel, he'd be a good man for you. The best — second only to me. Wink, wink. Be sure and give him a shot at…" She paused to catch her breath. "…winning your heart." Sobbing, Rachel clung to Chance, drinking in his goodness and kindness and strength. "Shh…" Chance crooned, stroking her short hair. "Even in death, he put my needs before his own," she said softly, gently setting the letter on the table. "And the timing…of all times for me to have finally gotten his letter, on Christmas Eve. What a gift. Makes you wonder if he's up there, watching over us." "You doubted it?" Chance teased, sliding Rachel off her chair and onto his lap. "After the rocky months I've had, I doubted not only Wes, but God." "Gotta admit," he said, thumb brushing her lower lip. "Having you disappear on me like that — I've had my doubts, too." "Yet look at us now," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. "Maybe Wes knew that without time and space between us, we'd have both been too loyal to his memory to give each other a try?" "Whatever the reason," Chance said, "we don't have to feel guilty or pained anymore." He smiled at her, gently. "Now, with Wes's blessing, will you marry me, so that you, me and Wesley can start a family all our own?" "What do you mean, start? I thought we already were a family?" "Right," he said before a spellbinding kiss. "How could I forget?"
*** Christmas morning, Wesley snug between them on the living room sofa, a fire crackling in the hearth and the scent of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls flavoring the air, Rachel opened gift after gift that Chance had secretly stashed in nooks and crannies all over the house. Later, they'd go to his parents' for Christmas dinner with his sisters and extended family, but for now, it was just the three of them, opening sweaters and perfume and books and china figurines and fishing lures and
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hats and for Wesley, toys, toys and more toys — most of which Rachel guessed he wouldn't be able to play with until he was three! Once they'd finished their gift extravaganza and all the wrappings had been cleared, Chance stood beside the Christmas tree and said, "Look, honey, here's another package in this bird's nest, and it's tagged for you." "Chance," Rachel complained, heading his direction. "You've already given me too much." "Look here, the label says it's from Santa," he said, holding out a tiny, robin's egg blue box that screamed Tiffany's. Heart racing, hands trembling, Rachel lifted the lid to peek inside. "Chance…" Tearing at the sight of the glowing, pear-shaped diamond solitaire, she crushed him in a hug. "It's gorgeous. Yes, I'll marry you!" "Whoa," he said with a sexy grin, pushing her back and shaking his head. "I don't recall asking anything. This was all Santa's doing." "Well, then, Santa," she said, tilting her head back to talk to the high ceiling, "I accept your proposal." "Now, wait a minute…" Chance pulled her back into his arms. "Not so fast. I thought the two of us had reached an understanding. Those kisses you gave me last night implied a certain level of intimacy and trust. You can't just make out with me, then leave me for a big, jolly guy in a red suit." "Then what do you suggest?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his delicious, cinnamonflavored lips. "Just to be safe, you'd better marry me right away." "Yeah, but do I get to keep the ring?" He winked. "Why not? With any luck, Mr. Ho Ho Ho will go back to his wife…leaving me plenty of time under the mistletoe with mine."
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The Wild's Call by Jeri Smith-Ready She was born to die...again and again. It is seven years after the collapse of modern civilization, and the world is entering a new Dark Age. Can best friends Elysia and Darien trust the animal spirits that are beckoning them to escape into the wilderness and create a new way of life? And will they give in to the mutual passion they've always denied?
Chapter One Year Seven A. C. (After Collapse) No one without a gun was getting food that day. What Elysia lacked in firepower, however, she made up for in stealth. Winding her way around the edge of Baltimore's crumbling Fells Point Market, she hid in the shadows and waited for the goods to fall. Her tiny frame, as well as some extra quality she didn't want to examine, made her invisible to the Uzi-toting "warlords" and the vendors who feared their threats. The transactions around her created a surreal tableau. The gangsters calmly pointed their weapons at the farmers, sparing their lives in exchange for meats and vegetables. Once upon a time there was money, she reminded herself. Dollars were worthless these days, so everyone bartered. A week ago, Elysia had traded her last carton of cigarettes for a salami roll and a bag of potatoes. Two career options remained: prostitute or thief. Her strange new attributes made it an easy choice. She wasn't the only scavenger today. A familiar form sidled along on the opposite edge of the dingy pavilion. Darien. The late afternoon sunlight glinted off his nape-length wavy hair, the color of dark chocolate, something she hadn't tasted in months. He entered the pavilion and slid through the crowd. His gaze shifted from side to side, maybe searching for someone. Nothing but muscles bulged beneath his tight black T-shirt, vest and jeans, so he probably wasn't armed. Yet no one dared bother him and his six-foot-four, gunmetal-gray-eyed self. Including Elysia. Darien's grudges were as notorious as his fourth-degree black belt, and she'd earned the mother of all vendettas by leaving his bed without so much as a note. They'd been friends for almost ten years, since college, a world that lay just a few miles north but might as well have been on Mars, as lost as it was to them now. Just then, a struggle broke out at a nearby produce stand. One of the gang lieutenants—a skinny guy with straggly blond hair known as Chump—reached for the throat of the diminutive farmer, who protested in broken Spanglish. As Chump leaned over the cart, it wiggled beneath his weight. Elysia slipped into the adjoining stall, which was dark and empty, like most of the market. Few vendors were desperate or greedy enough to sell their wares in the city, and now with this mass robbery, even these would probably never return. The end of food would soon be upon them. She hid behind the vinyl drapery covering the empty cart and hoped no one saw her tattered brown boots underneath. "What did you call me?!" Chump lunged for the babbling farmer, and the cart spilled.
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Elysia whipped out a burlap sack from her back pocket. "Come to Mama," she whispered. A mesh bag of apples bounced past. She snatched it up and shoved it into her sack without leaving her shelter. Score. What she couldn't eat right away she could slice and dry in the stifling summer heat. The scuffle continued, and Elysia heard the shouts of approaching robbers. She frowned. If she stole any more, they'd catch her. That's when it spilled a few feet away. Corn. They said this would be the last year for corn. It needed too many fertilizers, and the oil to make them—the oil to make anything—was long gone, or at least so expensive it might as well not exist. She wanted to taste corn one more time. On the cob, slathered in butter, ground into meal and baked into a muffin, simmered with those tedious potatoes into a creamy chowder. Her hand reached out from under the flap. Too late, she realized she hadn't summoned whatever weird power allowed her to move unnoticed. A hand grabbed her wrist and yanked Elysia forward into the light. Her face hit the rough wooden floor, sending a bolt of pain up her nose and branching out over her eyes. A click sounded near her head, and she felt steel press against her temple. A rumbling voice said, "Looks like we caught us a thief."
Chapter Two Darien heard the commotion at Federico's produce stand and realized the Fells Point Market had just turned from hellhole to shitstorm. He shifted his path to take him out of the pavilion, but before the sunlight hit his face, he heard a woman's voice. He stopped. Could it be—? She was pleading now, which convinced him it couldn't be Elysia. She'd sooner bite off her tongue than beg for anything. Not that it mattered, he resolved as he stalked back toward the produce stand. If the Canton gang had stooped to harassing women, someone had to show them there was a line they couldn't cross. Besides, what did he have to lose by pissing them off? By sundown, Baltimore would be a flaming dot behind him. The voice of Leo, the Canton leader, rang out. "Get up!" Elbowing his way through the gathering crowd, Darien heard Leo cackle. "Not on your feet, girl! On your knees." When he reached the overturned produce cart, Darien's stomach sank. It was her. The one he'd come for, the one he hoped would hold the key to the mystery inside his own mind. Kneeling before a gloating Leo, Elysia bowed her head, her long, tangled chestnut hair veiling a face that sparked with an intensity that had drawn Darien to her nearly a decade ago. Too many gang members had gathered around for him to simply step forward and demand Leo release her. The knight-in-shining-armor act could get them both killed. He swore under his breath. As if in response, Elysia tilted her head his way. But she couldn't have heard him under all the shouts and hoots of the crowd.
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"When are you gonna learn this is our territory?" Leo shoved the 9mm into his shoulder holster and unbuckled his belt. "Maybe you need a reminder that'll stick." Darien started to move forward, but Elysia reached out and wrapped her left arm around Leo's knees. "Please," she said, almost sniveling. "I promise I won't ever come here again. Just give me one more chance." Darien stopped. Something wasn't right. She'd always been the type to fight back. A cold finger of dread tapped his spine as he saw her right hand reach into her boot and withdraw something shiny. Leo snorted. "Oh, you'll get another chance. Another chance to—aaaugh!" The warlord's eyes rolled skyward as he shrieked in pain, then collapsed like a slaughtered steer. In a blur, Elysia grabbed the apples and hurtled straight toward Darien, her hand and wrist soaked in blood. "Out, now!" Darien turned for the exit. Like a battering ram, he cleared a space through the crowd, Elysia on his heels. When they burst out of the pavilion, she shot ahead of him and turned down a side street. His legs strained to keep up with her sprint as she darted down alleys, finding passageways he didn't even know existed. When he turned the next corner, she was gone. The street of burned-out row homes was empty. Darien didn't dare call her name, in case one of Leo's minions was pursuing them. He walked forward cautiously, past the silent doorways of abandoned homes. "Boo!" Darien looked up and across the street. Elysia waved to him through the torn screen of a kitchen window. He hurried over to the sidewalk below her. "Lyse, what the hell were you thinking?" "I was thinking of stabbing him in the crotch, but figured I might not get my knife back. Achilles tendon seemed more efficient. Want an apple?" She pushed the fruit through the screen and tossed it to him. "Least I can do, after you bull-in-a-china-shop'd us out of there." "No time for that," he said, though he pocketed the apple. No one ever turned down food. "We have to leave." "That's what we're doing. My place is a few blocks away. I just stopped here to hide while you caught up." With the bag of apples in her teeth, Elysia grasped the open window sill and slid her feet through the gap in the screen. She vaulted onto the sidewalk with the agility of a gymnast. "You can hide out with me until this thing with Leo blows over." She started to head up the street. "No." He grabbed her elbow and made her face him, ignoring her glare. "We have to leave the city. Tonight."
Chapter Three Elysia squinted up at Darien, confused. "Leave the city tonight? Why?" "Isn't it obvious?" He made a broad gesture with his bare arms. "This place is total anarchy. Five minutes ago you almost got killed over a bag of apples."
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"Leo wouldn't have killed me." She pulled a tea towel out of her pocket (stolen from the abandoned house) and wiped the gang leader's blood off her right hand. "Though he probably wants to now." "It's not just that," Darien said. "We have to find—" "Wait, how would we leave? You have a car? With actual gasoline?" She almost feared to hope. "No." "Diesel?" "Yes, but not a car. My boat." He leveled his dark gaze at her in a way that made her want to squirm. "Remember my boat?" She turned away. "Better get moving before Leo's boys find us. My blade can't fend off bullets." He didn't follow her. "My boat's in the other direction." "Toward the water? Funny place for a boat." She quickened her pace. Not that she didn't want to leave Baltimore—she wanted nothing more in the world than to escape this tinderbox of a town—but the thought of being stuck on the water in a tiny cabin with Darien made her feel like she had a pillowcase tied over her head. The last time she'd been on his boat, they'd "celebrated" the last of the good Scotch and had made a very sloppy mistake. At least, she thought they had. Her memories were as blurry now as her vision had been that night. Not that a girl needed whiskey goggles to find Darien attractive. His steps closed on hers, and she realized her wandering thoughts had slowed her pace. Damn it. Cloudy images of Darien's taut, naked ass wouldn't save her life if Leo's gang caught up with her. "Do you have a place to go?" she asked him. "Somewhere down the coast?" "The boat's not seaworthy. I thought we'd head into the Bay, then up the Susquehanna." "But do you know where you're going?" "Not exactly, but I'll know it when I find it." He touched her arm but didn't try to slow her. "When we find it." The gesture—both his touch and the offer itself—warmed her, but her suspicion flared. She and Darien were friends, but others were closer to his heart—and other body parts. "Why me? Why not one of the human blow-up dolls you call 'girlfriends'?" He looked over his shoulder, then pulled her behind the marble staircase of the row house next to them. The porch was high enough to block even his lofty stature. "Remember the night we spent together?" She shimmied her arm out of his grip. "Not really. We were pretty drunk. Too drunk to be…impressive." "I'm not talking about what we did. I'm talking about what you told me. About the foxes." A wave of heat crept up Elysia's neck like a rushing fever. "That was stupid, I was just blabbering, it was nothing—" "I had the same dreams, Lyse." Her breath caught in her throat. "About—"
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"But for me it was bears." His gaze nailed hers so she couldn't look away. "They're calling me, the way the foxes are calling you. They want us to join them."
Chapter Four Darien saw fear and hope clash in Elysia's caramel-brown eyes. For a moment, he thought she would give in, that she would let him take her away, now, without question. To meet their destiny, however crazy it sounded. He was wrong, as usual. "Are you insane?" She shoved his hands off her shoulders. "How dumb do you think I am?" "I don't—" "Bears and foxes calling us? That's the most whacked out thing I've ever heard." She grabbed his wrists and flipped them over to examine his arms. "Are you using? You're high, aren't you?" His slow-boiling anger began to stir. "After all these years," he growled, "you know me better than that." She looked away, spots of red forming on her cheeks. "I thought I did." She let go of him and started down the sidewalk. He followed, even more reluctantly than before. "Where are you going?" "I'm going home," she said with a catch in her voice, "and you're no longer invited." "It's not safe." She whipped the knife out of her back pocket and waved it over her head. The jagged blade was still stained with Leo's blood. "I can take care of myself, remember?" "If you stay, you're an idiot." "And if I go with you, I'm a nutbag. I'll wait for a third option." She took off like a racehorse from a starting gate. He sprinted after her, but her surprise headstart was too much; within moments she had disappeared around the corner. When he got there, she was gone. He cursed and gave a heavy sigh. Now what? Wait a second. Darien took another deep breath, letting the air roll into his nose and mouth. He could smell her. She wasn't wearing perfume or scented lotion. It was her skin, her breath, he could smell. That's new, he thought. Darien took two steps northward, and the scent diminished. He headed east instead, jogging now, pulling in her essence with every breath. A few steps past a rowhouse covered in pale gray formstone, the scent disappeared. He backtracked and ran up the porch stairs to the front entrance, whose storm door had been left open a crack. He pushed it wide with his shoulder. "Lyse, are you—"
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She stood in the foyer, her body rigid with fear. In front of her stood a man and a woman, each pointing a shotgun at her. Three small children huddled in the doorway to the living room. Paper peeled from every wall, and Darien thought he saw a rat scurry across the kitchen floor at the other end of the hallway. When the gun-toting couple saw him, they changed their aim. "We don't want no trouble," the man said, "but we need this here house. Ours burned down, and I won't have my kids living in the street. So run." Elysia cleared her throat. "Can I just get—" "Run!" The man stepped toward her, and she jumped back. Darien caught her arm to steady her and realized that his own presence gave these people cause to feel threatened. Not only could he not save her, but he'd risked her life by following. "Whatever it is you need, hon," the woman said softly but firmly, "we need it, too. Clothes, food, everything. So just get on out, okay?" Her lips trembled. "Please…" Elysia looked at the children, who were eyeing her bag of apples. She clutched it to her chest and turned slowly toward the door. "Leave them, too," the woman said. The muscles in Elysia's neck quivered, and her jaw took on the stubborn set Darien knew all too well. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Just do what they say."
Chapter Five Elysia looked at the bag of apples in her hand and thought of the blood she'd had to shed to get them. It's not fair. You're taking my house, my clothes, my books, my—no, my coffee! Then she thought of the shotguns pointed at her back and the desperate eyes of the man, woman and children who now occupied what used to be her home. She looked up at Darien, who shook his head slowly. She lowered the bag of apples to the floor. They left the house without looking back. On the sidewalk, she kicked the first piece of garbage she saw, a green sludge-encrusted bottle. "Guess I'll leave town with you, freak." Darien laid a friendly arm over her shoulders. "Sorry about your house." She shrugged, but not hard enough to make him let go. "It wasn't mine. I was a squatter, just like those people." At the last house in the row, she trotted to the backyard and climbed over a chain-link fence, noting how nimble she'd become lately. "What are you doing?" Darien said. "We need to leave before it gets dark." "I knew I'd lose that place one day." She approached a boarded-up doghouse in a corner of the yard. "So I planned ahead." With a splinter-inducing yank, she removed the plywood from the door. Inside lay a battered green backpack. "What's in there?" he asked her. She slung the pack over her shoulder. "Everything important."
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*** Elysia blocked Darien from the eyes of passersby as he untied the lines holding his boat to the dock. If anyone suspected they were leaving, they would know he had fuel, one of the few things worth dying for. Because of the wind's direction, they couldn't leave under sail power and would have to use the engine to get out of the marina. To feign casualness, she watched the skyline glow red in the sunset, the rays giving the glass-and-steel buildings their only light. She remembered how the city used to sparkle all night, back when everyone had electricity. "Anyone notice?" he said quietly as he slipped past her onto the deck. She followed. "Two slips down, three big guys." "Olsen brothers." "They're watching from their deck, but haven't moved." In the tiny cabin, he switched on a solar-powered lantern, then unlocked a drawer beneath one of the berths, the one they'd shared a few months ago for roughly twelve awkward minutes. As she recalled, they'd fallen off it in their futile efforts at satisfaction. Her thoughts dissolved when he pulled a shotgun from the drawer. "You know how to use this?" he said. "My dad used to take me hunting when I was a kid. Back in my hillbilly days." "Good. When I start the motor, the Olsens and everyone else will know I have fuel. If they come close, just point it at them and pump it like you're going to fire. The sound alone ought to discourage them." He gave it to her. It felt cold and heavy and merciless in her hands. "Aye, aye, captain." She opened the cabin door. "Wait!" Darien caught her arm. "Whatever you do," he whispered, "don't pull the trigger." "I won't. I'm not a killer." "No, I mean, it's not loaded. You pull the trigger, they'll probably figure that out." "What?!" She leaned closer so no one could hear. "Why isn't it loaded?" "I traded my second-to-last box of shells for food and enough diesel to get us out of the harbor." "What about the last box?" His jaw tightened. "Marta stole it when she left." "Who the hell is Marta?" "My last—" He stopped himself. "The last woman who stayed here." "When was this?" "Yesterday."
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"Ohhh, so that's why you picked me." She leaned the shotgun against her shoulder, muzzle up. "Not because of this animal spirit mumbo-jumbo. You need consoling, and I'm nothing if not a consolation prize." "Believe what you want." He brushed past her into the cockpit outside, then bent to examine the motor. "I'll just be over here saving our asses." Elysia gripped the shotgun and gave him a long, evaluating glance. If any ass was worth saving, it was Darien's, especially in those jeans. It should be in a museum, she thought as she launched herself onto the deck, ready to defend their last chance at life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Chapter Six Darien started the motor, and all hell broke loose. The sailboat's engine roared to life, unused for months, but coddled like a sick baby. He whispered thanks to the gods of internal combustion, the rumors of whose deaths seemed greatly exaggerated. Within moments, shouts of rage and greed came from the dock. He concentrated on maneuvering the boat away from the pier before any wanna-be-pirates could board. He wished he were the one defending them, but Elysia could no more steer a boat than climb a skyscraper. He had to trust the power of her bravado to keep them safe. No worries there. She hurled a stream of invectives that would have made a Marine drill sergeant's ears bleed. With her fierce battle posture and long hair streaming in a sunset-tinted corona around her head, Elysia looked like a victorious Valkyrie—if Valkyries ever stood at five-foot-one and wielded twenty-gauge shotguns. The Olsen brothers—four of them now—stood in front of a small, but belligerent crowd, all clamoring for the fuel Darien's boat obviously held. Everyone wanted a ticket out of Hell, but they weren't getting his. Elysia pumped the shotgun, and its shunt-click! seized their attention, along with her next string of artfully chosen profanities. He edged the boat backward out of the slip. A glance to his right showed Brad Olsen dashing back to their boat. Darien switched the engine to move forward, carefully turning the boat so it didn't hit the dock. His steering had to stay precise or they'd ram the boats jutting out of the adjoining slips. But his mind kept returning to Brad and what he could have been retrieving. Suddenly Darien knew. He turned just as Brad Olsen clambered onto his own bow holding a rifle. Olsen lowered the muzzle to point at Elysia. Darien launched himself out of the seat. Just as he reached up to yank Elysia into the cockpit, she spotted Brad, yelped and hurled herself at Darien. "Get down!" they screamed at each other, as they collided midair. They tumbled into the recessed floor of the cockpit. A crack! sounded, followed by glass shattering over their heads. Darien rolled her off him. "Stay down. I've got to steer." She yanked the front of his shirt. "You'll get killed!" A spine-shattering squeal sounded, the rub of hull against hull as Darien's boat slid against another one. He grabbed the long tiller pole with his feet and jerked it starboard. The boat swung hard to the left.
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A bullet punctured the wooden cabin door, and Darien heard something shatter inside. He poked his head up far enough to see that they were at least twenty feet away from the dock. The problem was… "I can't see where we're going," he said. "We'll hit something if I can't look over the cabin top." "Then I'll be your eyes." Before he even realized what she'd said, Elysia had heaved herself atop the cabin and was scuttling towards the bow. "What are you doing!?" he shouted. "Get back here!" By now she was already beyond the curve of the cabin top, which provided partial cover from Olsen's rifle if she lay flat against the deck. Elysia called out directions, guiding them through the maze of docks, boats and buoys. Lying on the cockpit floor, Darien steered the sailboat with a precise touch, for he knew it better than the body of any lover. Another bullet pinged off the hull. Elysia cried out, and Darien's heart stopped. "Lyse, you okay?" She laughed a high, mocking hoot. "Gotcha!" If she survives, Darien thought, I'm going to kill her. Five minutes later, they were out of the marina. Darien stood to see Elysia leaning against the bow railing. She raised her fists to the sky. "Woo! Queen of the world, baby!" He gave a long, deep exhale and caressed the boat's hull. "Yes, I love you." Elysia hopped onto the cabin top, steadying herself with the empty mast. "What'd you say?" "I was talking to the boat." "Oh." She peered down at him, hair blowing across her face. "Good." "Get off there," he said, "before you give me a heart attack." She leaped into the cockpit with light steps. "That was fun. What's next?" Darien watched the harbor widen into the Patapsco River and thought, Good question. He and Elysia were heading into Unknown Tomorrow territory. Unknown Tonight, for that matter.
Chapter Seven "What've you got to eat?" Elysia popped open the cooler next to the galley. Now that they had safely moored in the bay, her stomach had stopped rolling and had started demanding food. "We should celebrate not getting killed." "We should ration it." He edged past her, toweling off the grime of the outboard motor from his hands.
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"Ration, schmation, I'm celebrating." She opened a cardboard box of protein bars. Another box held airtight plastic bags of pretzel rods—good for seasickness, she guessed. "MREs—jackpot!" Elysia smiled and pulled out a dull brown military package labeled Meal Ready-to-Eat. Darien grabbed a bag of pretzels, then sat on the floor next to her. "Tomorrow we can fish, though we'll have to wait until we hit land to cook it." "No, we won't." She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a flat, silver object. "What's that?" "A sun stove." Elysia unfolded it to form a box with a black interior and silver flaps. "You put the food inside, leave it in the sun and it cooks." He slid closer to examine the contraption. "Where'd you get it?" "Off the internet, before the Collapse." "Good thinking. Does it work?" "I never tried it. I was afraid to leave it at my house in case someone stole it." "Or stole your house." She winced. "And that's what happened, so I was smart, wasn't I?" He gave her a slow smile. "'Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you.' I saw that on a T-shirt once." She drew her finger across her chest. "It was here. That was my T-shirt." She noticed that his gaze lingered, so she turned away to close the backpack. "What else is in there?" he asked. "Nothing." "Liar." He grabbed for it, and she pushed it out of his reach. "Leave it alone!" She saw the hurt look on his face as he sank back away from her. "Really, it's nothing." Just the key to my soul, she thought. As they snacked in silence, she absorbed the reality of their cramped quarters. They'd never be more than a step or two away from each other in this cabin, so she'd better get used to it. She feared, though, that she'd get too used to it. If it could be just the two of them from here on out, that might be fun…even romantic…but that voice was hastily silenced. But they would undoubtedly meet others on their journey north, people in trouble, and Darien wouldn't be able to resist playing hero. She understood why, and she admired his compassion, but she also wanted to believe she was special to him. Ever since their intimate episode this past summer, just the thought of Darien with another woman made Elysia feel like kicking kittens. She wondered how she'd tolerated the countless, seemingly nameless females parading through his life over the years.
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Somewhere along the way he'd transformed from a dopey hunk of a boy into a mature, contemplative man. Maybe it was his martial arts training, or maybe it was just the State of the World, but Darien had turned into someone who deserved better than bimbos. "You were amazing out there tonight," he said. "Did I thank you for saving our lives?" She shrugged. "Payback. You saved my life by getting me out of the city." "True." He hesitated. "But the way you moved across the cabin top was incredible. Anyone else would've fallen into the harbor. And then later, you saw things in the water I couldn't see until we were on top of them. Like that buoy with the light burned out. We might've hit that rock if it weren't for your eyes." "Shhh. Let's not talk about that." Her face felt like it was on fire, and her hands began to shake. She pulled another pretzel rod from his package and put it in her mouth. "So what do we do now?" "Same as before. Survive." She gave his knee a light shove. "No, I mean now-now. What do we do?" The corners of his lips twitched as he gazed at her. Elysia's mouth went dry, and she cursed the pretzels she'd eaten, which now seemed to stick in her craw. He blinked slowly, dark lashes curling like beckoning fingers. For a long moment, neither of them breathed. Then they both looked away, past each other, clearing their throats. Darien sighed. "Now we sleep."
Chapter Eight Darien couldn't sleep. Even unshared, the sailboat's berth was too small for his six-foot-four-inch frame. The last to share it was Marta, who'd disarmed him, literally, when he refused to take her away from the city. There was only one person he trusted, one person who understood where they had to go: Elysia, who lay on the other berth a few feet from him, her breath as deep and even as the waves that cradled them on the Chesapeake Bay. His certainty had been born that summer night when they'd drunk too much, said too much, done too much. Now, with the scent of her hair and the memory of her skin filling his head, too much felt like not enough. Restlessness drove him out of bed. Unfortunately, like everyone these days, Elysia was a light sleeper. She rolled off her berth, nimble as a ninja. Steel flashed in a patch of moonlight. He grabbed her wrist just before the blade reached his leg. "Lyse, it's me. Darien, remember?" Her shriek of outrage faded into a grumble, and she dropped the knife. "Sorry. Habit." He rubbed her wrist. "Did I hurt you?" She pulled her hand away. "What time is it?" "Nighttime. I was getting some air." Which he needed more than ever now. He opened the cabin door.
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Elysia followed. Outside she uttered a long, breathy, "Whoa." He turned to see her gape at the black velvet sky, patterned in a million tiny, twinkling suns. She craned her neck, wavering. He steadied her, and this time she didn't pull away. "At home," she said, "I could only see a piece of the sky from my window, and I never went outside at night." "Light pollution is one thing I don't miss about the old days. Here, you'll get a stiff neck." He guided her to the starboard cockpit bench. She stretched out, resting her head on a cushion and propping up one bare foot. "What's weird is that all these stars have always been there. I just couldn't see them." She pointed to the mooring light atop the boat. "Can you turn that off?" "It's against regulations." "You think the Coast Guard still exists?" He hesitated. He wanted to believe that somewhere out there, somebody was in charge. Somebody would help them. But nobody had come for Baltimore. Its citizens had been left to cower in their homes, slaughter each other over a tank of gas or flee for the dubious safety of the wilderness. From what they'd seen on their voyage so far, the suburbs had fared even worse. No one was coming. Darien reached into the cabin and turned off the mooring light. "Perfect," Elysia said softly. He sat on the portside bench and gazed at her face. Her eyes devoured the sky like it was nourishment itself. "So what do you miss about the old days?" she said. An easy question. "Music." She sat up suddenly. "Your guitar! It's not in the cabin." "I sold it." His chest tightened. "For supplies." "Darien, no…" For a moment, he thought she would cry. "But you didn't sell your voice, right?" She crossed the deck to stand in front of him. "Sing for me." "Uh-uh." He took her hands. "I'll sing with you, though." She laughed. "I'll scare the fish away and we'll starve." They took their chances, belting out old tunes with all their breath, repeating first verses when they forgot the third. Twentieth-century songs poured out, from a time they never knew, when life was disastrously beautiful and the future was infinite. They built a soundtrack for their voyage, following "Born to Run" with "Refugee," then "Ship of Fools" by The Doors. As they sang, Elysia smiled at him, touched him, her reticence dissolving as they slipped into their familiar, easy cadence. Darien could almost pretend that they were back in college, full of hope and denial; he could almost believe that the last decade of rage and chaos had never happened.
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Finally he stood to announce a solo number, wielding the fishing net as a guitar. "I'd like to dedicate this one to my best friend, Elysia." She scoffed but smiled. "Your only friend." He launched into the opening chords of "Foxy Lady." Elysia laughed. "Jimi Hendrix, right? But which song--?" "Shh." He sang the chords and looked right in her eyes when he whispered, "Foxeeyyy…" with all the soul he could muster. Her smile vanished.
Chapter Nine "No!" Elysia hurled herself at Darien and tore the fishing net out of his hands. "Stop it. Shut up!" He kept singing, launching into the first line of "Foxy Lady." She slapped him. He rubbed his cheek and glared at her. "What the hell?" "Why did you have to ruin it?" Her palm stung, and her throat ached from the effort not to cry. "We were finally having fun, then you had to go and sing that song." "No, we were having fun until you got uptight." "Uptight? Darien, I told you I don't want to talk about the foxes and bears and Spirits and whatever other batshit ideas you have. I don't want to remember how crazy we are for taking this trip into East God-KnowsWhere." "How crazy 'we' are?" He grabbed her shoulders, smiling. He was actually smiling. "So you admit it. You hear the voices, too, calling us away." "Why would that make you happy? Shouldn't one person on this boat be sane?" She broke away from him and entered the cabin, which felt smaller than ever as he followed her in. "Lyse, we have to talk about it sooner or later." She sank onto her berth. "Then I choose later. Much later. Maybe after I'm dead." "That'll be a long time, if I have anything to do with it." She looked up at him in the darkness, wishing they could return to the world of Five Minutes Ago, when she could pretend they were the only two people on earth, pretend that it would always be the peaceful, perfect present. Maybe there was a way. "Come here." She leaned back against the wall and patted the cushion beside her. He sat down, facing forward and reclining a bit to put himself at her eye level. Though his posture was guarded, the glint in his eyes and the way he'd let her touch him outside hadn't escaped her notice. If he wanted her half as much as she wanted him, they wouldn't be discussing Spirits or destinies or anything at all for the rest of the night. His broad hand smoothed the blanket over the cushion between them, and she imagined it traveling over her skin with the same caress. A grown man could die ten different ways at those hands, but she knew
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Darien would sooner cut them off than hurt her. He had even worried about bruising her wrist after she'd almost stabbed him. And he'd called her his best friend. "I'm sorry I avoided you," she said, "after the last time I was here." He shook his head. "I didn't want to see you either. I was embarrassed. It was…less than spectacular, wasn't it?" "We were drunk." "And stupid." "We're not drunk now." "But we're still stupid." "Definitely." She kissed his forehead, softly. "Complete." Then his cheek, less softly. "Idiots." His mouth— much, much less softly. Darien's lips parted at the touch of her tongue. He slid his fingers into her hair and pulled her into a deeper kiss that made them both moan. She filled her hands with the silky dark waves of his hair, arching her back to bring their bodies closer together. Definitely not drunk this time, she thought. Every nerve was alive and screaming for his hands and mouth. She needed to be covered by him. As if reading her mind, he curled his arm around her back and slid her body beneath him on the berth. The motion was so effortless, it was almost as if his strength were— No, she wouldn't think about that. She wasn't about to sleep with a superhero. Elysia caressed his hard, bulging biceps to confirm that his mightiness was all-natural, 100% organic. Just like her stealth, and her nimbleness and her night vision. No. She definitely wouldn't think about that at a time like this. Darien's mouth moved to her neck, where his kisses turned hard and biting, sending waves of electric blue lust down her spine. She wound her legs around his hips and drew him tighter against her. His hand slid under her shirt. He eased away then, just a few inches, and stared down at her. She moved to kiss him again, but he pulled just out of reach. "Elysia?" Something inside her twitched. He never called her by her full name. "Elysia, what's in the bag?"
Chapter Ten Elysia stared up at Darien, her face flushed and eyes wide. He could smell her desire, and it took every shred of self-control not to erase his own question with another kiss. "What's in what bag?" she said, but he knew her innocence was feigned. "Your backpack." He brushed a lock of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "What's so important that you boarded it up in a doghouse so no one would steal it?"
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"Why are you asking me now?" She cast a nervous glance at the pack, which sat on the floor at the foot of her berth. "Can't it wait?" "I wish it could. I wish it didn't matter." He kept his voice soft, though he knew it was too late. He'd spooked her. But he couldn't have done that if she truly trusted him. "What's in the bag?" he whispered. "I told you, nothing." He sighed and started to pull away, despite his body's urge to do the opposite. She grabbed his arm. "Wait! I'll tell you." Hope sparked within him, and he stayed, pressed against her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "It contains…the meticulously maintained…painstakingly preserved…severed head of my last boyfriend." She clutched his shirt and filled her voice with melodrama. "It means everything to me. It's a one-of-a-kind original." "Don't play games, Lyse." He rolled off her and stood up, nearly smacking his head on the ceiling. "If you're so curious, why don't you just open it and look?" "You know I won't do that. I want you to tell me." "Why?!" Her voice hardened. "Why is it so important?" "Because I'm offering you everything. Everything in this boat." He sat beside her, took her hand and touched it to his head. "Everything in here. I'll tell you whatever you want to know, show you everything I have. But I need to know that you trust me the way I trust you. Otherwise, we can't do this." He tugged her shirt down to cover her belly. "Because screwing without trust is just…poison. And we can't survive poison." She touched his thigh, almost tentatively. "I trust you with my body." "I know," he said softly. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't. But that's not what I'm talking about." Elysia looked at him for a long moment, as if searching his face for a reason to believe in something, anything. But he knew it couldn't come from him—it had to come from inside herself, and she wasn't ready. She pulled her hand from his and rubbed her face hard. "All right, no sex." She turned her back to him and slung the blanket over herself. "Fine with me. I'm not the one with a raging hard on." "Fine." Hearing the sharpness of his own voice only stoked his frustration. He went to his own berth, lay down and turned to the wall. "And I'm not the one who's been sleeping alone for three months." "What? How did you…" He heard her turn toward him. "There've been other guys since you." He shrugged. "Maybe, but no one you really wanted." She didn't answer him, and he cursed his own vindictiveness. He hadn't meant to tease her or hurt her feelings. But he had to make her understand that this voyage wasn't a party. She was so used to living in the present, fighting for each meal, that she couldn't—wouldn't—set her mind on the future. Maybe she didn't care if she survived. But he did. After touching her, kissing her, feeling her body beneath him again, he knew he'd bleed his last drop to protect her.
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"Hey, Darien?" "Yeah?" "Are you satisfied yet?" He couldn't hold back a laugh. "Are you?" A loud fake snore was her only reply. He almost said "I love you," but didn't dare.
Chapter Eleven The next day they sailed north under clear skies. By midday, Elysia's muscles ached from the many tasks of running a boat. But Darien was a patient skipper and didn't get mad when she screwed up. She liked that he didn't correct her terminology, making her say "starboard" instead of "right," or "line" instead of "rope." His proximity was the real problem. They had to stay on the same side of the boat to counter the wind's pull, and her internal mercury spiked every time he reached over her shoulder to adjust the sail. To hide her heatflushed face, she zipped the windbreaker up past her chin and pulled the oversized Orioles cap down low. If only they'd had sex last night, she thought, the tension would have disappeared. But he'd pulled away, knowing she didn't trust him, all because of the backpack and its contents. She couldn't show him. It would be like unzipping her soul and letting him peek inside. She wasn't ready. Which probably meant they weren't ready to sleep together. If they were going to be partners in survival, then hasty sex would only drive them apart. Her head knew this, but every part below her neck disagreed. "What do you call your boat?" she asked him during a quiet period, while he was checking the chart and she was steering them through a deep, level part of the Bay. "There's no name on the back—the stern, I mean." "I didn't want anyone to ID me when I left." Seated beside her on the cockpit bench, he pulled the chart closer to his nose to examine it. She wondered when he'd become nearsighted. "Boat names are all vanity, anyway," he said. "Does she have a secret name?" He gave a cryptic smile and said nothing. She sighed. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of begging to know. "Maybe I'll name her Elysia," he said. "Don't. It means 'struck by lightning.'" "I thought it was from the Elysian Fields, the ancient Greek version of Heaven." "That, too." She stretched her leg to relieve a cramp. "Heaven's too much to live up to, so I stick with the literal translation." "At least you're named after Paradise. I was named after a yuppie town in Connecticut." "But no one goes to Connecticut to die."
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"Nah, that's what Florida's for." She gaped at him. "You made a joke. Since when are you funny?" "Since always." "Nuh-uh. That's why I never asked you out in college. I liked the smart, scrawny clown-boys. Not jocks like you." Back when life was about entertainment, not survival. She wondered if her near-feral attraction for him was a response to the way the world had changed. Instinct was probably ordering Elysia to snag a man who could protect her, who could father strong, blindingly handsome spawn. Blech. She wasn't an animal. Not that he couldn't persuade her to act like one. But maybe now more than ever, they had to hang on to the things that made them human. He pointed ahead. "Stay on course to take us into the Susquehanna." "Then what?" He paused. "Remember when I said I didn't know exactly where we were going?" "Yeah." "I lied." Her stomach felt like lead as she turned to him. "What do you mean?" Darien paused again, then looked into her eyes with an intensity that spooked her. "These powers we have, this calling. I think it's for some greater purpose." "A greater purpose than our own survival?" His gaze narrowed. "Of course. This isn't just about you and me." He gestured to the river. "It's about building a new life for everyone." "Everyone?" She scoffed. Her worst fears were coming true. "I thought I was your only damsel-in-distress." He frowned. "Would you grow up and think of someone besides yourself for a change?" "You can't save the world, Darien." She turned away, eyes stinging from the wind. "Even if you did, it wouldn't bring him back." His silence fell sudden and heavy. Elysia wiped her mouth, wishing she could stuff the words back inside. "You think this is about Peter?" His voice was hoarse. "That was eight years ago." "And you still blame yourself." "I don't blame myself. I take responsibility, a concept you obviously can't understand." "Right." She grabbed his hand and put it on the tiller pole. "You steer the damn boat. I'm going inside." "You can't run away from me here, Lyse. We're discussing this now."
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Chapter Twelve Elysia stopped and turned a suspicious gaze on Darien. "Where are we going, anyway?" "Sit down and let me finish." She sat at the far end of his bench, hunching her shoulders as if bracing for a blow. He wanted to shift closer so he wouldn't have to shout above the wind, but sensed she'd only move away. "We'll stop and camp at the state park," he said. "It's too rocky to sail any farther, anyway." "And then what?" "Then we wait." He took a deep breath. "Wait for the Spirits to guide us." "You mean, wait for the voices in your head to start talking again." "It's not just my head. You told me—" "I was drunk that night. I didn't know what I was saying." She tugged her cap down so he couldn't see her eyes. "It's your boat, your fantasy. I'll go along since I have no choice. But I won't believe." "Lyse, why are you so hopeless? Can't you feel it? The world's on the edge of a new beginning." She shook her head. "All I feel is the end, so despair seems like the only rational response." She tore off her cap and crumpled it in her hands. Her eyes were so full of pain that he wanted to wrap his arms around her, if he thought she wouldn't throw him overboard for trying. "Things won't ever get better, Darien. People can't fix it. They can only ruin it." "I refuse to believe that." "Then you're an—" She cut herself off and turned her gaze to the water. "You're a better person than I am." "Listen. The Bear says if we go to this place, the Spirits will show us what to do. He says they need us." He touched her knee, and she flinched. "Doesn't the Fox tell you the same thing?" Her jaw clenched. "The wind just shifted." She was right. He gave her the tiller pole so she could steer, then adjusted the mainsheet line to trim the angle of the sail. From the corner of his eye, he watched Elysia's face grow stony. Like an intruder in the night, he'd set off her alarms, and now her doors were locked. "Hope" was a four-letter-word to her. Her few shots at happiness—college, her writing career—had been snatched away by the Collapse. Unlike Elysia, Darien hadn't always been poor. His family had lived the American dream until he was ten, when his parents' real estate business went under; skyrocketing interest rates and insurance premiums had demolished the housing industry. Little by little, their savings for retirement and their sons' college education were turned into food for their table. Maybe he would have been better off without the lacrosse scholarship to Johns Hopkins. Then he would have spent those three years learning a useful trade instead of studying ancient history. But then he wouldn't have met Elysia.
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She was with him when he discovered his younger brother, Peter, dead from an overdose. Only someone like her could have helped him survive that, could have comforted him without judgment, without asking what he could have done to stop it, the question he'd asked himself a thousand times. Only someone like Elysia could make his future seem bearable, even now. He looked at her, at the way her lips trembled despite the firm set of her jaw, and he knew that underneath her tough facade lay a heart that could still break. *** Later that afternoon they made landfall at the state park. Elysia caught and cooked a smallmouth bass while Darien took down the sails for what was probably the last time. The boat had been his only home for two years, and the thought of living on land again made his feet itch. They ate dinner in silence, watching the trees across the river blaze orange and red in the rays of the setting sun. After the last bite, Elysia professed exhaustion and tumbled into bed. Darien lay on the cockpit seat, watching the stars wink on, wondering for the first time whether he and Elysia were going to make it. What seemed like only a few moments later, his eyes flew open to see a bright first quarter moon. A wave swelled against the hull, too large for such fair weather. Something was coming. Fast. "Lyse!" He lurched for the cabin door just as his boat buckled under a crunching impact.
Chapter Thirteen Elysia's world shuddered and shattered. She tumbled from the berth and banged her knees on the hard floor. Before she could draw a breath, Darien was there. "Are you okay?" he asked. "What happened? Something hit us." "Another boat." He helped her to her feet. "Come on." They stepped outside. Elysia blinked into the moonlight, unable to believe her eyes. A large yacht, at least twice the length and height of Darien's boat, loomed over them. Its bow was planted against theirs, crumpling the prow of his anonymous little beauty. "Bastards," she hissed. "Why didn't they watch where they were going?" "I don't think she's occupied," he said. "Must have been moored upriver and broke loose." "Then why are the sails up?" "Maybe they—" His eyes widened. "No…" "What is it?"
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"Wait here." He ducked into their cabin and threw open the closet. Elysia stepped along the deck to the yacht. With a quick vertical leap, she grabbed the lower bar of the bigger boat's railing. But the hull was too slick to give a foothold, so she hung there, feebly. "You never listen, do you?" Darien's voice came from below her. "Shut up and give me a boost, okay?" He pushed her feet, and she clambered onto the yacht. "Whoa." She stroked the deck's polished teak. "These people must be loaded." "Not anymore." Darien swung aboard, then pulled a clean rag and a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket. She followed him to the aft cockpit. With gloved hands, he put a rag to his face, then shoved open the cabin door. The stench of death hit Elysia like a hammer to the temple. She staggered back against the wheel. Darien moved into the cabin, turned to his left, and shook his head sadly. Elysia spied a handwritten note taped to the wall inside the cabin door. Covering her nose and mouth with her sleeve, she stepped forward and grabbed it. She began reading aloud. "'It appears we're not strong or stubborn enough to want to go on living without the people and things we love.'" Elysia steadied her voice. "'Take whatever you need for your survival. There's a hunting bow with a user's manual in the corner. (It's harder than it looks.) Please don't worry about burying us—you have more important tasks ahead. Just remember our names, Priscilla and Stephen Holmes.'" Darien gazed at the bed, then closed his eyes and crossed himself. "Is it bad?" she asked. "You don't want to see this." He looked at her suddenly. "But maybe you should." She stepped back. "No." "Yes." He held out his hand. "Come see what despair looks like. Then tell me if it's the rational response." "I don't need to see it, I can smell it." She turned away, eyes watering—only from the stench, she told herself. "Let's take the hunting bow and go." They returned to Darien's boat to pack in silence. Before they headed into the dark woods, he laid a hand on the vessel that had been his home and greatest love. Elysia looked past him at the yacht drifting down the riverbank, the name on the stern visible now in the moonlight: Pollyanna. After a wordless, half-mile hike, they pitched the tent and crawled into their sleeping bags. Despite her exhaustion, Elysia's mind couldn't turn away from the suicidal couple. They must have had everything—money, family, a big house. She and Darien had nothing in the world but each other. "How did you know they were dead before we got there?" she asked him. "By the smell." He sounded wide awake.
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"All the way from your boat? When did you get such a sensitive nose?" "Probably the same time you got your night vision." Though the air was warm, Elysia began to shiver. "Darien, I'm scared." She bit her lip, as if that would take back what she'd said. "Sing to me, okay? Sing me to sleep." She heard him turn to face her, then his voice came low and soothing and melodic. He stroked her hair, drawing his fingers through the strands to their tangled ends. A tear dribbled from each of her eyes. The words "I love you" wanted to crawl out of her throat, but she locked them inside. If she gave him those words, and he didn't return them, a wall would form. Survival might be simple, but love was complicated. But if he did return them, if he did love her, then maybe they could survive anything.
Chapter Fourteen Darien woke when a hand shook his shoulder. Elysia whispered his name, then said, "Close your eyes." "They were closed when I was asleep." "I'm turning on the lantern, and I don't want to blind you." He shut his eyes, then saw the light shine beyond his lids. "Okay." Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it. "When you're ready, go ahead and look." Darien turned over and squinted into the light. Arranged on the space between their sleeping bags, in two neat lines, was an array of foxes in every form: a framed photograph of a red fox, a stuffed animal, a silver fox pendant, a smooth red stone with a fox carved in black upon it, and a dozen other representations of her Spirit Animal. He looked up at Elysia. She held her backpack upside down and shook it. It was empty. "I've been collecting these things for years." She caressed the red totem stone. "It was like a compulsion I didn't understand. Not until—" She swallowed and didn't look at him. "Not until Fox spoke to me. But I was afraid to believe. Afraid to hope." Her eyebrows pinched together. "Because, what if it all led to nothing?" "It won't," he whispered. "Do you believe now?" "I believe in something. That couple on the Pollyanna, they couldn't hold each other up." She raised her gaze to his. "But I think we can. I believe in that." "I do, too." He sat up and reached for her hand. She placed it, trembling, in his palm. "Elysia, I love you." A smile washed over her face like a beautiful wave. "Good. That's one less thing for me to worry about." He laughed and leaned forward to kiss her. She stopped him and took his face in her hands. "I love you, too." Her voice shook. "I've never said that to anyone but my parents." She closed her eyes hard. "I think I might pass out now."
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"I think you might not." He kissed her softly and felt her steady beneath his lips. Darien sat back and examined her collection. "Hmm. That doesn't fit with the motif." He pointed to a box of condoms. She grinned. "They might come in handy." "Did you think I wouldn't bring any?" "I didn't know that when I finally skipped town it would be with my overly conscientious friend Darien. Figured I might have to sleep with random roadside stragglers. A girl can't be too careful." The remaining item from her bag caught his eye. He picked up a tattered copy of Jack London's Call of the Wild. Elysia scratched her arm and looked embarrassed. "I've had it since I was a kid. My mom bought it for me at the library book sale for a quarter. She knew I liked dogs. I don't think she realized how violent it was." "But Buck survives in the end." "Of course. He's strong and smart." "Well, I'm strong, and you're smart," he said, handing her the book, "so together we should be okay." "No." She ran her finger over the novel's wrinkled spine. "We'll be better than okay. 'The function of man is to live, not to exist.'" "What?" "It was something Jack London supposedly said. I wrote it down." She opened the back cover and read, "'I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in a magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. I would rather be ashes than dust.'" She closed the book and looked at him. The fire he'd always loved had returned to her eyes, and he felt a passion rise in him so fierce and so fast, he could no longer contain it. "You'll never be dust," he whispered. "Come here."
Chapter Fifteen Darien swept Elysia into his arms and lifted her onto his sleeping bag. She noticed he was careful to avoid crushing her fox collection. He laid her down gently and knelt beside her. "I've always loved you, you know." "Why didn't you tell me?" "I knew it would scare you away, and I didn't want to lose our friendship. After that night this summer, when we got totally stinking drunk—" "And totally stinking naked." "It was a disaster, and I hated myself, because I wanted to give you something beautiful." His finger traveled a meandering line from the hollow of her neck, between her breasts, past her navel. "I wanted to show you how I felt."
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His hand stopped, and a puzzled look crossed his face. "What's wrong?" she said. "For ten years I've been thinking about this, creating a hundred fantasies of what we would do. Now I can't decide where to start." Even now, he was thinking too much, but she loved that about him. "Just take off your clothes, okay?" He sat back on his heels, his head brushing the tent's ceiling, and slowly peeled off his T-shirt. The sight of his contoured muscles sent heat waves to her toes, fingertips, and everywhere in between. She had to touch him—now. "Wait." She sat up. "Let me." Elysia slipped one hand around the back of his jeans and the other up the front, caressing his erection in one long stroke. He groaned and tilted his head back. In the low lamplight she saw his lashes cast fluttering shadows on his brow. The taut muscles of his abdomen quivered under her kiss as she unfastened, then drew down, the layers separating them. He was hard already, and grew harder in her hands, harder still in her mouth. His breath turned to ragged gasps. "Stop." He drew her away from him. "I'm close to the edge as it is." "Then take me there with you." He undressed her slowly, and she noticed he was careful not to let his fingers so much as graze her skin. By the time she was naked, her flesh was crying out for his touch. He stretched out beside her. She reached for him, but he gently pushed her hands away. "Just let me touch you," he whispered. "Close your eyes." "No, I want to look at you." "For once, Lyse, do as I ask." She shut her eyes. Fingertips stroked the side of her neck, slid over her shoulder, then down her arm, where her skin grew goosebumps. His touch disappeared, and she forced herself not to squirm. He caressed her stomach, tracing the ridge of her lowest rib. Her breath quickened as his fingers traveled up her middle and drew a large circle around her breast. He took his hand away, and she clutched the sleeping bag in anticipation. The warm skin of his palm glided over her nipple, exquisitely sensitive and erect. She moaned. "Yes," he whispered. "You're so beautiful." His lips closed over her other nipple, licking and tugging in a way that sent her to the brink of orgasm. She couldn't believe how so little contact could feel so intense. Each flick of his tongue sparked every nerve in her body. His hand left her again, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping, praying. He touched her between her legs, and a jolt shot through her like a firecracker. She let out a long, sharp cry. Darien allowed her no respite. He moved between her thighs and gave her his mouth and hands until she was sure the delirium would steal her sanity, and she begged him to stop.
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Finally he lay beside her again. She opened her eyes to gaze at his face. "I hope that makes up for the last time," he said. "Almost." His dark eyebrows rose. "Almost?" "We got this far last time, though not nearly so well." "Then the bottle of Scotch made us numb, and we passed out. I remember, sort of." She touched his cheek. "I think this time will be hard to forget."
Chapter Sixteen Darien lost himself inside Elysia. She felt like velvet as he stroked in and out of her, filling her with every inch of his desire. She met his slow, controlled thrusts, and he marveled how one so small could be so strong. He had thought she would feel fragile beneath him. For ten years he had dreamed of this, but none of his fantasies came close to the reality. Her taste and scent filled his senses until it seemed like a piece of her inhabited every cell in his body. As their intensity quickened, he felt himself start to lose control. Reluctantly, he stopped and drew away. She caught him with her legs. "Where are you going?" "I don't want this to be over yet. But you're making me crazy." She gave him a sly smile. "I like you crazy." He moved the lantern from the foot of their sleeping bags to a spot near her pillow, then lay on his back and pulled her over him so she straddled his hips. "There, now I can see you, out of the shadows." She laughed, low and sensual. "You miss porn, don't you?" "Not anymore," he murmured as she enveloped him. Elysia began to move, clearly reveling in his gaze. She slid her hands through her tawny hair and let it cascade over her breasts, which she cupped and fondled without a shred of self-consciousness. Through his haze of passion and amazement, he realized she had bared more than her skin to him. She trusted Darien enough to share her wild soul. He matched her rhythm, rolling his hips under her until her breath came hard and fast and every muscle began to shudder and twitch. She collapsed upon him with a gasping, aching cry, the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. When she had recovered, Elysia kissed him under his jaw. "Your turn." "I can wait."
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"No." She folded her hands on his chest and rested her chin on them. "Stop taking care of me. Just let go." Elysia leaned forward and grazed her teeth against his neck. "I want to see you crazy." "But—" "Darien, just fuck me, okay?" She bit him, hard. With a guttural growl, he turned over to pin her beneath him. He lifted her hips and drove into her, deeper with each thrust. She urged him on with sounds of delight, and his last scrap of control slipped away. Darien closed his eyes and gave himself over to the rising, boiling sensation within. His hands clutched at her body as though clinging to a life raft, and for a moment he feared he would hurt her. But with a single "Yes" she told him that was impossible. A roar shook his throat as his hot, slick orgasm burst forth. He tumbled forward into Elysia's embrace. She stroked the sweat-drenched muscles of his back while he shuddered in her arms. Finally he rolled off her so she could breathe, but pulled her close to kiss the swell of her breasts. "I want you again," he murmured. "Soon." "Then let's stay here all day and…rest." "See? That's why you're the smart one." He let his muscles go slack and tried to catch his breath. "You're right about your name. I feel like I've been struck by lightning." She chuckled, and he added, "Then again, I also feel like I've been in Paradise." She lifted his chin to look him in the eye. "That would be sweet if it weren't so corny." "Maybe it's sweet because it's corny." Elysia smiled and kissed him quickly. "I'm thirsty. Want some water?" She eased out of his arms to crawl to the corner of the tent. "Thanks." He gazed at her naked form bent over the backpack, already planning how he would enact Fantasy #48. She glanced to her left, out one of the tent's windows. "It's already getting light. Do you feel like breakfast or—" Her body went rigid, and her head slowly turned back to the window. The fear on her face drew him to her side in an instant. "What is it?" He followed her gaze into the clearing but saw nothing. Elysia shoved a flashlight into his hands. He shined it out the window. Four yellow eyes reflected in the glow.
Chapter Seventeen Elysia stared at the red fox sitting not twenty paces from their tent. It seemed unconcerned that a hulking black bear loomed beside it, sitting on its haunches. "They're here." Darien's whisper shook. "Lyse, it's real. We weren't crazy." She'd known that all along, but hadn't wanted to believe. They dressed and stepped outside the tent, but came no closer to the animals.
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The bear turned and started to lumber away, joined by the fox. Both animals looked back over their shoulders at Darien and Elysia. She took his arm. "I've seen enough Lassie movies to know they want us to follow." "Should we bring our supplies?" he asked them. In response, the fox and bear sat down to wait. "Looks like a 'yes.'" They quickly packed under the creatures' watchful gaze. The sun was rising by the time they left, and they headed deeper into the woods. "Notice anything weird about them?" she asked Darien. "Besides the fact that the bear could eat the fox in two bites but doesn't?" "They don't make any sound when they walk." "And they don't have a scent. It's like they're not really there." "Maybe they're not." She fingered the strap of her backpack. "Maybe the whole night's been a dream, and I'm going to wake up on your boat, with no dead yachters and no mind-blowing sex and certainly no ghost animals." "Spirit animals," he said. "Whatever." He looked down at her. "Are you saying the sex was an out-of-body experience for you? Because to me it was very in-body." She smiled at him and took the hand he offered. With his profession of love tucked safely in her memory, she was prepared for anything. The woods opened into a clearing. When they reached the edge, she stopped cold. She wasn't prepared for this. A hundred people, maybe more, stood in a circle—all ages, all races, people who seemed to be strangers to one another, except for a few groups of two and three. Most looked as bedraggled as she felt. "It's okay," Darien said. "This is what we're here for." It is? Elysia shot a glare at the fox, who had disappeared. She reluctantly joined the others, giving a tight smile to the bright-eyed middle-aged woman next to her. "I'm Gina," said the woman. "Otter." "Huh," was Elysia's first response. Darien squeezed her hand. "Oh. Sorry. I'm Elysia, and this is Darien. Fox and Bear." She turned her gaze to the grass. This was too weird. "Elysia, that's an interesting name." "It means 'struck by lightning.'" Darien reached across Elysia to shake Gina's hand. "How are you today, ma'am?"
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Ma'am? Elysia thought. Is he running for office? Her thoughts were interrupted when the circle split apart. The animals came, like in Noah's Ark, but one by one instead of in pairs, predator marching peacefully beside prey. Birds descended from thin air. Each creature approached one person in the circle. The red fox sat before Elysia and "spoke" to her using the same low, feminine voice she had heard in her dreams. The One Spirit will now speak through us all. The voice began. Greetings, beloved ones. You have been called here, and to many other places on earth, to be reawakened. We call you to live humbly on the land, to share what you have with each other, to learn from past mistakes. Life will be hard, and you will be driven to the end of your strength. But in return, we grant you powers never before possessed by humans. Each of us has chosen one of you to embody our essence, whether as a warrior, a healer, a builder or another role vital to your continued life. We will always be with you, to guide you and love you. But survival rests in your own hands. Remember, each of you is an essential part of the whole. The voice paused for a moment. Try not to destroy one another. The fox tilted its head at Elysia. It's just me again. Any questions? "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" she whispered to it. Because you wouldn't have come. You and I are not made for community. We're not leaders, like him. The fox looked at Darien, who was contemplating the enormous black bear in front of him. Nor are we followers, like most of the others. "What are we, then?" The fox blinked its piercing black eyes at her. Alone.
Chapter Eighteen You must lead your people. The Bear's voice sounded in Darien's head. Keep them strong and united. Defend them at all costs. "I don't know how to be a leader." You know more than you think. "But how do I—" Goodbye. The Animals dissolved into air, and the people stared at each other, bewildered. When no one stepped forward, Darien entered the circle to address them. A murmur that sounded like relief trickled through the crowd. "My name is Darien, the Bear. The Spirits have blessed us with a chance for a new beginning. Let's show them we can do it right."
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"But where do we start?" asked a thirty-something woman in a stained T-shirt. "We don't even know each other, and they expect us to make a whole new society?" "Let's start by sharing our names and Animals," Darien said. "I'm Sarah." She frowned. "Squirrel." "Sarah, it won't be easy," Darien said. "The important thing is to stay calm and focus on each other's needs. Shelter comes first." A thin young man stepped forward. "I'm Lance, the Wolf. The park has cabins just over the hill." "Good. Lance, you and Sarah find out how many tents we have. Everyone will have a place to sleep tonight. Give priority to the children and older people for the cabins. Winter's coming." He turned to the others. "Let's follow Lance to the cabins, where we can assess our rations and decide what we need to hunt and forage." To his surprise, everyone gathered their belongings. He rejoined Elysia, who raised her eyebrows at him and said nothing. They made their way down the trail with the others. An African-American woman with a salt-and-pepper braid walked beside them. "I'm Maxine, the Hawk." She laid a soft hand on Darien's arm. "Thank you for stepping forward. For a minute I thought we were doomed." Elysia grunted, but didn't speak. She'd kept silent ever since the Spirits' address. "The thing is," Maxine said, "people who already have cabins won't like being told to give them up. They probably would have done it to be decent, but you've decided for them." "So what do I do?" he asked her. "Let them choose how to divide the food. If you tell them to pool it so it can be redistributed, it'll feel like socialism. People will hide what they have." "I'm a Cougar! Rrrawr!!" A young boy, maybe seven years old, ran past them through the trees and launched himself onto a branch nearly twenty feet in the air. Maxine gave a low whistle. "It's like living in a comic book." "So what's your power?" Darien asked her. "Photographic memory. Funny, just when I was hitting that age when people forget things." She shrugged. "And I can talk with all the Spirits, not just Hawk. I'd gladly trade it for that boy's slam dunk ability, but I guess the Spirits chose us, not the other way around." Darien noticed a red-haired man near his own age walking to his right. "Hey, how's it going?" "Okay." The man shook himself out of a daze. "Sorry, I'm John. Crow." "Crow? What's that do?" "I have no idea."
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They reached the camp, and though Darien had planned to let people set their own direction, they bombarded him with questions and pleas for assistance, until he started to believe the Bear's unlikely proclamation. Elysia fielded the hunting and fishing issues, looking slightly disgruntled. Gina the Otter approached him. "Darien, I wanted to thank you for taking charge. People feel safer when someone knows what they're doing." Or at least fakes it well enough, Darien thought. "Otters are healers, right?" "I'm a doctor, a family practitioner. I guess that's why Otter chose me." She gave a grim smile. "Now I'm glad I didn't go for that plastic surgery specialty." "I was thinking, now would be the time to find out if anyone has medical issues. Keep it private, obviously. And ask for help in collecting whatever supplies you need." She nodded. "Anything else?" "Have somebody make me a list of everyone's name, Animal, and talents—magical and mundane. We need engineers, cooks, gardeners, everything. No doubt the Spirits have filled our requirements, personnel-wise." He looked at Elysia, whose eyes had filled with dread. "There's a reason we were each chosen." When the Otter had left, he asked Elysia. "What's wrong?" "Darien, I—" She started to shift away, then faced him again. "I don't think I can stay."
Chapter Nineteen Darien blinked hard at Elysia's announcement. "What?! Why can't you stay?" She gestured at the camp, panic creeping over her. "I'm not meant for this life." "What other life is there?" "Alone, out there. That's what we had. That's what I wanted." Her heart twisted. "I know you have to stay here, but I didn't sign up to be First Lady of the Promised Land." "What about your Spirit?" "She said I don't belong." "That's bullshit! She must be testing you." Elysia hesitated. Maybe the Fox had played on her paranoia. But for what purpose? "I never knew about the Reawakening until I got here. Fox probably only gave me powers so I could survive on my own." Darien gave her a look of agony. "Why would you want to leave this?" "This is one step away from Lord of the Flies. Look, those three are plotting against you already." Fifty yards away, a pair of large men—Wolverine and Badger—were conferring with the Wasp, a woman with spiky blonde hair. "How can you tell?" Darien asked.
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"Because I see what's really there, not what I want to see. Even with a good man like you as a leader, it'll all end in pain. That's the human way." "No, we can make it better." He took her hands, and she didn't know whether to feel touched or trapped. "Please stay. I need you." "You just need someone to rescue." She turned away from the hurt in his eyes and began to pack her bag. "I thought you'd changed," Darien said. "I thought you'd finally learned to care about someone besides yourself. I thought you loved me." "I do. Too much to watch you form a new harem of Darien-ettes. I've seen how the women look at you." "Is that what all this is about? Your jealousy?" "Be practical." Her tone turned venomous. "This place needs babies, and the alpha male should breed early, breed often." "Stop it. We're not animals." "Tell that to those guys." She pointed at Marcus the Wolverine, striding toward Darien, flanked by his Badger pal, a hulk named Hugh. "Yo, Bear man!" Marcus called. "Can it wait?" Darien glared at him. "I'm in the middle of—" "No." The Wolverine stopped a few feet away. "What happens when other people come? Not magic people like us." "If they're friendly, they stay," Darien said. "If not, they go." Hugh frowned. "We should kill anyone who tries to enter our territory. Friendly or not." "Or this'll turn into some kind of refugee camp," added Marcus. "We won't kill anyone who isn't a threat," Darien said in a low, firm voice. "And who decides what's a threat? You?" Marcus stepped close to Darien, nearly matching his height. "If you can't make tough decisions, maybe you're not fit to be our leader." Darien crossed his arms and met his gaze. "Then we'll hold a vote." "Democracy is dead." Hugh withdrew a rusty pipe from the back of his jeans. "And so are you if you don't step aside." Darien went still, and Elysia knew he'd sunk into The Zone. Marcus threw a right cross. Darien flipped the Wolverine onto his back, then slammed a spinning roundhouse into the Badger's gut. He waited while they recovered, maybe to see if they would give up before he was forced to hurt them. Instead of relenting, they circled him, searching for his weak spot. Despite their speed and strength, Elysia knew they were no match for Darien's fighting skills, even without his Bear powers.
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Though it had been years since she'd watched her friend Tae-Kwon-Do someone into the dust, Elysia turned her attention from the fight to the gathering crowd. She found the missing conspirator: Kiley, Marcus and Hugh's Wasp friend. The woman stood near the front of the crowd, about twenty feet behind Darien. The clang of metal against bone drew Elysia's focus back to the fight. Hugh howled and crumpled to the ground. Darien, now wielding the pipe, stood over a writhing, prostrate Marcus. "A coward would bash in both your skulls right now. But you can be useful to me, if you'd like to live." The men nodded quickly, holding back tears. Elysia glanced at Kiley just in time to see the woman pull a shiny object from her back pocket. "No!" Elysia sprang forward as Kiley released the dagger. The blade entered Elysia's chest, hot as a flame. She stared at it, uncomprehending, then collapsed.
Chapter Twenty Darien saw Elysia fall, a crimson stain spreading across her chest. "No…" He dropped to his knees at her side. The screams of the crowd sounded a mile away. Her eyes grew wide with pain. "Darien, are you—" "Shh." He clutched her hand and pressed his lips to her hair. "Just hold onto me, okay?" If she gave her life to save his, he wouldn't want to live it anymore. "I won't let you go." Her grimace almost verged on a smile. "Even you can't kick Death's ass." "Don't say that!" His voice choked. "You're not going to die." "He's right," said someone behind him. He turned to see John, the red-headed Crow, aiming a trancelike stare at Elysia. "You'll live." "How do you know?" she gasped. "I see it." John's apprehensive gaze shifted to his shoulder as if something were sitting on it. "So that's what a Crow does. Shit." Gina ran up and knelt beside them with a medical bag. She examined the position of the wound, from which the dagger still protruded. "Too high for the heart, too low for the brachial artery. Probably hurts like hell, but it shouldn't kill her." She turned to a nearby woman. "Get a blanket to use as a stretcher so we can take her inside for surgery." Darien exhaled hard, suddenly weak. He wondered if their Promised Land would turn out to be just another level of Hell.
*** Elysia sat near the large campfire, left arm in a sling. The pain pills had clubbed the agony into a dull ache, and Gina had conjured a yellow light that somehow soothed her wound.
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Darien approached her with a cup of tea. "Gina says this will help you sleep." She gave him a sly smile as she took it. "So you can have your way with me?" He chuckled and sat beside her. "No one ever gets their way with you." "I'd like to have my way with Kiley." "Uh-uh. Lance has taken them into custody until we can decide their penalty." To her frown he replied, "We need them. They're good fighters, and their aggression could be channeled into protecting the community." "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?" "A wise man, the Godfather." He cleared his throat. "We need you, too. I need you. Will you stay?" She hesitated. "On one condition: split the power. These people need your strength, but they also need someone to lead from wisdom." "Someone like you?" "Ha!" Her laughter made heads turn their way. "No, I'll keep tabs on everyone and watch your back. That's a Fox's job. But I was thinking of Maxine. She's got age, experience and a direct line to the Spirits." He nodded. "A smart choice. I'll ask her to join me. On one condition." "You're conditioning my condition?" "Marry me." "Wh-what?" She must have heard him wrong. "I don't want to share you, any more than you want to share me." He took her hand. "And I don't want anyone but you. Ever." Stunned, she shook her head. "How can we get married here?" "We'll declare our commitment in front of everyone, invent a Spirit ceremony together, make it up as we go along." She fought back a smile. "That sounds kind of fun." "Is that a yes?" Elysia touched his cheek. After all these years, they had found each other, and she had nearly thrown it away, thinking she could never love anyone but herself. If she was willing to die for him, surely she could learn to live with him. "How could I not marry this face?" Her hand slid down to his chest. "And these pecs." He laughed, then kissed her. "Wait here and close your eyes." She sighed but obliged him. "Now what?"
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"Our wedding gift," he said from several feet away. "From Lance, sort of." She heard him sit beside her again, with the echo of a familiar, almost forgotten sound. "He said I could borrow it whenever I wanted." She heard the soft, low strum of a guitar. When her eyes opened, they were full of tears. Darien eased into a century-old blues tune, looking as happy as she had ever seen him. His ghosts were resting, at least for a while. The others around the fire nodded and tapped their feet to the rhythm, hearing the ever-human currents of hope and desire. Spirits willing, Elysia thought, they would not just survive, but live, and never be dust.
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The Christmas Crush by Pamela Toth Six-year-old Molly MacDonald has just asked jolly old St. Nick for a very special gift: a boyfriend for her mom! Single mother Lana MacDonald is mortified by her daughter's request, especially when a twist of fate finds her face to face with the man behind the beard—a man she suddenly sees in a whole new light. Will Mommy get caught kissing Santa Claus this holiday season?
Chapter One "Will Santa Claus bring me everything I ask for?" Six-year-old Molly poked her arm into the sleeve of the red coat Lana MacDonald had found at the consignment store. Molly's cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes, so like her father's, sparkled with excitement. Lana felt a familiar surge of love for her daughter. "If he did, what would you ask for next year?" she teased as they left their apartment. Lana was in a hurry to get to the storefront in downtown Crescent Cove that had been turned into Santa's workshop. She hoped the line of eager children didn't stretch all the way down Harbor Avenue. "It doesn't really matter what Santa brings me," Molly said after Lana had secured her in the back seat and slid behind the wheel. "Daddy will buy what Santa forgets." Lana tensed as she turned the key in the ignition, but the engine sputtered to life. The car needed a tune-up as well as a couple of new tires, but all would just have to wait. Molly was spending Christmas with her father, so she and Lana were celebrating early. Most of Molly's presents were wrapped and hidden away in the back of Lana's closet. She tried to not resent Mike for spoiling their daughter, just as she struggled against turning the holiday into a gift-giving competition. Not that she could win. Mike's job in Silicone Valley paid a lot better than hers at the senior care center. Even with monthly child support checks, Lana had to budget carefully—hence the choice between gifts and tires. But Molly would only be a child for a short time and as far as Lana was concerned, her happiest memories were not going to be of lavish holidays spent with her father and his new family. "You're lucky to have a daddy who loves you so much," Lana said diplomatically. "That's more important than the presents he buys." "I know," Molly agreed. "If you get another husband, you'll still love me, won't you?" she asked as Lana found a parking space right downtown. It wasn't hard to figure out what had provoked Molly's question. Mike and his young wife Charlene had a two-year-old boy and another baby on the way. No wonder Molly felt displaced! He might be a dynamic sales manager, but when it came to his daughter, the man was clueless. Lana helped Molly from the car and gave her a quick, fierce hug. "No matter what happens, I will always love you with every cell in my being, and so will your father." It was Lana whom he had stopped loving only four years after he had vowed to do so forever. Molly squirmed impatiently. "That's what you always say. If you had more babies, I could take care of them just like my dolls." Lana clasped Molly's hand tightly as they walked quickly down the street. The downtown shops were open late during the Winter Festival, their windows filled with colored lights and holiday goods. Red and white
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twinkle lights were strung between the old-fashioned brass street lamps, each outfitted with three white globes. The historical district with its quaint shops stretched along the waterfront. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists as well as locals, and a group of Victorian carolers sang on the corner. A ferry leaving the terminal sounded its mournful horn as it began its journey back across Puget Sound. The evening air was cool and smelled of salt, but the rain had stopped and stars twinkled overhead. "I like it being just you and me," Lana told Molly after exchanging friendly nods with a teller from the bank. The other woman's arm was linked through her husband's, giving Lana a brief pang. This was the season for families, but hers was broken. "I'm in no hurry to remarry," she muttered to herself as much as Molly, who skipped along at her side. Between work and raising her daughter, Lana had no time for a social life. Her feelings for Mike had died after he left her for Charlene four years ago, but the idea of dating again filled Lana with dread. Online profiles, blind dates, awkward dinners, painful small talk and rejection. Who needed any of that? "Patty Finnigan's mom has a boyfriend," Molly said, holding tight to Lana's hand as they sidestepped a trio of teenagers. "Patty said they're getting twin babies after Christmas." From what Lana had heard, Heather Finnigan's live-in lover spent more time with his motorcycle than he did with her. Once Heather had confided to Lana that she couldn't stand being alone. Lana had felt sad for her. "Oh, Mommy, look!" Molly exclaimed, stopping at the entrance to Santa's workshop. "It's beautiful." The doorway and windows had been decorated with blinking lights, pine bows and artificial snow. An oversized elf in a green tunic and pointy hat held open the door. "Welcome to the North Pole!" he cried boisterously over the holiday music from inside, then handed Lana a form to sign for a photo with Santa. "No obligation to buy," he added. The Merchants' Association had outdone itself this year. Sitting on a golden throne on a raised dais in the center of the room was Santa, surrounded by two more elves and a photographer. A woman at a side table collected orders and money. The best part for Lana was that the line of parents waiting with their children wasn't long. Molly hung back, suddenly shy. "I don't think I want to talk to Santa right now." "It's okay," Lana reassured her, glancing around. "Isn't that one of your friends with her dad?" "It's Sarah," Molly replied, brightening instantly. "Hi, Sarah!" Sarah waved and her father smiled when he recognized Lana. One of Santa's helpers escorted Sarah up the red-carpeted steps to Santa.
*** Molly tugged on Lana's arm. "Mommy, why is Santa staring at you?" she whispered loudly. "Did you come here when you were a little girl like me?" Todd Elsoe's jaw itched beneath the scratchy beard, the heavy red suit was too warm and his big toe throbbed like a bad tooth. Earlier this evening a little boy in a Seahawks sweater had jumped off Todd's lap and landed on his foot, just because he wouldn't promise the kid a new Xbox. Todd didn't believe in making promises that parents might not keep.
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When he glanced up to see how many more children were waiting in line, a glimpse of long, red-gold hair as bright as a flame grabbed his attention. Since high school he'd always been partial to that color. As he stared, the woman turned, and he could see her face. Lana. "Santa?" A little girl wearing glasses tugged on Todd's sleeve. Reluctantly he shifted his attention to the job at hand. At the last minute his uncle who played Santa each year had recruited Todd to fill in when he came down with the flu. Todd wanted to carry on the family tradition and help the kids keep their fantasies for as long as they could before they realized what a cold place this world could be. "Ho, ho, ho!" he exclaimed after he had recovered from the shock of seeing Lana again. His assistant gave him the little girl's name. "And what do you want for Christmas, Sarah?" he asked.
Chapter Two When Molly's turn came, she marched confidently up the carpeted steps while Lana watched with a burst of pride. Coming to see Santa was a tradition she and her daughter shared. This year Santa looked younger than usual in his white wig and fake beard. When he'd stared briefly at Lana, she had felt a jolt of awareness that Mrs. Claus, stuck back at the North Pole, might not have appreciated. Lana gave Molly a reassuring smile as Santa repeated his ho-ho-ho's in a booming voice. "Big smile now," said the photographer, snapping their picture. Lana wished she could tell who Santa really was, but all she could see was gray eyes and dark lashes behind his wire spectacles. If his hair was dark, too, she hoped it wasn't black like Mike's. Not that it mattered, not to her. "Tell me what you'd like me to leave under your tree," Santa said to Molly while Lana's hand tightened convulsively around her purse strap. She hoped the expensive doll in her closet still topped her daughter's list. The carol that was playing came abruptly to an end. It was then that Molly, in a clear, high voice, announced, "What I want more than anything is a new boyfriend for my mommy. Then she won't be lonely anymore." Awkward laughter rippled through the room and people looked curiously at Lana as she cringed. For a moment, Santa appeared speechless. "I might not have room for him in my sleigh," he said, recovering quickly. "Why don't you tell me what you'd like me to bring you instead." Lana had no idea what Molly replied with. Head high, she was too busy trying to ignore the whispering behind her in line without bursting into tears. When Molly was done, Lana grabbed her hand and hurried past the other parents and the woman taking money; their expressions seemed full of pity. "Mommy, Mommy, what's wrong?" Molly exclaimed when they reached the sidewalk. "Are you mad at me?" Guilt halted Lana's flight and she crouched in front of Molly, who looked ready to cry. What kind of mother would spoil her daughter's joy because of a little embarrassment? Molly hadn't done it deliberately. "Oh, sweetie, I'm not mad." Lana stroked her long, dark hair. "It was so warm in there that I needed some air, that's all." "Do you feel better now?" Molly asked anxiously.
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"Much." This wasn't the place to discuss Molly's comment. "Let's go home," Lana suggested. "We'll have cocoa with marshmallows to warm us up."
*** A few moments later, as Lana drove uphill through the sudden rain shower, the steering wheel pulled hard to the right and the tire began to thump. "Mommy, why are you stopping?" Molly exclaimed as Lana eased the car to the shoulder of the dark road and turned on her four-ways. "Is something wrong?" "I think we've got a flat tire," Lana replied. "Stay here while I check." There were no street lights along this stretch, so she grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and peered around cautiously before unlocking the door. The scattered houses sat far back from the road, their lights hidden behind tall hedges. There was no other traffic. Lana checked the front tire, confirmed her suspicion, then got back inside. "I was right." She dug her cell phone from her purse. "It's flat." Roadside assistance wouldn't be cheap, but it beat fighting the tire alone in the rain. "Who are you calling?" Molly asked, sounding worried. "No one, unfortunately," Lana glared at her phone with disgust. There weren't many cell towers in the area, making service both intermittent and unreliable. Tonight they were out of luck. Now what? The apartment was too far away to walk and she dared not leave Molly alone in the car, so the only choices were to make their way down one of the long driveways or to wait for another car. Neither possibility thrilled Lana, even in a small town like Crescent Cove. She wasn't paranoid, but the idea of putting Molly at risk was petrifying. "Will somebody come and help us?" Molly asked in a tiny, worried voice. "Yes, of course." Lana tried to sound reassuring. "We'll just have to sit here for a little while." She hadn't seen another car since they turned off the main road. In this part of town at this time of the evening, people were home watching TV, not driving around in the dark and the rain. She planned to wait a half hour and then start knocking on doors. Before she could suggest a guessing game, Molly's voice broke the silence. "Mommy, I think I have to go potty."
*** Todd couldn't wait to get home so he could take off his uncle's itchy red suit and flop in front of his new plasma TV. In the three months since Todd had moved back from Seattle, he'd sold his old house, bought a condo and gone into business with a childhood friend. So far the signs indicated that he had made the right choice in leaving the urban architectural firm where he had been considered a rising star. All the signs, at least, until he'd looked up tonight and seen the object of his unwavering adolescent obsession, Lana Larson. Head cheerleader, homecoming queen and, without a doubt, the prettiest girl who had ever strolled the hallowed halls of Crescent Cove High. And the most unattainable dream that a gangly, awkward, dorky nerd like Todd could have had back then. Driving through the dark in his SUV, he could remember how totally besotted he'd been.
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Had she known about his crush? He could only hope she hadn't. Even though she'd been one of the nicest girls in school, the thought of her pity was enough, even a decade later, to make him squirm in his heated leather seat. Despite adding a couple more inches to his string bean height, bulking up considerably and having laser eye surgery, inside he was still a nerd. Some things never changed. He turned onto the curving shortcut to the bluff while he reviewed the evening. When his uncle had asked him to step in, Todd had figured playing Santa might be fun. He liked kids, even looked forward to having his own. Seeing Lana had been a bonus, and then her little girl asked him to bring her mom a boyfriend. Last Todd had heard, Lana married her high school steady, Mike MacDonald. Iron Mike had been part of a group of thick-necked jocks who'd made Todd's life—if not miserable—then a lot less fun than it might have been without their bullying. As Todd drove around a bend, his memories of Lana in her cheer uniform were interrupted by the sight of a car on the shoulder, flashers blinking. He could see someone inside, so he put his plans for a cold beer and mindless TV on hold and pulled over behind the other car.
Chapter Three "Someone's stopping to help us!" Molly clapped her hands as another pair of headlights shone through the back window. "We're saved." Lana hoped her daughter was right and some harmless older couple had stopped to give aid. She and Molly had only been sitting here for a few minutes, but at least Molly's need for a bathroom hadn't yet reached the critical zone. In her mirror Lana saw a big red shape emerge from the other car. With her door locked, she lowered her window cautiously. "Good evening. Car trouble?" Lana recognized his voice instantly. She had been right about the dark hair, but without his disguise Santa was far more attractive than she had imagined. "I've got a flat tire," she explained. "It was raining so hard that I didn't want to get out of the car." She hadn't even noticed that the shower had ended. "I'll take a look," he offered. "You stay put." "Thank you for stopping." She had no intention of getting out of the car. "I'll be happy to pay you." Not that happy, since payday wasn't until next week, but she wasn't exposing herself or her child to danger, even if it was dressed up like Old Saint Nick.
*** Todd was disappointed that she didn't recognize him, even without his glasses. It was hard for him to believe that he was near enough to the former Lana Larson to touch her. "You're still as pretty as ever," he blurted. As her eyes widened, he felt like a total geek. Way to go, Todd. "I mean, you haven't changed." Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Do I know you?" "Of course you do, Mommy," exclaimed the precocious little girl from the back seat. "He's Santa Claus." She peered through the window. "Where's your beard?" she demanded. "You're supposed to have a beard." He glanced helplessly at Lana. "I, um…" His mind had turned to mush. Help, he mouthed silently.
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Who are you? she mouthed back. He glanced distractedly between her and her daughter. Now what? Before he could reply, another car came around the bend. When it pulled up beside them, he saw that it was a patrol car. "Everything okay here?" the deputy asked through his open window. "Ma'am?" He smirked as he looked Todd up and down. "Santa?" Todd considered letting Officer Friendly change her flat, but just then the deputy's radio crackled to life. "Miz MacDonald, do you want me to call roadside assistance before I leave for this other scene?" he asked. She glanced up at Todd, obviously seeking assurance. Did she think Santa was going to mug her in front of her kid? Part of Todd knew he wasn't being fair. What had he expected, that she jump out of the car and throw her arms around him? And say what? You're the nerdy boy who used to stare at me! "Save your money, Lana," he said gruffly. "My name's Todd Elsoe. We went to school together. If your spare's good, I'll have it changed in ten minutes." "Since you two know each other, I'm outta here." The deputy's words barely registered with Lana. She was too busy staring up at her would-be rescuer. "You're Todd?" she blurted as the cruiser drove off. "I never would have known it was you." Immediately she realized her total lack of tact. She barely remembered him, except that he'd been quiet and brainy. She hoped he'd never heard the comments some of her friends made about him or the other "nerds." "I guess I've put on some weight." He held out the loose-fitting red jacket. "Even without the padding." "Mommy, I really have to go potty. I don't think I can wait." "I'm sorry, sweetie," Lana replied, feeling a jab of guilt for getting her priorities scrambled just because a hunky guy had shown up. "Just a few more minutes, okay?" She hit the trunk release button and unfastened her seat belt. "I'll help you," she told Todd. He held open her door politely. "Do you live very far?" he asked. "I could run you home and then we can come back to fix the tire." It was nice of him to offer, but Lana didn't know him anymore, hadn't ever known him very well and hadn't spared him a single thought since graduation. Didn't people always say the serial killer next door seemed like such a nice, regular guy? Still, the deputy had seen them together, in case she disappeared. "Mommy, can we?" Molly asked, making up Lana's mind. "Please?" "We live right at the top of the hill in that red brick apartment building," Lana told Todd as she grabbed her keys and her purse, then freed Molly.
*** In moments they were settled into Todd's SUV. The leather seats and fancy dash indicated that he must be doing well. As soon as he parked, Lana hurried Molly out of the SUV. "We'll be right back," Lana told him, keys in hand as Molly fidgeted beside her.
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"I'll be here," he replied with a grin that threatened to curl Lana's toes. "Don't keep your daughter waiting."
*** "Why is he wearing a Santa suit if his name is Todd?" Molly asked when they came back out and Lana locked the front door. "He even sounds like Santa." Lana was relieved to see Todd leaning against the silver SUV. She hadn't really believed he might leave without them, but one never knew for sure what other people would do. She was tempted to tell Molly to ask him why he was dressed the way he was, but that wouldn't be fair, especially after he'd been so helpful. She still couldn't get over how much he'd changed. Even in the baggy clothes, she could tell he was broader through the shoulders and chest. His face was different, too, and not just because he wasn't wearing glasses. It was leaner, with angles replacing the unformed curves of youth. "Santa needs spare suits in case his gets torn or something," she improvised as she and Molly approached him. "Since he wears it for hours and hours on Christmas Eve, each one has to be broken in, just like your new shoes." As he opened their doors, Todd shot Lana an appreciative glance. "So he has guys like me to wear them for him," he added. "So you know Santa!" Molly exclaimed when he got behind the wheel. He glanced in the mirror at her as he headed back down the hill. "I certainly do," he said. "When I saw him tonight, he told me about you." Molly looked entranced. "Did he tell you what I asked for?"
Chapter Four "Did Santa tell you what I asked him to bring me?" Molly repeated to Todd. "Oh, no," he said quickly, lips twitching. "That's confidential, but he did say it was memorable." Todd probably saw Lana as pathetic! Everyone in town knew her husband had left her for a younger, prettier woman. Todd had seen Lana's car and the building where she lived. It certainly wasn't a slum, but it was old and their unit was small; it was the best she could do. "Will you tell Santa hi for me when you take back his suit?" Molly asked him as he made a U-turn in order to pull back in behind Lana's car. "I sure will," he replied. "Why don't you stay right there while your mom and I change that tire?" "Then you can tell Santa that I did what I was told," Molly replied. He winked at Lana. "It's a deal." When Lana unlocked her trunk and reached for the jack, Todd touched her arm. "Why don't you let me do that," he suggested quietly. "I'd hate to see you get dirt on your jacket." She glanced down at her light blue parka. "What about your pretty red suit?" Todd's grin sent a shiver through her, but it wasn't because of the cold night air. "It's my Uncle Hank's spare," he said quietly, lifting out the jack. "Go sit with Molly."
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A few moments later, he returned the tools and her tire to the trunk, so Lana helped Molly from his SUV. "Why did the tire get flat?" Molly asked him. Lana had explained in terms that a six-year-old could grasp each step of the procedure. Todd wiped his hands on a rag. "A tire's like a balloon," he said after shutting the trunk. "A big nail made a hole for the air to escape." "I can't thank you enough," Lana told him. "It was really good to see you again and to meet Molly." "You, too." Lana stared up at him for an awkward moment, torn between the wish that he would say something more and the need to put the unexpected meeting behind her. As attractive as Todd had turned out, he wasn't for her. Quickly she settled Molly in the back seat, thanking him again when he held open the driver's door. They exchanged holiday wishes and he walked back to his SUV. Lana wasn't surprised when he followed her up the hill. It meant nothing, since he'd been going that way in the first place. When she reached her building, he drove on by. She glanced back in time to see him wave. Maybe she would run into him again, but probably not. Even in a small community like Crescent Cove, a struggling single mom and a successful bachelor wouldn't normally run in the same circles. "I guess you'll have something to tell the other kids at school tomorrow," she told Molly after they'd entered their apartment. Their little adventure was over. It was only later as Lana drifted off to sleep that Todd's image reappeared. This time he wasn't wearing a Santa suit. He wasn't wearing anything at all except a smile and a pair of tight red briefs. "Ho, ho, ho," he said, brandishing a sprig of mistletoe. "Come to Santa, sweetheart."
*** The next morning Todd stuck his head into his partner's office to say hello. "What have you heard lately about Lana Larson?" he asked Gary Perkins after they had discussed an early conference call with an outof-state client. All the way home last night, Todd had chewed himself out for letting Lana get away without asking for her number. So what if she shot him down? It wouldn't have been the first time he'd felt the sting of rejection. In high school he'd been the poster boy for failure with girls. Even though he'd had a couple of mildly serious relationships since then, he had yet to experience anything as intense as his adolescent feelings for Lana. Standing by the window overlooking the distant bay, Gary considered Todd's question. Like Todd, Gary had grown up in Crescent Cove and gotten a degree at the University of Washington in nearby Seattle. Unlike Todd, he'd married a coed and brought her back with him right after graduation. "Why are you asking about Lana?" he asked. "Don't tell me you're planning on looking her up again?" Todd wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Back in school, Gary had known all about his obsession with his dream girl. Reluctantly he filled Gary in on the events of the night before, omitting Molly's request that he bring her mom a boyfriend. Gary might be amused, but Todd had seen Lana's expression. To her it hadn't been funny.
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"Some guys have all the luck," Gary grumbled. "The last time I stopped to help someone, it was a ninetyyear-old man who was deaf as a post and smelled of mothballs." He shrugged. "You knew Lana and Mike split up, didn't you?" "That's what I figured. Any idea what happened?" Gossip wasn't Todd's usual style, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity. Gary shook his head. "Why does a bright woman like Lana never see through a jerk like MacDonald? It was that old story of the wife being the last to know he was seeing a coworker. I think he married her." Todd felt a surge of anger on Lana's behalf. Mike deserved a broken nose, for Molly as well as her mother. Divorce was tough on kids; Todd knew that firsthand. "How long ago did it happen?" Gary shrugged. "A few years ago, I guess." "Does Mike still live around here?" Todd realized his hands had bunched into fists. Deliberately he relaxed them. Just because he wasn't the wimp he used to be didn't mean he needed an assault charge in his résumé. Besides, it wasn't his business. "I don't think so." Gary frowned. "Can't say I've heard anything since the split. Lana must keep a low profile." A phone rang in the outer office and their assistant, Gail, answered the call. "You're single, she's single. You going to call her?" Gary challenged with a grin. Todd shrugged. The idea stirred up feelings of insecurity he hadn't felt for years. Gail appeared in the doorway. "Gary, your nine o'clock is here." "Keep me posted," Gary told Todd before they filed out of his office. As Gary greeted his visitor, Todd took the opportunity to slip back to his own office. He had a full day's work so he could get back downtown by five for his volunteer gig. With luck, he'd be too busy to moon over Lana.
Chapter Five "What did you do in school today?" Lana asked Molly as they walked hand-in-hand across the courtyard from Mrs. Pickering's apartment. Lana was lucky to have found the older woman to watch Molly after school while Lana was at work. "I can't tell you," Molly replied. "It's a surprise." The kids were probably working on something for their parents. "Shall we order a pizza for dinner?" Lana asked, sure of Molly's reply. Right now pizza was her favorite food. "Yea!" Molly cheered. "I want ham and black olives." As they were about to go up the stairs, Lana noticed a silver SUV pull into one of the guest parking spots. She'd never paid any attention to that make and color until the other night, but now they seemed to be all over the place. "Come on, Mommy," Molly urged, tugging on her arm. "I'm hungry for pizza." Forgetting about the SUV, Lana started up the staircase. "Maybe you'd allow me to take you both to Bella's," suggested a familiar voice from behind her.
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She turned to see Todd grinning up at her. He looked fantastic in a leather jacket and snug jeans, making her painfully aware of her old slacks and lack of makeup. Automatically her hand went to her hair, fastened into an untidy knot. "What are you doing here?" she blurted. "I knew you'd come back!" Molly exclaimed, darting past Lana. Todd patted Molly's shoulder. "I couldn't call," he told Lana. "You're unlisted." "I know that." Her hand gripped the metal railing tight enough to leave prints as she tried unsuccessfully to think of something clever to add. Molly had no such problem. "Mommy, let's go to Bella's with Mister Todd," she begged. "If you don't have enough money, maybe he'll buy us a pizza." Lana's cheeks went hot, but she couldn't blame Molly for repeating her standard excuse for not doing things. "You can call me just plain Todd," he told Molly. "How about it, Mom? If I pay, will you lovely ladies join me?"
*** Todd had dreamed of escorting the most popular girl in school into the best pizza place in town, but he'd never believed it would actually happen. Now here he was, seated in a booth with Lana and her daughter. As usual, the place was busy and the aromas were to die for. Bella's granddaughter had just taken their order. "Just plain Todd?" Molly asked. "Do you live at the North Pole with Santa and his elves and his reindeer?" "Nope," he replied, "I live near you, in a condo." "What's a condo?" she asked. "It's like an apartment, except that you own it instead of renting like we do," Lana explained. She smiled at Todd, but her green eyes seemed guarded. "How did you know I didn't want to cook tonight?" "I was afraid I'd have to knock on doors until I found you, but I drove up and there you were." His timing couldn't have been better. Was that a sign from the matchmaking gods or just a dumb break for a dumb guy? "Molly stays with a neighbor after school until I get off work," Lana explained as the waitress brought their drinks. "I had just picked her up." "Where do you work?" He wanted to know everything about her, but he didn't want to scare her with too many questions. "I work at the senior center." Instead of elaborating, she turned the question back on him. "I was a small fish in a large architectural firm in Seattle, but I wanted more control over the projects I take on," he explained. "Gary Perkins and I went into partnership a few months ago." Todd didn't want to bore her with the details, so he didn't go on. "We're divorced," Molly announced cheerfully. "I'm going to fly on an airplane to California." So she was going to be gone for Christmas. Todd wasn't sure how to respond to what must be a sensitive subject for Lana. "That sounds like fun," he said, thinking that it sounded like anything but fun for her.
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A flash of something like pain crossed Lana's face. "Mike's coming up on business, so we're meeting him at the airport." The arrival of their pizza was a good excuse to change the subject. After they filled their plates and their glasses, Todd lifted his in a toast. "To the two prettiest girls in the room." "That's very sweet of you," Lana murmured, touching her glass to his and then Molly's. "And to just-plain-Todd." Molly tipped her glass when she raised it, spilling some of her soda onto the table. When he and Lana both reach out to mop it up, their hands bumped. The accidental contact sizzled up his arm. "No harm, no foul," he said with a grin.
*** "That was fun," Lana told Todd when they reached the apartment stairs. She had been surprised by his invitation, but he'd seemed to enjoy himself despite the spilled soda. He had even headed off Molly's tears with a little story about Rudolf. From what Lana could remember, in class he had been quick and clever despite his shyness. Now he seemed more relaxed, more confident. She wished that she could say the same, but Mike's betrayal had rocked her foundation. Was the reason Todd had shown up tonight because he hadn't made a lot of friends since he'd come back to town? It didn't seem likely, but it was possible. Is that why you gave him your number? asked a tiny voice inside her head. Because you thought a hunk like Todd Elsoe was lonely? "When are you taking Molly to the airport?" he asked. "Maybe I could drive you." His offer surprised Lana. The trip over to Sea-Tac involved a long ferry ride to Seattle and a longer drive through heavy traffic. "Can we, Mommy?" Molly asked, clapping her hands. "He could meet Daddy." "We're going Wednesday afternoon," Lana told Todd. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't think it's a good idea." No way did she want someone else involved in what was always a stressful situation for her. "Good night." "But Mommy—," Molly protested. Lana shook her head. "Come on, honey. Don't argue." Firmly she grabbed her daughter's hand and headed upstairs. She could feel Todd watching them, but she didn't look back. Molly, on the other hand, turned and waved. "He's nice," she exclaimed well before she and Lana were out of earshot. "Don't you like him, Mommy?" "Of course I do," Lana hissed, key in hand. She did like Todd. He was attractive and smart. Obviously he was kind, too, but she wasn't going to let her emotions run away with her common sense, not this time around.
Chapter Six Todd didn't know why he kept setting himself up for rejection, but he couldn't persuade himself to give up on Lana. Perhaps it was because she'd stood up for him once back in school when her boyfriend was bullying him, an incident Todd figured she wouldn't even remember. Not only was she gorgeous, but she intrigued him. Who was the real Lana MacDonald?
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"I know it can't be easy letting Molly leave right before Christmas," he said when he called her on Tuesday afternoon. "I get why you don't want a near-stranger with you, but I thought you might want some company when you get back. We could meet for a drink or coffee, anything you want." Now that Uncle Hank had recovered from the flu, he was ready to take over as Santa once again. Not only did he grow out his white beard ever year, but he'd even had a new Santa suit tailor-made. As much as Todd had enjoyed filling in, he was ready to reclaim his evenings. For a moment Lana didn't reply, making his hopes plunge. What had he expected, that she would suddenly realize he'd evolved into a real catch? "I don't know," she murmured. "I probably won't feel like socializing." "Come on, you don't have to entertain me," he wheedled. "I'm just offering a friendly shoulder, nothing more." Nothing more? Who was he kidding? There was another silence, during which he was tempted to bang his head on the nearby door jamb. At what point did a man cross the line between being pathetic and a stalker? "That might be nice." Her words caused him to almost drop his phone. "Could I let you know on my way back? I'm not sure which ferry I'll catch, but I could call you." "Heck yes, that's totally fine. I'll be waiting." To stop the gush of words, he clamped his teeth together, nearly biting his tongue. "Thanks," she said, voice like warm brandy. "I'll talk to you later." Before he could pry open his clenched jaw and babble his gratitude, she hung up, sparing him further humiliation.
*** Through a blur of fresh tears, Lana saw the sign welcoming her back to Crescent Cove. The tight knot that always formed in her chest whenever she had to say goodbye to her daughter had barely begun to ease. Seeing Mike at the airport had left her emotionally wrung out. She no longer loved him and sometimes — most of the time —she didn't even like him. Her brave face was for Molly, who had loved her doll and given Lana a Christmas tree pin she had made at school. On the way home Lana had just missed the ferry, so she'd been stuck in line for a half-hour waiting for the next one. All she wanted was to go home and burrow under the covers until the holidays were over and Molly was home again. Instead she'd given in to temptation and called Todd from the ferry. Nervously she touched the tree she'd pinned to her collar. What was she getting herself into?
*** She drove herself to the Crab Pot, a cozy tavern on the waterfront. After they ended up staying for the area's best fish and chips, Todd insisted on following her home. "You wouldn't want me to lie awake all night worrying, would you?" he teased when she pointed out that it wasn't late and she'd be perfectly fine. How did one argue against that kind of persuasion?
***
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A little while later, Todd stood facing Lana beside her parked car. Lightly he touched her hair with his hand. "You're probably tired, so I'll say goodnight." Lana had been ready with reasons for not asking him up, so his comment caught her totally off guard. Maybe she had talked too much or not enough at the Crab Pot, she thought, and now he couldn't wait to get away. "It seems as though I'm always thanking you." "No problem." His face was in shadow, his expression unreadable and his hands planted firmly in his pockets. The grounds were deserted. Even the street was empty of cars, but obviously there was no need for privacy. "Well, good night." Vaguely disappointed, she started to leave. Before she could take two steps, Todd touched her arm. "Lana." His husky voice sent shivers of sensation down her spine. "Wait." Slowly she turned back to face him, her heart tripping in double time. She could no longer deny, at least to herself, how strong was the attraction she felt. The more she saw him, the more it grew. When he closed the space between them, she was almost afraid to breathe and spoil the moment. He lifted his hands, cupping her face as though she were a fragile glass ornament. "I've wanted to kiss you for so long," he murmured, thumb caressing her lower lip. Lana slid her hands up the front of his jacket, the leather soft and smooth beneath her palms. "Show me," she whispered daringly. She hadn't been with a man, hadn't even been kissed since before her divorce. With a groan Todd wrapped her in his arms and bent his head. The first touch of his lips felt cool on hers, but then heat flared between them, threatening to burn her right up. Lana clung to his wide shoulders as sensation swept through her like a prairie fire through dry grass. It felt so good to be pressed against him, to feel the response he was unable to hide. Todd changed the angle of the kiss, murmuring something against her mouth, coaxing her to yield. She forgot everything except the feel of him. Then a car horn blared from out on the street. Like a blast of arctic air, reality came roaring back. Shivering, Lana pulled free of his arms. "I've got to go," she exclaimed. "Lana, I didn't mean—" "Good night," she said, cutting him off. As she hurried toward her building, she wondered if he thought her a tease. She hesitated at the stairs, tempted to go back, to explain. To say what? That she was afraid of getting hurt? Before she could figure out what to do, she heard his car start up. She turned in time to see the headlights sweep across the lot as though he couldn't escape fast enough. She hoped it was because he, too, had been unprepared for the sparks between them, but she didn't think that was very likely.
*** "Way to go, Elsoe," Todd muttered as he drove away. The poor girl had expected a friendly goodnight peck and instead he'd acted as though he wanted to devour her. No wonder she'd leaped away like a scalded cat. Frustrated, embarrassed, mad at himself, he slapped the steering wheel hard enough to make his palm sting. Did he have to make that lame comment about waiting so long to kiss her? There was nothing sexy about desperation. She probably figured: once a geek, always a geek.
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He wasn't inexperienced, but when he had felt her response, his control had shattered like a cheap vase. Shaking his head, he pulled over to the curb and picked up his cell phone.
Chapter Seven "I wanted to make sure you're all right," Todd said into his phone when Lana answered. For an achingly long moment, she didn't reply. "I'm fine, thank you." Her voice was distant, as though they were a thousand miles apart, not just a few blocks. "There's a basketball game at the high school on Friday," he said, swallowing hard. "Would you like to go?" "I'm pretty busy with the holidays and all. I'd better pass." What had he expected, that she would magically realize she was crazy about him? This was real life, not a fairy tale. "Well, good night, then." He'd barely choked out the words when he heard the click of her phone in his ear.
*** Lana sat behind the desk in her cramped office at the senior center across from two members of the Women's Auxiliary. Since Lana had begun working here as an aid right after Mike left, she'd advanced steadily until she was now a combination activities director, scheduling coordinator and event planner. Today she was meeting with the co-leaders of the volunteer group who put on an annual Christmas party for area seniors. Perhaps she could stay busy enough to stop missing Molly—and Todd. Better to be disappointed now than hurt later. Too bad that knowing she had done the right thing in discouraging Todd's attention didn't make it any easier. The bright coral poinsettia plant left on her doorstep yesterday hadn't budged her resolve and she hadn't thanked him, hadn't even picked up the phone when he'd called later. Let him think she was rude while she tried to forget how much she'd enjoyed being with him, how attracted and how terrified of getting hurt she was. One of the other women cleared her throat. Hastily Lana glanced up from the list she'd drawn up for the party. "Refreshments?" "The caterer's confirmed, complete with cookies provided by our baking committee," replied Mavis Board. "Sounds wonderful." Lana checked off the item. "Decorations?" "Already bought. The high school pep club is putting them and the donated tree up this weekend." Pleased, Lana moved quickly down her list. The entertainment, music, a small gift for each senior and transportation for those who needed it had all been arranged. Her pen was poised over the last item as she ignored the lurch of her heart. "Santa Claus?" Neither woman spoke up. Lana glanced at Mavis in time to see her exchange glances with her co-chair, Ginny Sullivan. "Didn't you take care of that?" Mavis asked her. Ginny shook her head. "I thought you said you'd talk to Hank." "Oops. I'll call him right this minute." Mavis dug her cell phone from her purse and stepped out of the room.
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"Who else would have Santa on speed-dial," Ginny said dryly. The two women had been in charge of the party for years. Since Lana had begun working with them, this was the first glitch she could remember. As she and Ginny waited, they could hear Mavis talking on her cell. When she finally reappeared, she looked concerned. "Hank's already booked. If we can't find someone else, we might have to change the date." "The party's next week and most of the flyers are already up," Ginny protested. "It's too late to reschedule." Mavis pushed her glasses back up her nose. "I'm sure we'll find someone, but it might be harder tracking down a suit and a beard, I suppose. I'll get right on it." "I'll call around, too," Ginny offered while Lana remained resolutely silent.
*** Two days later, Mavis contacted Lana. "I found three men and a woman who are all willing to play Santa, but there isn't a red suit to be found from here to Bremerton. Quite frankly, I'm stumped." What was a Christmas party without Santa Claus? It was time for Lana to put her personal feelings aside. "I may know someone," she told Mavis, stomach fluttering with nerves. "He comes with a borrowed red suit." Would Todd agree? After the way she'd acted, would he even talk to her?
*** Drumming his fingers, Todd stared out his office window at the steady rain running down the glass. The weather matched his mood. When he'd first seen Lana again and heard her daughter's wish, his hopes had soared. He'd thought that maybe, finally, after all this time, he had a second chance. Bah humbug. His odds of winning the state lottery were better. His high school crush had grown into something more. A lot more. After seeing her only a couple of times, he had fallen like a skydiver whose chute didn't open. He had crashed and burned once again, just a pathetic heap at her feet. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the current design project on his computer, a waterfront condo complex he and Gary were developing together. At some point, the sound of knocking broke his concentration. Glancing up, he realized that the assistant was standing in the doorway and the afternoon was nearly over. "You've got a visitor," Gail said quietly. "She doesn't have an appointment, but she promised to take only a few minutes." Drop-in clients were unusual, but Todd didn't have anything scheduled. "What's her name?" he asked, getting to his feet. You never knew where the next commission might come from. "Maybe you know her," Gail replied. "Lana MacDonald?"
*** Each year Lana decided that the party at the senior center was the best one yet. This time, as she mingled with the elderly guests, she was sure of it. The pep club had done an excellent job on the decorations, including a huge Douglas fir covered with multi-colored balls and twinkling lights. The catered buffet was outstanding. Even the entertainment, made up of local volunteers, had been well received.
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Best of all, Todd had excelled as Santa Claus. He'd proven to be as adept with his oldest fans as he'd been with Molly. He'd flirted gently with the women and traded jokes with the men. More than once Lana had seen him listening intently to a veteran's war story or exclaiming over a proud grandma's photo gallery. Except for a brief exchange when he'd first arrived, Lana hadn't talked to him all afternoon. Finally the party started to wind down. The caterer's crew had already packed up the leftover food, most of the guests had gone and a few volunteers picked up the party clutter. Lana stood by the door, thanking everyone for coming and watching for Todd.
Chapter Eight As the hall cleared, Todd was still seated at a table with Henry Crow, an old man with no family. The two of them had been deep in conversation, but finally Todd helped Henry to his feet. After they shook hands, Henry bade Lana goodbye. "I can't remember when I've enjoyed myself more," he said with a smile on his lined face. "It's not often someone is willing to listen to an old man's stories." "I was fascinated," Todd told him. "I hope we'll get a chance to talk again." Henry leaned toward Lana, eyes twinkling behind his thick glasses as he poked his thumb at Todd. "Did you know he's still single?" Henry asked. "You'd be smart to grab him." Lana had to laugh at Henry's obvious matchmaking. "I'm already spoken for," she joked, no longer sensitive about Molly's comment. "My daughter asked Santa to bring me a boyfriend for Christmas." Henry laughed and slapped his knee. "Keep me posted." With a final wave, he left with one of the volunteer drivers. "Want some coffee before you go?" Lana asked Todd, hoping to stall his departure until she could figure out if there was a chance he might still be interested despite the way she had acted. "There's some left in the kitchen." "Let me peel off my beard and I'll meet you back here," he replied, raising her hopes. At least he hadn't bolted while he had the chance.
*** When he reappeared, face bare of the fake beard and red jacket unbuttoned to reveal a snug white tee shirt, Lana remembered the attraction she'd felt the first time she saw him and didn't realize who he was. Despite her attempts to resist, her feelings had grown amazingly fast. Now her hands tightened on the arms of the overstuffed chair. She had kicked off the uncomfortable high-heeled shoes she wore with her dark green dress and tucked one bare foot beneath her. "Forget the coffee," he said. "You've earned a break after all your hard work." She wouldn't feel right taking the credit. "The volunteers did almost everything." He sat down across from her, booted feet stretched in front of him. "How did you end up working here?" he asked. "If today was an indication, you must love it." Before she realized it, Lana had told him everything, from her unsuccessful job search after Mike left to juggling her job here as an aid with being a single mother. By the time she'd finished and glanced guiltily at her watch, she was shocked to see how much time had passed. "I've talked your ear off." She shot to her feet, embarrassed. "It's time I locked up here and said goodnight."
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"We'd better make sure that coffee's turned off." He draped his arm across her shoulders and led her toward the kitchen while she basked in his nearness. After they'd gone through the doorway, he stopped her. "What have we here?" he asked, looking upward without letting her go. She stared at the bunch of mistletoe tied to the overhead light fixture. "That wasn't here before." Todd grinned down at her. "According to the Santa handbook and my Uncle Hank, I can't ignore tradition as long as I'm wearing the suit." The quick kiss he gave her was both a surprise and a disappointment. Had she managed to stomp out whatever spark of attraction he'd felt? Then why didn't she feel relieved that temptation had been removed from her path?
*** On Christmas Eve, Lana sat alone on her couch, staring at the flames in the fireplace. Molly's phone call earlier had been the bright spot in her day. In defiance of her own dark mood, Lana had changed into a stretchy velvet track suit with snowflakes embroidered on the jacket. She'd used the perfume the staff at the center had given her and she was even wearing her jingle bell earrings. Two days ago she had, against her better judgment, let a present with Todd's receptionist. She had no idea whether he liked the small Santa statue carved out of wood. She hadn't heard from him. She was about to turn off the music and watch TV when there was a knock on her front door. She looked through the peephole and had no idea what to think. Fastening the chain, she opened the door and peeked out. A Santa Claus complete with red hat and white wig stared back at her through the eye holes of his full face mask. "You're my very last stop," said a muffled voice. "Then I can go home to the North Pole and Mrs. Claus." Was this someone's idea of a joke? "Who are you?" she demanded. Santa lifted up the mask, the hat and the wig, all in one motion. "Todd!" she exclaimed with a burst of delighted laughter. "What are you doing here?" His grin was the most welcome sight she could have asked for. "Invite me in and I'll tell you." Quickly she freed the chain and opened the door. "Can I offer you some cider and cookies?" she asked, heart pounding as he stepped inside and firmly shut the door behind him. He shook his head, smile fading and his gaze locked on hers. "Not right now. I came to deliver Molly's present." Lana hoped he hadn't been able to tell how she'd completely misread his visit. "She won't be back until next week." "Your daughter doesn't need to be here," he said, gaze unwavering. "Don't you remember what she asked for?" Lana, I did remember. The intensity in Todd's eyes stirred an unfamiliar feeling in her. Anticipation. His voice grew surprisingly husky. "I've looked and looked, but I couldn't find anyone who's just right for her mommy."
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Lana swallowed hard. "You can't disappoint a little girl on Christmas Eve, so what are you going to do?" Todd rested his hands on her shoulders. "I know it hasn't been very long, but when something feels as right as this, time isn't important." She couldn't speak past the sudden lump in her throat. She could only nod. "Lana," he said gravely, "what I want for Christmas and for every Christmas to come, is you. I'll give you all the time you need, but please, please, give me a chance to make a family with you and Molly. " Lana swallowed hard. "How could I turn down Santa Claus on Christmas Eve?" Her eyes filled with happy tears as she slid her arms around his neck. "I can hardly wait to see what you'll bring me next year," she whispered. And then she kissed him.
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A McCabe's Valentine by Cathy Gillen Thacker Loner Zach Taylor leads a jet-set life with no strings attached. But when his cousin and his wife are killed in a car crash, leaving behind two young children, Zach is the only family the kids have left. Temporarily entrusted with the children's care, attorney Claire McCabe has grown to love them as though they were her own. Can she convince reluctant Zach to take on a ready-made family? Or will she fall in love with him first? Find out in A McCabe's Valentine, a heartwarming Valentine's Day online read.
Chapter One "There's been a mistake," Zach Taylor told Claire McCabe impatiently the moment she opened her front door to him, shortly after nine o'clock Friday evening. "I don't know what my cousin and his wife were thinking when they named me in their will, but I can't be the guardian for their two kids. I've never even met them!" "Don't you think you're being a little hasty about this?" Claire asked gently, trying hard not to notice how good-looking Zach Taylor was in that sexy, bachelor-for-life way, as she ushered him into the foyer of her Laramie, Texas, home. "No," Zach said firmly, as he shoved a hand through the rumpled layers of his black, curly hair. He focused his sea blue eyes squarely on hers and continued implacably, "I'm not the right guy to take charge of them. I make my living as a pilot for the CEO of Middleton International. And that means I'm out of the country these days more than I'm in. Usually with very little notice." Claire knew he had a prestigious job and a stellar work record — she'd found that out while she had been trying to track him down. Clearly, this was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. She just had to help him see that the children were now his responsibility, too. Claire smiled as she took his leather flight jacket and hung it on the coatrack in the hall. "Surely there are other pilot jobs you could take to support yourself," she continued as she led him toward the living room, where she had coffee and cookies waiting. "If I wanted to, sure." Zach sat down reluctantly on her overstuffed floral sofa. He watched as she poured them both a steaming, aromatic cup of coffee. "The point is," he emphasized bluntly, "I don't." Claire could see that. And although it wasn't her place to pass judgment on anyone, she couldn't help but feel disappointed. It was a shame he'd never met the kids, Claire thought, because had Zach Taylor met talkative six-year-old Robin and her amiable three-year-old brother Bradley, the handsome pilot would have wanted to take care of them. Instead, he wanted to run away from the responsibility that had fallen squarely on his broad, capable-looking shoulders. "Look," Zach continued explaining as she stirred cream into her coffee, "I've worked my whole adult life to get that dream job. I'm not giving it up." Half a dozen years of courtroom experience had taught Claire how to play her cards right. Willing to bide her time while Zach Taylor came to his senses, she took a delicate sip of coffee and sat back on the sofa. "All right." "That's it?" Zach continued in his heart-of-Texas drawl. "You call me out of the blue and tell me to come all the way to Laramie, Texas, to meet you and the kids. I tell you I can't take the kids. And that's it?" Clearly, Claire thought, Zach Taylor had expected a much harder sell from the attorney appointed the children's interim guardian.
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But even if he wanted her to persuade him into doing the right thing, she wasn't interested in playing the part of his conscience. Whatever decision he came to regarding custody of his cousin's children had to come straight from his heart. Otherwise, his efforts to care for the kids would eventually fail, no matter how well intentioned. Claire shrugged and crossed her legs delicately at the knee. "I'm happy to say you aren't Robin and Bradley's only option here. There's a whole list of families interested in adopting both the children. When news of the tragic accident that claimed the lives of your cousin and his wife spread, hearts opened." She paused, wanting him to understand how irrevocable his giving up the children would be. "It's just a matter of getting you to relinquish all rights to the kids and for me to match up Bradley and Robin with a family who will be able to give them the love and tenderness they need." She paused again as she contemplated what it would be like, telling the two recently orphaned children that their only remaining relative did not want them. "They've been through a lot." A mixture of grief and guilt turned Zach's eyes a stormy blue-gray. He looked at her with heartfelt regret. "I know. And I'm sorry." Claire nodded. "We all are." The question was, what was Zach prepared to do about it? Silence stretched between them as Zach looked down at the crayon drawings the children had been working on before they went to bed. Three-year-old Bradley's were mostly scribbles, but Robin had drawn hearts of various shapes and sizes, commemorating the upcoming Valentine's Day holiday. Emotion flickered in Zach's eyes as he studied the children's pictures. He set his coffee down on the table between them. He leaned toward her in a conciliatory manner as he continued in a low, husky voice. "Look, obviously the two of us got off on the wrong foot. This is a pretty upsetting situation." Claire nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with him on that point. "I trust you to do what's best for the two kids." Zach stood and prepared to leave. "So you do what you have to do and —" Claire set her coffee cup down and stood, squaring off with Zach. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, Mr. Taylor."
Chapter Two "What do you mean, it's not that simple?" Zach asked skeptically, his glance taking in Claire's shoulderlength auburn hair, fair skin, and heart-shaped face before settling, with mesmerizing intensity, on her darkgreen eyes. "This isn't a decision to be made lightly," Claire told Zach, her whole body warming beneath the deliberate scrutiny of his gaze. "You have to meet the children," she continued passionately, "talk to them. Satisfy the court that you've thought about this before you relinquish all legal rights to them." Zach's sensual lips clamped shut. He braced his hands on his waist. "I'm not going to change my mind," he stated, more impatiently than ever. Easy to say now, Claire thought, trying hard not to notice how well Zach's starched khaki shirt and jeans molded to his tall muscular body. As an experienced family law attorney, Claire had thought she could be objective, too. But that was before she had begun taking care of six-year-old Robin and her three-year-old brother, Bradley, in the aftermath of the tragedy some four weeks before. "I can see that," Claire said coolly, as she turned her gaze away from his athletic frame and back to the ruggedly handsome contours of his face. "But you're still going to have to go through the motions," she said,
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trying not to get lost in the enticing depths of his blue eyes. "And there are other legal matters to be taken care of, too." Zach squared his shoulders. Every inch of him simmered with tension. "Such as…?" With effort, Claire turned her mind back to the legal business at hand. "Your cousin and his wife left a small estate, which is going to have to be disposed of. There's a car, a house in the country that is partially paid for, plus their personal effects. Someone has to oversee the disposition of all those items. According to the terms of your cousin's will, that someone is you." Zach folded his arms in front of him. "Couldn't you do that?" he asked bluntly. More than ever, he looked like he wanted to be out of there — now. But Claire knew better than most what a mistake it was to run from your problems instead of facing them head on. "I've got my hands full managing my law practice here in Laramie, and taking care of the two kids," she said. Zach frowned. Once again, she'd caught him unawares. "I figured they'd be in a foster home by now," he said. They would have been, Claire thought to herself, had she not been able to convince the judge that they would be better off staying with her temporarily. "The closest available foster home was 50 miles away. We all thought they'd be better off here in Laramie, in familiar surroundings, until you could come here to get them." Zach's black eyebrows drew together as he struggled — and eventually failed — to remain emotionally disengaged. "How are they?" he asked finally. Claire smiled. This kind of concern was what she had been hoping for. "Why don't you see for yourself?" she asked gently. "They're both asleep upstairs. We can peek in on them. I'll take you up." Zach regarded her carefully, more reluctant than ever. "It's no problem, Mr. Taylor," Claire continued, urging him on gently, understanding the difficulty of the situation he found himself in. She'd weathered situations she hadn't much cared for, either. But she'd gotten through them. And so would Zach Taylor. And the two kids. "Besides," she finished practically, "I think you should see what you're giving up before you make the kind of decision that can't be undone." Zach swallowed. He looked as tense and apprehensive as the kids had when they had been turned over to her care. Knowing too much time had elapsed already, Claire took Zach by the arm and led the way up the stairs to the second floor.
Chapter Three Zach Taylor didn't know what he expected when he followed Claire McCabe up the stairs. Certainly not the two handsome kids sleeping soundly in youth beds that were shaped like a toy car and a fairy-tale carriage. With their dark hair, angelic faces, and small but sturdy bodies, they were cute enough to star in a television commercial. Tenderness welled up inside him as he studied their innocent young faces. He pushed it away. The last thing he needed here was to get emotionally involved. His shoulders rigid with tension, he turned and stalked out of the room. Claire followed, albeit more reluctantly, and shut the door behind them.
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Aware Claire was studying his reaction to the children carefully, Zach continued on down the stairs to the first floor. He stopped in the foyer, wheeled around, and met her gaze. Able to speak now that there was no danger of waking Robin or Bradley, he said, "They look fine." Claire shrugged her slender shoulders eloquently. "All things considered, I guess that's true." Zach held Claire's gaze, trying all the while not to notice the neatly brushed auburn hair falling softly to her shoulders, the intelligence in her dark-green eyes, and the ripe sensuality of her lips. He didn't want to be attracted to Claire McCabe, especially under these circumstances. It was a feat that was darn near impossible to achieve — she was that beautiful, and that sexy, even in discreetly tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater. "You're telling me the kids aren't fine?" Zach probed, after a moment had passed. Claire sighed and leaned toward Zach, careful to keep her voice low enough not to disturb the children sleeping upstairs. "Their whole world has been turned upside down, Zach," she reported compassionately. "Although there are plenty of people in Laramie, Texas, who love and care about them, they've had no real family to fall back on." Zach knew firsthand what that was like. Although his situation had been different, he too had lost his parents when he was young, when he was abandoned by first his father and then his mother. He'd ended up in the custody of the Dallas, Texas, social services department, and had been shunted from foster home to foster home. He'd never felt he belonged anywhere and he'd always been afraid that something even worse might happen to him at any time. The only way he'd survived was to build walls around his heart. As much as he wanted to help those two kids, to prevent them from going through what he had suffered, he didn't want those walls around his heart coming down now. Especially when it wouldn't help the kids in the long run. He steeled himself against the gentle prodding in Claire's dark-green eyes and soft, low voice. "It's been a month —" "And we've done everything we can to give both children the comfort, understanding, and security that they need," Claire interrupted gently. "But I think it's still safe to say that they feel very much adrift." "Have you gotten any help for them?" "Yes. They've met with Kate Marten, a grief counselor at Laramie Community Hospital, a few times." Counselors, Zach knew, could only do so much. He'd seen his share as a kid, and had learned the hard way that kind glances and words of wisdom couldn't do much to soothe a kid who was suddenly and unexpectedly parentless. "What does the counselor say?" Zach asked gruffly. The worry in Kate's eyes deepened. "That it's going to take time for Robin and Bradley to feel secure again, to stop anticipating that tragedy could strike again at any moment." "How much time?" Zach asked finally, knowing from his own experience that right now, Robin and Bradley probably feared they would never really be loved, or belong anywhere again. And that was a lousy way for any kid to feel.
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Claire spread her hands wide. "It's hard to say. In the meantime, it'll help them to know they still have some family out there, even if they don't see you very much. The main thing is to get the kids through this difficult transition period, with as much love and support as possible from friends and neighbors as well as family." And like it or not, Zach conceded reluctantly, he was the only family those two little kids had. "I guess I could send them postcards or call them from time to time," he allowed, around the growing tightness in his throat. His offer did little to appease Claire McCabe. "I had in mind something much more immediate," she said, folding her arms in front of her. She regarded Zach with growing disapproval. "I think you should be here when they wake up tomorrow morning."
Chapter Four Zach would have thought Claire was joking, had he not seen the earnest look on her face. "You want me to stay here tonight, with you and the kids?" The thought of sleeping under the same roof as Claire sent his senses into overdrive. Claire nodded at him cordially. She kept her pretty green eyes on his. "I want you to see Robin and Bradley as much as possible. Since you're not planning to be here very long —" "A day or two at most," Zach reminded her, taking a step back, away from the delicate floral fragrance of her perfume. "— this seems like the best way to do it," she finished. Zach thought about sharing space with her, 24 hours a day, and knew it would be a mistake, despite the innocence of the offer. He was attracted to Claire. Unless he missed his guess, she was attracted to him, too. The last thing they needed was to add even a hint of sex or romance to an already complicated situation. He grabbed his leather flight jacket off the coatrack. "Thanks for the offer, but I've already checked in at the motor inn over on Bowie Lane and I'd rather stay there. I can come over for breakfast," Zach offered, knowing that the sooner he met Bradley and Robin and got all this sorted out, the sooner he could leave town and get back to the considerable demands of his own life. "What time are they usually up?" he asked, ignoring the disappointment in Claire's eyes as he swiftly shrugged on his jacket. He knew what Claire wanted from him, but she was just going to have to learn there was only so much of himself he was willing to give. "Six a.m.," Claire replied. Zach did some quick calculations. He wanted to make sure Claire had plenty of time to get out of her nightclothes before he showed up. "I'll get here around seven then, if that's okay." "It's fine." She smiled, the optimistic light coming back into her eyes as suddenly as it had left. "The kids are going to be happy to see you," she reassured softly. Zach had a hard time believing that. He gave Claire a skeptical look. "They've never met me." Claire shrugged her shoulders. "Like I said, you're family. And right now —" she smiled at him encouragingly, once again willing him to get emotionally involved "— you're all they've got."
***
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Claire's prophetic words rung in his ears as Zach said good-night and got in his rental car. He knew that Claire was hoping that, once he actually spent some time with the kids, he'd change his mind about becoming their guardian. But that wasn't going to happen, no matter how cute they were, or how desperate they were for family. He didn't know the first thing about kids. And at this point in his life, he wasn't interested in learning. They'd be better off with a family that had both a mom and a dad. And hopefully, after tomorrow, Zach thought as he parked in front of his motel room door, Claire would realize that, too. Zach got out of the car and let himself into his room. Like most motor inns in small towns, it was inexpensive, clean, and conveniently located. There was cable TV, but no minibar or hookups for personal computers. Zach kicked off his boots, paused just long enough to set his alarm for 6:15 the next morning, then shucked his clothes and got into bed. He fell asleep still thinking about the deeply disappointed look in Claire's eyes when she'd realized he really wasn't going to take the kids. He woke up still thinking about her, and wishing he could make her understand that this really was for the best, without going into the unhappy specifics of his past. Frowning, he rose and headed for the bathroom. He had just lathered his face with shaving cream when the phone rang.…
Chapter Five "He's not here," Robin worried aloud. "You said he'd be here for breakfast." Her cherubic face pinched with tension, Robin watched as Claire finished cooking the last of the pancakes and slid them into the oven to warm along with the bacon. Claire checked the clock, noting that it was past 7:30 and there was still no sign of Zach Taylor. She turned back to Robin with a comforting smile. "Maybe he overslept." Or decided not to come at all, Claire amended silently. Which was, of course, one reason Claire had wanted Zach to spend the night here last night. So he couldn't duck out before he'd met six-year-old Robin and three-year-old Bradley. The doorbell rang. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. "That's probably him right now," she said, as she turned off the griddle and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. "I wanta see!" Bradley slid off his chair and tucked his hand into Claire's while his older sister hung back shyly. Claire headed out into the foyer with Bradley. "Sorry I'm late," Zach said the moment Claire opened the front door. He looked tense and upset. "I was on the phone with my boss." Claire studied the grim set of Zach's lips. "Trouble?" she guessed. Zach shoved a hand through his curly black hair. "Let's just say Margot Middleton's not very happy I asked for a few extra days off." Claire smiled at Zach sympathetically. She knew what it was like not to see eye to eye with an employer. That was one of the reasons she now had her own private law practice. "I'm sorry." "Don't worry about it." Zach knelt so he'd be at eye level with Bradley. He held out his hand. "I'm Zach." Grinning, Bradley shook hands with Zach. "You're my cousin," he announced.
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"Yep, sure am. And if I'm not mistaken," Zach pointed to the locomotive embroidered on Bradley's railroadstriped overalls, "that's a train." "It goes choo-choo!" Bradley grinned. "I got more trains in my toy box upstairs!" "Maybe we'll play with them later, okay?" Zach said. Bradley nodded enthusiastically. Zach ruffled Bradley's hair and stood. He put his hands on his hips and looked at Claire inquisitively. Guessing what he was about to ask, Claire said, "Robin's in the kitchen if you'd like to say hello." "Sure." Zach eased his leather jacket off his broad shoulders and hung it on the coatrack next to the door. Trying not to notice how handsome he looked freshly shaved and showered, Claire led the way to the kitchen. Robin was just where Claire had left her. In red leggings and a white sweater decorated with hearts, her dark hair caught in a bouncy ponytail, she looked pretty though decidedly unfriendly as she regarded Zach warily. Her blue-green eyes glittered with mistrust as she bounced her weight from one sneaker-clad foot to the other. "I don't want to talk to you!" Robin's lower lip slid out in a sulky pout. "Okay," Zach said easily enough. He turned to Claire, as if he had been expecting the snub all along. "Is breakfast ready?" he asked cheerfully. Relieved Zach hadn't picked up the gauntlet Robin had thrown down, Claire nodded. "Everyone have a seat," she said pleasantly, "and I'll get it." "Don't you even care that I don't want to talk to you?" Robin asked, edging closer as Zach sat down. "Of course I care," Zach said kindly, regarding the belligerent child with the same politeness and respect he would have bestowed on an adult. "But I also figure you're a big kid now and that's your decision to make." He shrugged his broad shoulders carelessly. "Just like it's mine whether or not I want to talk to you." Robin obviously liked the fact that she had commanded Zach's respect as well as his attention. "Do you want to talk to me?" Robin persisted, as Claire put pancakes and bacon on the children's plates. "I sure do." Zach took Robin's hand gently in his. "Because you and Bradley are the only cousins I have, too." Robin mulled that over as she ate her pancakes. "I guess we could be friends," she said, after a moment. Robin smiled at Zach. Zach smiled back. And just that quickly, Claire knew the first battle had been won. Now, if only the rest of her objectives could be accomplished as easily….
Chapter Six "So this is where my cousin and his wife lived," Zach said, looking around the five acres of property the two children had inherited. Located just outside Laramie, the small, tidy ranch house was made of native limestone and sat in a grove of live oak and pecan trees. A large wooden play gym and swing set dominated the backyard. Flowerbeds edged the front. "You were never here?" Claire asked as she opened the door and let them inside.
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Zach shook his head as they walked through the modestly appointed but scrupulously clean rooms. He paused in front of the row of cheerful family photos adorning the fireplace mantel. "I hadn't seen my cousin for years." His expression turned sad and remorseful. "The last time I saw Cindy was at their wedding." "That's too bad," Claire said quietly, trying hard not to be affected by the intimacy of the situation they were dealing with. "Cindy and Blake were nice people." Zach swung around to face her, inundating her with the crisp scent of his cologne. "You knew them?" "Yes," Claire dropped her eyes to the strong column of his throat and the dark hair curling out of the open neck of his dark-blue cotton shirt. "They were among my first clients when I moved to Laramie last year." His sea-blue eyes scanned her hair and face before returning to meet her gaze. "Is that why you're so protective of the kids?" he asked curiously. Claire shrugged, aware that being in such close proximity to him had left her feeling unaccountably excited and jittery inside. "I'm their court-appointed guardian. It's my job." His eyes darkened perceptively as he gave her a slow, thorough once-over. "Somehow it seems like more than that." Claire had known for days now that she was getting too emotionally involved with Robin and Bradley. It bothered her to realize Zach thought so, too. She turned away from him stiffly, and gestured toward the furniture and personal belongings in the room. "What do you want to do with the furnishings?" Zach sighed and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Anything with any sentimental value should be kept for the kids." He frowned as he contemplated the assortment of books, knickknacks and lamps in the room, seeming to have little use for them. "I don't know about the rest." Claire made a note of what he'd decided thus far on the clipboard in her hands, then looked up at him cautiously. "Do you want any of the furniture for your own home?" "I don't have a home," he told her matter-of-factly. "Apartment then," Claire said. "Don't have one of those, either," he continued without an ounce of remorse. For a long moment their glances meshed. "Then where you do you hang your hat, so to speak?" Claire asked, stunned. "In the corporate jet I fly my boss around in, or in whatever hotel I'm staying at." Claire studied Zach, perplexed. She had never met someone with so few physical and emotional attachments. She inclined her head slightly to the side. "That doesn't bother you?" She couldn't imagine living that way herself. Zach shrugged his broad shoulders aimlessly and seemed to become — if it was possible — even more remote. "I learned a long time ago to travel light." Claire heard a wealth of hurt and loneliness in those clipped words. As well as a distinct wish not to talk about his past further. What had happened to Zach, she wondered, to make him want to live this way? Who had hurt him, and why? "Is there anyone else who might feel they have a claim to any of this?" Claire asked cautiously.
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Again, Zach shook his head. Claire looked at him thoughtfully. "You could keep the house yourself, use it when you visit the kids." You could make a home for yourself and the children here, Claire thought wistfully. All you'd have to do is say yes. And I'd do the legal work to make it happen. Zach shook his head, his expression intractable. "With my work schedule, I won't be back often enough to make that feasible. I think it's best we go ahead and sell it as soon as possible, put that money in a trust for the kids, and then see what we can do about finding a family to adopt them." Claire tried not to feel disappointed that Zach hadn't become attached to the children — and to Laramie, Texas — as swiftly and irrevocably as she had. Reminding herself that it wasn't her job to judge him or change his mind, she continued with as little emotion as possible. "I told you I've got a list of people interested." Relief crossed Zach's face even as his voice hardened protectively. "I want to see that list. I want to make sure they're put in a good situation, with people who love them, before I leave."
Chapter Seven "Did you get all your papers signed?" Robin asked, when Claire and Zach picked Robin and Bradley up from their morning play date. "Some, not all," Zach said. They'd met with a Realtor and put the house up for sale. Curiously, even that felt like a betrayal of sorts, although he knew there was no other choice. He was doing what was best for the children in the long run. One day, Claire and the kids would see that. Until then, Claire would continue to look at him wistfully. Hoping, no doubt, to prod him into staying. And the two kids might never understand why he had to leave, he thought ruefully as they drove the short distance to Claire's house. "Can we play Candyland?" Robin asked as soon as they entered the house. She brought out the board game and presented it to Claire. "Zach can play it with you." Claire offered as she sat down at the desk in her living room and turned on her computer. She smiled at Robin reassuringly. "I have to do some work right now." She was going to spend the afternoon drawing up the rest of the assorted legal papers Zach was eventually going to have to sign, while he helped her out by entertaining the children. Robin's face mirrored her disappointment, but she dutifully carried the game box over to Zach anyway. She stood in front of him, searching his face. "Do you know how to play?" Robin asked. "I will, after I read the rules," Zach promised. He figured that, after what they'd been through with losing their folks, entertaining them for an afternoon was the least he could do. To Zach's relief, the game was simple enough that three-year-old Bradley was able to join in, too. Although it felt strange at first to be sprawled out on the floor along with the kids, by the time they were halfway through Zach found he was enjoying himself. Bradley, on the other hand, grew less and less engaged in the game, and more and more lethargic. By the time the game was finished, he was leaning against Zach, his head resting on Zach's chest. His cheeks were bright pink. Through his thick cotton shirt Zach could feel the heat of Bradley's sturdy little body. Instinctively, Zach pressed a hand against Bradley's forehead, and frowned at what he found. "Claire?"
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Claire looked up from her computer keyboard, a distracted expression on her face. "Hmm?" "Do you have a thermometer?" Zach asked. "Bradley's burning up."
*** "Strep throat," Claire's uncle, Dr. John McCabe, pronounced a short while later as he wrote out a prescription for antibiotics in the Laramie Community Hospital emergency room. "You'll need to get this filled in the hospital pharmacy and start giving it to Bradley right away. You can give him acetaminophen for the fever, too. He's probably not going to want to eat much until he's feeling a little better, but it's important that he keep taking liquids. We don't want him to get dehydrated. And watch for signs of illness in anyone else he's been in contact with — strep throat is contagious." "Okay." Claire finished dressing Bradley and picked him up, cradling him in her arms. "If his fever spikes during the night," John continued, looking every inch the kindly family physician he was, "it may be necessary to put him in a lukewarm bath and sponge him down, to cool his body temperature." Claire shot Zach a concerned look. He knew how she felt. He was worried, too. "How will I know when to do that?" Claire asked John, as Bradley held out his arms to Zach. Still listening intently to the doctor's advice, Zach took Bradley and cradled him in his arms. "If it goes over 102 degrees, get him in a tub of water right away," John said. Bradley wreathed his arms around Zach's neck and laid his head on Zach's shoulder. Zach hadn't any experience holding a kid in his arms, but somehow it felt right, cradling Bradley against him that way. Claire took Robin's hand. Together, the four of them went down the hall to get the prescription, then headed out to the car. Bradley was asleep again by the time they reached the house. They woke him up to give him his first dose of medicine, then put him on the sofa, covered him with a blanket, and started his favorite video, a movie about a soccer-playing golden retriever. Ignoring the action on the TV screen, Robin tugged on Zach's and Claire's hands simultaneously. "I'm hungry," she announced, looking from one of them to the other. "What's for supper?" Robin's question seemed directed primarily at Zach. And, although his intention had been to get out of there the second he signed the rest of the legal papers, Zach knew he didn't have any choice. Claire needed help. It was that simple. "I don't know yet," Zach told Robin firmly, as he hazarded a look at Claire, "but I promise you, we'll figure it out."
Chapter Eight "You want to stay?" Claire asked, amazed. Zach shrugged. It wasn't such a big sacrifice. He wouldn't be able to relax in his motel room anyway, knowing Bradley was sick. "Someone has to go out and pick up some supper," he said matter-of-factly. And unlike caring for Robin and Bradley, that was a chore he could handle. He caught Claire's eye and smiled. "Pizza and a salad sound all right?" "That sounds great." Claire smiled her relief as she shot him a grateful glance.
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"I'm not hungry," Bradley said, wrapping an arm around Zach's leg and drawing him near again. Zach's heart went out to the three-year-old. Although Bradley hadn't complained, his throat had to hurt like the dickens. Zach knelt beside Bradley. "How about a milkshake then?" he asked gently, tenderness welling up inside him as he brushed the hair away from Bradley's fever-red face. "Think you could handle that?" Bradley nodded. "Choc'late, please." "Can I go with you?" Robin interrupted, tugging on Zach's sleeve. Zach looked at Claire to see what she thought. Claire realized that with her younger brother getting all the attention, Bradley's older sister was beginning to feel neglected. "That would be a big help, Robin," Claire said, with a kindly smile. By the time Zach and Robin returned with dinner, Bradley was fast asleep on the couch. Claire slid his milkshake into the freezer for later, and the three of them sat down in the kitchen to eat. "Do you like flying jet planes?" Robin asked. "Very much," Zach said, acutely aware that Claire was listening to his answers with even more interest than her young charge. Robin picked the pepperoni off her pizza and ate that first. "How come?" she asked, inclining her head to the side. "The freedom of it, I guess," Zach said. "When I was your age, I wanted to do two things — get myself up in the clouds and see the world. Flying jets has allowed me to do both." He paused to study the inquisitive look on her young face. "What do you want to do when you grow up?" "Be a mommy," Robin broadcast happily. "And be a lawyer, like Claire." Robin scooted around to look at Claire. "How come you're a lawyer, anyways?" "Because my dad was a lawyer, and then later, when I was about 12, he became a judge. I used to go to his courtroom with him sometimes and watch what went on. I thought the way my dad helped people was pretty neat." "Well, that's what I want to do, too," Robin said. "Help people. And be a bride and get married." She looked at Claire. "How come you're not married?" she asked. "Actually," Claire said, a self-conscious blush coloring her cheeks as she turned her attention to her salad. "I was." "When?" Zach chimed in before he could help himself. He didn't know why, but he didn't like the idea of Claire married to anyone else. "When I was in law school." Claire shot them both a brief, impersonal smile as she finished her salad and started on her pizza. "Did your husband get killed in a car accident, like my mommy and daddy?" Robin asked, a worried expression on her face. "No. We divorced," Claire said with an unhappy sigh.
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Zach wanted to ask why, but the skittish look in Claire's eyes told him the answer wasn't something a child should hear. Later, when he and Claire were alone again, he promised himself he'd find out the answer to that, plus everything else he wanted to know. Oblivious to the undercurrent of tension running between the two adults, Robin turned to Zach, curious as ever. "Have you ever been married?" she asked with wide-eyed innocence. Zach tensed. Out of the mouths of babes. "Uh, no," he admitted reluctantly. Robin's frown of dismay mirrored Claire's. "Why not?" Robin demanded. Because he had never let anyone close enough. Because he didn't want to put himself in the position of being abandoned again, the way he'd been abandoned when he was a kid. "I'm just not the kind of man who settles down with anyone, I guess," Zach said amiably. And knew as soon as the words were out that, as far as Claire was concerned, that had been the wrong thing to say.
Chapter Nine "You're disappointed in me, aren't you — for telling Robin I'm not the marrying kind?" Zach asked Claire, after Robin and Bradley were in bed for the night. It bothered him to realize how much her unhappiness affected him. For reasons he didn't totally understand, he wanted her to like and respect him. Right now, he had the feeling she didn't. Claire's eyes darkened to a deep emerald as she shrugged her slender shoulders uncaringly. "At least you're honest about the way you feel," she said as they sat down at the dining room table. "Meaning what?" Zach took a shot in the dark, hoping to direct the conversation where he wanted it to go. "That your ex-husband wasn't?" "I think my ex wanted to be married," Claire said cautiously, as she handed Zach the legal papers she had been working on earlier. "He just didn't want kids." "You didn't talk about that before you got married?" "In the abstract." Claire's face flushed a becoming pink. She turned her head away from his probing gaze. "But when it became a reality, during our first year of law school," Claire paused and swallowed hard, "he decided fatherhood wasn't for him. He said he just couldn't see his life unfolding that way, and he walked out on me." Zach wanted to deck her ex-husband for hurting her that way. "What happened to the baby?" he asked gently, reaching over to take her hand in his. Claire looked down at their entwined fingers, but made no move to pull away as she reported sadly, "I had a miscarriage several weeks later." Zach didn't need to see the moisture suddenly shimmering in her eyes or hear the pain in her low voice to know how much that had devastated her. But he also knew enough about Claire to realize she was no quitter, and that she wouldn't easily walk away from any commitment she had made. Needing and wanting to know what had happened next, he asked, "Did you try to get back together with him?" "There was no point." Claire tightened her fingers on Zach's, and then pulled away. "By then, I'd realized I did want children, very much. And I knew I couldn't be with anyone who would run from his responsibilities." "The way I'm doing," Zach guessed unhappily.
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The color in Claire's face heightened. Her shoulders strung tight as a bow, she sat all the way back in her chair. "I didn't say that." She lifted her chin defiantly. "You're thinking it, though," Zach countered quietly, sitting all the way back in his chair, too. "All the time." Claire didn't deny it. "I just don't think you know what you're giving up," she said softly, looking deep into his eyes. "Bradley and Robin are such sweet kids." Guilt pricked Zach's conscience. Determinedly, he pushed it away. "I never said they weren't," he replied evenly. "And the three of you are family." Family, Zach thought, as the bitterness rose in his throat. He rose and paced the room restlessly. "Family isn't sacred for me, Claire." "It should be." Claire stood, too, and moved to join him at the window overlooking the tranquil small-town street. "It should be for everyone," she told him passionately. Zach stared down at her. At that moment, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. Knowing all the reasons why that shouldn't, couldn't, happen, he accused her gruffly, "Spoken like a person who had a wonderful childhood." Claire stiffened, defensive again. "It wasn't all a bed of roses," she said hotly. But Zach was willing to bet it had been a damn sight better than his own childhood. He stepped closer and demanded quietly, even as he searched her eyes, "Then what was it like?" Claire struggled to find the words to explain. "I was the last of six children. My mother had me when she was 45. By the time I was six years old everyone else had left the nest. I can't say I minded that so much, since I then had my parents' attention all to myself. But I did mind the lack of closeness I felt — and still feel — to my siblings, due to the differences in our ages." Zach was unable to feel too badly for her. "At least you had brothers and sisters," he pointed out. "I didn't." "But you had parents, Zach." Claire looked at him as if she thought that should have been enough. Some parents, Zach thought bitterly, reflecting on his childhood. Claire would never understand him until he told her the truth about his past. "My dad ran out on us when I was four. My mother left me with social workers when I was eight. She said she was coming back for me, but she never did. She didn't want the responsibility. I didn't fit into her life." And yet, like a fool, he'd kept expecting his mom to return for him. To the point that he hadn't let any of his foster families get close to him, for fear his mother would think he was happier with them than he would have been with her, if and when she returned to get him. Compassion glimmered in Claire's eyes as she gently touched his arm. "I'm sorry your parents hurt you." "It doesn't matter." Zach ignored the tenderness in Claire's touch as he sighed wearily and rubbed the back of his neck. "It was years ago. I've gotten over it." Had he? The look in his eyes told Claire differently. Claire let her hand drop to twine with his. "You could still have a family, Zach. In Robin and Bradley."
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Zach knew Claire thought so. But he just couldn't see himself taking on two orphaned kids when he didn't know the first thing about building a loving family. Guilt flooding him anew, he pulled away from the intimacy of her touch. "It's not that simple, Claire," Zach told her harshly. He didn't care what kind of pressure she put on him. He wasn't going to cause those two little kids to suffer for lack of proper attention or affection, the way he'd suffered when he was a kid. They deserved more. A heck of a lot more. Claire pressed her lips together in silent condemnation. "Then make it that simple," Claire said, her slender shoulders tensing.
Chapter Ten "Okay," Zach said, determined to make it as simple as Claire wanted it to be. He sat back down at the dining room table, picked up a pen, and reached for the legal papers she had prepared earlier that day. Foregoing any further niceties and getting straight to the point, he demanded, "Where do I sign to give up all claim to my cousin's estate and his kids?" Claire came back to the table, too. A mixture of sadness and anger glimmered in her green eyes. There was no doubt in Zach's mind or his heart that he had disappointed her — deeply. "You're really committed to doing this?" she asked wearily. Zach nodded, refusing to let himself be persuaded otherwise, even by someone as pretty and gentle as Claire McCabe. What he was doing was for the best. And one day, God willing, Claire and the kids would realize that, too. Before Claire could say another guilt-provoking word, the doorbell rang. "Now what?" Claire sighed, glancing at her watch, and seeing it was nearly nine p.m. Zach pushed to his feet, his desire to protect her and the kids even stronger than his desire to cut and run. "Want me to get it?" he asked, knowing trouble was always possible — even in small, peaceful towns like Laramie, Texas. Claire shook her head, not the least bit nervous about what awaited her. "No. I'll go. You just stay here and read the papers and think about what it is you're about to give up." She shot him a final disapproving glare, then stalked off, her hips swaying provocatively beneath the thin wool of her nicely tailored slacks. Zach looked down at the papers she'd set in front of him. The legal language was a little beyond him, but it was clear that if he signed these papers, he would have no further legal rights to or responsibility for Robin and Bradley from here on out. It was what he wanted. Why, then, did it feel so wrong? Zach wondered as a familiar female voice sounded in the foyer beyond. His aggravation increasing by leaps and bounds, he stood and went to the front hall. His boss regarded him censoriously. "Do you know how many messages I've left for you at that hotel?" Margot Middleton demanded, looking every bit the high-maintenance CEO she was. "I finally had to get my driver to bring me here to this godforsaken backwater town to find you. I need to go to Vienna right away. I want to leave tonight." Zach looked at Claire. Normally, he obliged Margot. He figured it was part of his job. But this was one time it wasn't going to be possible. And he knew the wealthy executive wasn't going to take it lightly. He turned to Claire, figuring she did not need to bear the brunt of Margot's notorious temper. "If you could excuse us —"
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Claire looked as though she wanted to do anything but leave him alone with Margot. Zach would have thought Claire was jealous, if he hadn't known better. "Certainly." Claire flashed both Zach and Margot a tight smile, then turned and headed for the kitchen. Zach turned back to Margot. "I can't go," he told his boss. Margot inched off one custom-made leather glove, then the other. "I can't afford to give you any more days off, Zach. You've had two." "One," Zach corrected. "Well," Margot said with a petulant toss of her sleek, black bob, "it seems longer." "Look, I'm sorry," Zach said, wondering how a woman who was so successful in business could also be so callous to the personal needs of others, "but I haven't been able to wrap things up here yet." "Why not?" Margot demanded, impatiently tapping one Donna Karan-clad foot. "Just sign whatever papers you need to sign and then let's go." "I can't," he repeated. His boss's eyes turned icy with disdain. "You have a dream job here, Zach," Margot warned. "Don't blow it." "Believe me," Zach said heavily, thinking about how long it had taken him to land such a high-paying, glamour-packed gig. "I don't want to."
*** Claire had just finished making coffee when she heard the front door close. Zach joined her in the kitchen. He looked grim and unhappy. Claire understood why. "I don't want you to get fired," she said. Zach accepted the mug of steaming coffee Claire handed him with a grateful look. "Margot's not going to fire me," he promised as he lifted the mug to his lips. Still tingling where their fingers had touched, Claire sipped her coffee, too. "How can you be so sure?" Half of Zach's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "Because she's not going to find anyone else to put up with her nonsense on a daily basis." Claire tried hard not to notice how ruggedly handsome Zach looked in the soft light of her kitchen, his curly black hair rumpled, the faint shadow of evening beard lining his face. It wasn't part of her job to be attracted to him. "I thought you liked working for her," Claire said. To the point he'd been unwilling to consider doing anything else, anywhere else. Zach shrugged. "I like earning a big salary and seeing the world." He sighed heavily and raked a hand through his hair, rumpling the inky layers even more. He met her eyes frankly. "Margot Middleton's something else." Claire studied Zach over the rim of her mug. She knew it was part of his job, but she really hated to think of him at that woman's mercy. "She seems very attached to you." Too attached, Claire thought, and saw Zach's eyebrows lift in silent intrigue. "Are you two —" Claire couldn't bring herself to say it out loud.
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"What?" Zach prodded, smiling. "Intimate." There, Claire thought. She'd said it. Zach grinned openly. "No," he replied dryly. "Not in the least." His gaze roved over her from head to toe with disturbing leisure before returning to her face. His voice dropped a sexy notch as he put his coffee cup aside and turned back to her. "Does it make you jealous thinking that might be the case?"
Chapter Eleven "I'm not jealous," Claire told Zach hotly. But Zach merely smiled, stepped closer, and wrapped his arms around her. "Tell me that again in a minute," he murmured, tilting her face up to his, "and I'll believe you." Claire meant to resist. But the moment his lips touched hers, inundating her with the softness of his lips and the sheer male insistence of his kiss, the moment he engulfed her with the feel of his warm, strong body, she was lost in the wonder of the moment. Of him. No one had ever touched her in quite this way. No one had ever wanted her this much. One embrace and she was on fire. She was his. Needing, wanting, so much more. She was trembling as he lifted his head and drew back. Still gauging her response, he looked down at her, grinned, and drawled softly, "I think this is the part where you're supposed to slap my face." Claire knew that if she turned away from him now, any hint of romance between them would stop. Instead, Claire let her feelings take over as she cradled his face in her hands. And just to be sure she hadn't imagined what she'd felt, kissed him. Gently at first, and then again and again. No, she realized shakily as their kisses continued, she hadn't imagined it. Just as she hadn't imagined the way he made her feel. Warm all over. Wanted. And womanly to her core. Breathing hard, she drew back to gauge his reaction. And saw the desire in his eyes, the wild, yearning need he was feeling as he wreathed a hand through her hair. Gazing down at her tenderly, he said, "Want to try that again?" This time he kissed her hard, unrestrainedly, the need to experiment replaced by something much stronger, hotter, wilder. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and unless they stopped, here and now, Claire knew the moment was fast approaching when there would be no stopping. Trembling, she placed her hands against his chest and pushed him away. "We can't do this." As much as she wanted to forget, they had responsibilities...two children, under this very roof.… "I know." Zach sighed, accepting. She turned back to him. Wanting to be clear, she said, "You have papers to sign, job demands to be met.…" "Not exactly," Zach interrupted. "Not anymore." Claire blinked, unsure what he was trying to say. "What?" "Margot's hiring another pilot to fly her to Europe tonight," Zach explained. "She's letting me take a few days' vacation, but she wants me in Europe by the middle of the next week by the very latest. In time to fly her to Amsterdam on Thursday."
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Which meant, Claire thought, he was still leaving. She steeled herself against further hurt. "Is that what you want?" Zach nodded, his expression resolute. "I need to get everything settled before I leave Texas." Coldness settled around Claire's heart as she willed herself to be practical. "Given that, we still have the papers to go over." Papers that, once signed, would end the contact between them. Zach nodded, agreeing, then both of them stopped dead as they heard a high-pitched wail. "Bradley," they both said in the same instant, and raced for the stairs.
*** Bradley was sitting up in his youth bed. Tears were streaming down his face and his hair was wet with perspiration. His skin was like fire and his cheeks were red. Zach gathered him in his arms. "There now, it's all right. We've got you. And we're going to take care of you," he said. His heart racing, Zach carried Bradley past the still-sleeping Robin and into the master bedroom across the hall. Looking as concerned as Zach, Claire got out the thermometer. Quickly, she took Bradley's temperature while Zach soothed the little boy with quiet words and soft strokes of his hands. "It's 104," Claire reported anxiously, already unsnapping Bradley's pajama top. "We're going to have to put him in the tub to bring it down." Recalling the instructions Dr. McCabe had given them at the E.R., Zach carried Bradley into the bathroom. When Bradley resisted getting in the tub, Zach kicked off his boots and, ignoring Claire's stunned look of dismay, climbed in right along with the sick little boy, jeans, shirt, and all. Just as Zach had hoped, Bradley stopped crying immediately and cuddled against him while Zach cooled him down with handfuls of lukewarm water. Claire brought in more liquid acetaminophen. To her chagrin, Bradley wouldn't take it for her. He did, however, take it for Zach. "What's his temp now?" Zach asked 20 minutes later, when Claire took Bradley's temperature again. "Just below 100," Claire said, with a relieved sigh. She looked at Zach with gratitude, wordlessly letting him know how much she appreciated his being there to help her. "I think we can take him out now and get him into a dry pair of pajamas. You, however," Claire said wryly, eyeing Zach's drenched clothing as she reached for a large fluffy towel, "present a more difficult problem."
Chapter Twelve While Claire gave Bradley some milkshake and water to soothe his aching throat and tucked him back into bed, Zach stripped off his wet clothes and wrapped a large terry-cloth bath sheet around his waist. His nakedness wasn't a problem for him, but he sensed it would be for Claire. Especially given the passionate way they had been kissing earlier in the evening. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about the heat of their embrace, and he wagered neither had she. Not surprisingly, she blushed the moment she saw him stride into the kitchen, toss his wet clothes into the clothes dryer, and switch it on.
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"These belong to one of my brothers," Claire told Zach as she handed him a pair of gray sweatpants, a navy blue T-shirt, and a pair of thick white sweat socks. Her thick auburn lashes lowered demurely as she averted her eyes from his bare chest. "I'll make you some cocoa while you change." "Thanks." His pulse jumping, Zach was already heading for the stairs. "I'll check in on Bradley again while I'm up there." When Zach returned, Claire had two mugs of cocoa ready, and she was working on starting a fire in the fireplace. Enjoying the sight of the silky fall of her auburn hair against the golden glow of her skin, Zach hunkered down beside her to lend a hand. "Bradley's asleep. He feels pretty cool to the touch, too." "That's good." Claire breathed a sigh of relief, and moved back to let Zach finish building the fire. Concern radiated from her dark-green eyes. Swallowing hard, she confessed, "He had me worried there for a few minutes." "Me, too." Zach got the fire blazing, then joined her on the sofa. His thigh brushed hers as he turned to face her. Sensing she needed comfort and reassurance now as much as Bradley had earlier, he took her hand in his and rubbed a thumb along the satiny underside of her wrist. The feel of her hand in his, so soft and warm and womanly, arrowed straight to his groin. "You asked me if I wanted to stay here last night, and I said no, but I'm thinking maybe I should stay here tonight, so I can help out with Bradley if his fever spikes again." Claire drew a deep breath, nodded, and again averted her eyes. "I'd appreciate that," she said softly. "Meanwhile…" Claire sighed reluctantly, "we should get back to those papers." Claire hoped Zach would want more time to think about giving the kids up, now that he was starting to get close to them. Instead, he merely shrugged. "Just show me where to sign," he said, as the distant look came back into his eyes. Claire went to the dining room to get the legal papers she had prepared earlier and brought them back to where she and Zach were sitting. "The first set involve any monetary proceeds from your cousin's estate. By signing these you'll allow me to put any money in a trust for the kids." Zach lifted a cautionary hand. "I think it needs to be set up so that the money can only be spent on them. I wouldn't want anyone to adopt them and then squander the money on other things. In fact," Zach continued, "I think you should be the executor of the trust. That way I won't have to worry." "All right." Claire handed over the first set of papers, then — with her heart sinking at the thought of everything he was so easily giving up — watched him read and sign them. Telling herself she had no right to inject her emotions into his legal affairs, she continued to explain matterof-factly, "The second set basically relinquishes any familial claim you have to the children, and will allow them to be legally adopted by another family." Again, Claire hoped Zach would hesitate. Or better yet, refuse to sign the documents that would relinquish his chance to adopt the children. She wanted him to stay there with her and the kids, find a way to make this all work out, and give them the happy ending they all deserved. Instead, he read and signed the papers, as if he had no reservations at all.
Chapter Thirteen "How many times did Bradley wake up last night?" Robin asked as soon as she tumbled out of bed the next morning. Zach and Claire exchanged contemplative looks laced with the intimacy of having been thrown together in a crisis.
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"I think he was up about every two or three hours, don't you?" Claire said, as she padded around the kitchen in her satin pajamas and robe. Watching Claire cook breakfast, Zach tried not to think about how beautiful she was in that innocent but sexy way, or how much he had liked spending the night in her warm and cozy home. This wasn't something he wanted to get used to, even for a few days. And he had the feeling that if he did stay on with Claire and the kids, he would get used to it — to the point where he wouldn't want to do without them. "If not more." Zach agreed with Claire's assessment, sipping his coffee. Not that he'd minded the lack of sleep or privacy. Being with Claire and helping the sick little boy she loved like her own had brought him contentment unlike anything he had ever known. And that was amazing, as far as he was concerned. He had never once thought of himself as the fatherly type. Until last night. Robin looked curiously from Claire to Zach and back again, her little face pinched with concern, as she seemed to note that something was different — better — between the two adults. Robin propped her chin on her fist. "Does Bradley still have a temperature?" "Not much of one," Claire said, smiling down at her as she brought platters of scrambled eggs and bacon to the table. "But Bradley will still have to stay home all day and rest." "Well, I can't do that," Robin announced importantly. "I've got to get some valentines for my party at school on Tuesday. Miss Becknel —" "That's her first grade teacher," Claire told Zach. "— wants us to write all the names on the env'lopes ourselves — and that's gonna take a very, very long time," Robin prophesized soberly. "Maybe even all afternoon!" "Oh, dear," Claire said, her pretty cheeks blushing with distress. Clearly, Zach thought, the superorganized, efficient Claire had forgotten all about it. Once again, Zach — who'd made it a hard-and-fast rule never to get involved in other people's problems — found himself riding to the rescue. "I can take her to the store to get some," he said. "That would be great." Claire practically sagged with relief and gratitude. Robin beamed as she danced over to give Zach a hug. "This is gonna be fun," she predicted. As soon as breakfast was over, Zach went back to his motel to shower and shave. By the time he returned, Robin was dressed and raring to go. "Would you mind picking up milk and juice and a few other things, too?" Claire asked as she handed some money to Zach. "Be happy to," Zach said. He figured it was the least he could do, given all Claire was doing for his little cousins. They were able to get all five items on Claire's very specific list easily enough, but when it came to picking out a box of valentines among the large selection in the grocery store aisle, Robin had a hard time making up her mind. "I like the Snoopy ones," she said, admiring a box featuring the Peanuts cartoon characters on it. "But I also like the Garfield ones." "How many valentines do you need?" Zach asked, studying the information on the box.
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Robin wrinkled her nose as she tried to decide. "Well, there are 22 kids in my class at school, and I want to give ones to my teacher and Claire and you and some other people, too." Perplexed, she tipped her face up to Zach's. "So I don't know how many that makes." "I think it makes two boxes' worth," Zach said. "So why don't we get one of each kind that you like." Robin smiled from ear to ear. "Okay." He helped her pick out a new coloring book and box of crayons for Bradley, so he would have something interesting to do, too, then started to head for the checkout line. "Wait." Robin grabbed his hand and pulled him back to the aisle containing all the valentines. "Aren't you going to get a candy heart for Claire?" she demanded impatiently. Zach hesitated in front of the opulent display of heart-shaped red satin boxes filled with chocolates. "My daddy always got one of these for my mommy," Robin said. "Claire and I aren't married, honey," Zach said gently. Robin's eyes filled with a mixture of hope and enthusiasm. "But you could be," she said. Could they? Zach hated to admit how alluring that thought was after just a few days with Claire and the kids. He could see himself living there in Laramie, in the house with Claire, going to work every day and coming home every night, and he didn't know what to make of that. He hunkered down to talk to Robin privately, face to face. "It's not that simple, Robin," he said quietly. "It is if you love her," Robin insisted. "And you do love her, don't you?" Zach jerked in a breath. "Where did you get that idea?" he said, knowing even as he attempted to deny it that Robin was right. Sometime in the past two days he had fallen in love with Claire. But that didn't make him the right man for her. Claire needed someone as devoted to home and family as she was. Not a restless wanderer like him, who was only really happy when he was flying jets from one far-flung location to another. "I dunno," Robin shrugged her small shoulders, perplexed again. "I just got that idea, that's all." "Well, don't mention it to Claire," Zach said shortly, standing. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt or embarrass Claire, and despite the passionate way she had kissed him, she wasn't in love with him, he told himself firmly. "Okay. But you still need to get her a valentine," Robin insisted fiercely, tucking her hand into Zach's. "Because otherwise her feelings are going to be hurt."
Chapter Fourteen "Thanks for coming over," Claire said as she ushered her aunt and uncle inside. "No problem," Lilah McCabe smiled with typical good cheer. "That's what's so great about retirement," John McCabe said. "Aside from helping out at the hospital every now and then, I have plenty of time to come to the rescue of my favorite niece." He kissed her cheek, then went into the living room, where Bradley was camped out on the sofa in his pajamas, alternately dozing and watching 101 Dalmations.
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"How's Bradley doing this morning?" Lilah asked, following Claire into the kitchen. Claire went back to assembling peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the children's lunch. "His temperature is normal. But I'm afraid it'll spike this afternoon, and I really have to go to the office with Zach." Claire felt as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. Worse, she felt she had failed both Zach and the kids in some fundamental way that would haunt them all for years to come. Needing to confide in someone, Claire turned to Lilah. "He signed the papers last night that will allow the kids to be placed with a family." The sharp disappointment Claire felt was reflected in Lilah's eyes. "I know you'd hoped Zach would do otherwise, once he was here," Lilah commiserated softly as she walked over to stir the chicken noodle soup simmering on the stove. Yes, Claire thought. She had. Which was yet another sign she was too emotionally involved in the situation. "He's doing what he believes is the right thing for all of them. And I respect that," Claire said carefully, doing her best to keep her own feelings in check. It wasn't easy, when everything soft and womanly in her clamored to tell Zach he was making the mistake of his life, walking away from the children who needed him so desperately. Not to mention the promise of love and passion, and the heartfelt kisses the two of them had shared. "Do you think he'll keep in touch with the kids or visit them?" "I don't know." Claire frowned as she thought about Zach's passion for his career, his need to travel light. "I'm still hoping to talk him into that. But I can't do it around the kids, without risking them overhearing and feeling rejected, so —" Claire let her voice trail off hopefully. "Take all the time you need this afternoon," Lilah said, with an understanding smile. "John and I will be here with the kids." "Thank you." Claire sighed with relief. "I wouldn't be able to leave Bradley at all, if I didn't know he'd be with the finest nurse and doctor in all of Laramie County." "You've gotten pretty attached to these kids, haven't you?" Lilah observed soberly. Claire nodded as she covered the sandwiches with plastic wrap and slid them into the refrigerator. "It's going to be hard to let Bradley and Robin go." Being with them, taking care of them, made her feel like a mom. It made her feel like all her dreams were coming true. Outside, a car door slammed. Claire moved to the window and smiled. "There're Zach and Robin now." And they looked happy. Content. Robin rushed inside, carrying a grocery bag. "Hi, Aunt Lilah! I got my valentines! Wanta see?" Zach followed, carrying the groceries Claire had asked for. Claire introduced Zach to her aunt and uncle and told him of their plans to baby-sit the two kids, then said, "I thought we'd go over to my office to complete the rest of the paperwork." "Sounds good," Zach said, even though — suddenly — he didn't look all that anxious to proceed.
*** It being a Sunday afternoon, all was quiet in the second-floor office on Main Street where Claire practiced law. Zach looked around at the tastefully appointed sage green and dusty pink reception area before following Claire into her private office. The long, spacious room had a sitting area at one end with a sofa,
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coffee table, and two wing chairs, and a desk and shelves of law books at the other end. A small adjacent room held files, a coffeemaker, and additional copying, fax, and computer equipment. "This is really nice," Zach said. "Thanks." Claire looked around appreciatively as she went to her desk and got the files, then set about brewing coffee for them. "I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get used to the quiet when I moved here from Chicago last year. I was on track to be partner at a pretty big firm there." Zach helped her carry cups, napkins, sugar, cream, and stir sticks to the coffee table, then settled on the sofa as she went back for the thermal carafe. "Why'd you leave?" Claire poured hot, aromatic coffee into their mugs, then sat down on the sofa beside him. "I wanted more of a life. I was tired of working 14-hour days. And I wanted to be closer to my aunt and uncle after my dad died. I'd lost my mother years earlier, but when my dad died I just felt the need to start fresh somewhere else. Laramie needed a family law attorney and I had always loved Texas. So…here I am." Zach studied her delicate wool sweater and tailored slacks. Not exactly cowgirl gear. In fact, she was every bit as urban as he was. He studied her upswept auburn hair and soft, glossed lips and wondered about the big leap of faith she had made. "You don't miss the big city?" Claire hesitated, then made a wry face. "When I do, I just hop in the car and drive to Dallas-Fort Worth or Houston or San Antonio for the day and that cures me." He grinned, seeing in her eyes that she really did like it better here. And found to his surprise that the contradiction made him like and respect her all the more. "Spoken like a true small-town girl at heart," he teased. Claire paused, coffee mug halfway to her lips. "What kind of man are you at heart, Zach?" she asked softly. "Big city or small town?"
Chapter Fifteen That was a good question, Zach thought. He wasn't sure how to answer. "I don't think I'm particularly attached to either city or country." The corners of Claire's soft lips turned down as she guessed frankly, "You just like to be on the move." "Right," Zach confirmed gruffly. He had learned the hard way — first as an abandoned child, then a foster kid, then a pilot — that the less he invested in any relationship or situation, the less likely he was to be disappointed. That knowledge had served him well, until now. Briefly, disillusionment flickered in Claire's dark-green eyes. Acting like the accomplished attorney she was, she turned her attention to the matter at hand, and her interest — in him as a person, as a man — away from him. "We'd better get down to business," she told him briskly, handing him a stack of files. "I've compiled information on all the families who are interested in adopting Robin and Bradley, in accordance with the private adoption laws of Texas. They all check out. They're all good families. I think Bradley and Robin would be happy with any of them. We just have to figure out where they'll be happiest." That was easy, Zach thought. Bradley and Robin would be happiest staying with Claire. Aware he couldn't exactly burden her with that suggestion — she'd already done so much for them since their parents' death — he began going through the files she'd handed him, one by one.
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And one by one, he vetoed every family for one reason or another, until he had reached the bottom of the stack. He looked up, disappointed in what he had seen thus far. He just couldn't see Robin and Bradley living happily in any of those homes, with any of those families, as nice as they apparently were. "Do you have any more?" he asked, suddenly as impatient to find a solution for the kids as Claire apparently was. "No. Those 23 families in Laramie County are it. Unless we start looking at families elsewhere. And I really don't want to do that because Robin and Bradley have been through so much already. The judge and I concurred it would be best to let the kids stay right here in Laramie, where they've always lived. Unless, of course, they were going to live with family." "Meaning me," Zach interrupted, a fresh wave of guilt assailing him. "Right." His spine turned rigid and his jaw set as he stared at Claire. He was not about to be pushed into doing the wrong thing for the kids, even if it was temporarily easier. "I see," he said. "No, Zach," Claire retorted angrily, green eyes flashing as she leapt to her feet and pivoted to square off with him. "I don't think you do. You have to make a decision here. Either take the kids, or let them go entirely." The idea of walking away completely was as unfathomable to him as the idea of taking permanent, solo charge of the kids. "Is that what you want?" Suddenly he was standing, too. Pain swept over Claire. She turned her head. "It doesn't matter what I want," she murmured. He caught her before she could flee. "Yes, it does," he whispered, looking down at her. "It matters more than you could ever know." And then he proved it to her. Cupping her face in his hands, he angled her chin up to his and gave her a fierce, hot kiss that turned her world upside down. Her arms moved from their defensive position against his chest to wreathe around his neck. The slow, hot strokes of his tongue were unbearably tender, sensual, and fulfilling. Claire didn't know what the future held for them, and right now, she didn't care. She only knew that she had never experienced such sweet invigorating kisses, and the chance to be with Zach like this might never come again. She had lost so much in her life, and so had he; she didn't want them to lose this, too. They tumbled down onto the sofa with reckless abandon. Kisses melted one into another as she arched against his hands, yearning fervently. "I want you so much," Claire whispered, as they struggled with their clothes. More than she could ever have imagined. "I want you, too," Zach said. He was hard and hot all over, aroused beyond belief. Her heart pounded as he stroked her gently, bringing her arousal to its peak. Then he surged against her, filling her gently, loving every inch of her, until she was weak with longing, overwhelmed with sensation, surging up against him, every part of her wanting every part of him. Until she was lost in him, in love with him. Surging toward the outer limits of her control.
*** Afterward, Claire turned away from him. She knew what this had meant to her. But she wasn't sure, besides the physical, what this had meant to Zach. And therein lay the problem. Trembling, Claire rose and reached for her clothes.
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Zach sighed and watched her with worried eyes. "You regret what just happened, don't you?" he prodded softly, as he stood reluctantly and began to dress. Claire swallowed, determined not to be a child about this. Zach had made no false promises. He deserved her honesty. She looked deep into his eyes. "I'm not sorry we made love. I needed to feel the way you made me feel." Cherished and respected and wanted. Aware her heart would be broken when he left, Claire clumsily adjusted her sweater, buttoned her slacks, and slipped on her kidskin loafers. "I'm just sorry it's going to be harder than ever for us to say goodbye." Zach stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Why do we have to say goodbye?"
Chapter Sixteen Claire's heart pounded as she lifted her face to Zach's. "What are you saying?" she whispered emotionally. Zach closed the distance between them with easy, sensual grace. Respect gleamed in his sea-blue eyes. "Simply that my leaving Laramie next week doesn't have to mean the end of our friendship." "Is that what it is?" Claire said, not sure why she was hurt, just knowing she was. She'd allowed herself to make love with Zach, knowing it was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. She'd told herself she could deal with the temporary nature of their relationship. Now that he'd held her in his arms and made her his, she wasn't so sure that was the case after all. Too late, she'd realized she needed a commitment from him. She needed not just to feel loved by him as they made love, but to be loved by him in a way that would last until the end of time. Zach took her into his arms, his warmth enveloping her like a thick blanket on a wintry day. He smoothed the hair from her face. "We've got something here, Claire. Something rare," he told her gently, looking deep into her eyes. "We'd be fools not to let our love affair continue." Claire drew a breath and, drawing on every ounce of strength she had, forced herself to be sensible. "That would be true," she told him in a low voice that trembled, "if I didn't want to be married and have kids of my own, but I do, Zach. I want a family. I want a normal life, with a husband who wants the same things I do. I'm not cut out for long distance, transitory love affairs." She had certainly laid her feelings on the line, Zach thought grimly. "You know that's not me," he said. Claire nodded as the phone on her desk began to ring. "Which is why," she said reluctantly, "as much as I enjoyed being with you that way, it shouldn't happen again." Looking more beautiful and distressed than ever, she reached across the desk and picked up the call via her speakerphone. Lilah was on other end of the line. "I hate to disturb you, but could you say a few words to Robin? She's upset." "Sure," Claire said, shooting Zach a look that was both apologetic and concerned. The sounds of Robin's sniffling filled the law office. "Claire, where are you?" Robin demanded in a low, upset voice that nearly broke Zach's heart. "I'm afraid."
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Claire shot Zach a look that was even more distressed. "Of what, honey?" Claire asked gently into the speakerphone. "That somethin' happened to you and Zach." On the other end of the line, Robin sobbed all the harder. "I don't want you to get in a car wreck, too." "Sweetheart, I'm fine," Claire said firmly, "and so is Zach. And to prove it, I'll let you talk to him, too." Claire moved so Zach could speak into the phone. While Zach soothed Robin, Claire collected the files, put them back on her desk, and began getting ready to go. "We'll be right there, I promise," Zach told Robin. He hung up the receiver and turned to help Claire tidy up her office. Although she was as calm and efficient as ever, her face had gone pale with worry and her soft lips were pressed together anxiously. "Has this happened before?" he asked as they swiftly gathered up the coffee mugs and carafe and rinsed them out in the sink. "A few times," Claire admitted helplessly. "It's probably the cold and rain, and the fact that it will be dark soon, that set her off. It was raining the night her parents were killed, and she and Bradley were with a sitter." Zach hated to think how traumatic that must have been for the two little children. To think your parents were only going to be gone for the evening, only to find out a short while later that you would never see them again. "Who broke the news to Bradley and Robin?" Zach asked as he helped Claire with her coat. Claire's eyes darkened once again. "I did," Claire said.
Chapter Seventeen "Sorry we had to call you home like that," Claire's Aunt Lilah said, as she and Uncle John got ready to leave. Claire tossed a glance at Zach, who was cozily ensconced on the sofa with both Robin and Bradley, reading them a story about a raccoon named Frances. "But we could tell she wasn't going to settle down until you and Zach got here," Lilah continued. Claire walked out onto the porch with them. If there was one thing her aunt and uncle, parents to four boys, could be counted on to understand, it was children. Additionally, their work as medical professionals made them conscious of the effects of trauma on a family. When they'd lost their parents, Robin and Bradley's whole world had been blasted apart. Claire — and others in the small, tight-knit community — were doing their best to see to the needs of the children, but at times like this Claire feared it wasn't enough. And heaven knew, she didn't want to see the two kids suffer any more than they already had at the hands of fate. Claire swallowed around the tight knot of emotion in her throat and did her best to keep her own discouragement at bay. She looked at her aunt and uncle frankly. "The grief counselor at the hospital said it's going to take time."
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Lilah nodded her agreement as John predicted kindly, "It'll happen sooner if they know where they're going to be living from now on, instead of just somewhere temporarily." Claire could understand that. If she were in Robin and Bradley's place, she'd want a permanent home and family again, too. "Were you able to narrow it down to a prospective family or two?" Lilah asked gently. Claire shook her head, her disappointment about that surging anew. "Zach had problems with all of them," she conceded, sighing as she looked out at the pouring rain. John McCabe's white eyebrows knit together. "Well, don't take too long. The kids have been through enough. They need to be settled somewhere." "I know you're right," Claire said. She thanked them for helping her out again, and walked them as far as the edge of the porch. She waited while they made their way to their car, then waved as they drove off. She was shivering against the chill of the February evening as she walked back inside. "Zach said maybe we can have chicken nuggets and French fries and milkshakes for dinner," Robin announced happily. To Claire's relief, the little girl looked secure and relaxed once again. "Is that okay?" Zach asked, apparently oblivious to the fact that his mere presence had done wonders toward reassuring both children. Doing her best to contain her wish that a Valentine's Day miracle would happen and Zach would decide to stick around after all, Claire nodded. Smiling, she went on to stipulate, "That's fine with me, as long as we add applesauce and cooked peas or carrot sticks to round it out nutritionally." And then, once dinner was over, and the kids were in bed for the night, she and Zach really had to talk.
*** "Something on your mind?" Zach asked as he and Claire drank coffee after tucking the children in for the night. "Yes." Claire drew a deep breath. She'd been wondering how to broach this topic. She supposed the best way was just to cut to the chase and blurt it out. She looked at Zach steadily, gauging his reaction. "I want to adopt the kids." Zach's broad shoulders flexed against the soft cotton fabric of his shirt. "Alone?" Claire wished it didn't have to be that way, but she didn't exactly hear anyone volunteering to adopt them with her. "Yes," Claire said, steadily meeting Zach's gaze. His blue eyes roved her thoughtfully from head to foot before settling on her face. He released a long breath. "Will it be a problem with the courts?" Claire drew herself up straighter and folded her hands demurely in her lap. "Not if I have your support, and the kids agree to it enthusiastically." "Which," Zach supposed thoughtfully, "given how they feel about you, you know they will." She stared into his eyes. They had never seemed so blue to her. "What about you?" she probed softly, wishing he were more forthcoming with his own feelings about all this.
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Zach reached over and took her hands, gripping them tightly between the warmth of his. "There's nowhere else I'd rather they be," he said gently, his affection for her evident. "I know you'll love them and take good care of them, Claire. You already do." Claire ducked her head and tried not to read anything into the intimacy of their tightly entwined hands. He was still leaving in a few days. And who knew when — or even if — he would ever return, given the demanding job he had as a pilot. She swallowed hard around the sudden knot of emotion in her throat. "Then it's settled?" she asked huskily. "We'll ask them what they think about it in the morning?" Zach nodded, looking as simultaneously pleased and unsettled as she felt. "First thing," he promised softly. Because Bradley's temperature had returned to normal and he was likely to sleep through the night, Zach went back to his motel room that night. Claire knew it was for the best. Nevertheless, she still felt lonely and sad about the way their relationship was destined to end as she tossed and turned throughout the night. The only joy she felt came the next morning as she sat down with Zach to talk to Robin and Bradley after breakfast, explaining gently and clearly what she was proposing. "So if we lived here with you from now on, we'd have a mommy and no daddy?" Robin surmised, her lower lip thrust out warily. Claire nodded. She studied her charge carefully. "Is that going to be a problem for you?" "No," Robin said, grinning suddenly as she bounced up and down on the sofa cushions excitedly. "'Cause I know how we can fix it!" Zach lifted an eyebrow as he and Claire exchanged stunned but curious looks. "Zach can live here, too!" Robin said, leaping off the sofa and wrapping her arms around both Claire and Zach simultaneously. "And he can be our daddy!"
Chapter Eighteen "It doesn't work that way, Robin," Zach said with as much patience and gentleness as he could muster. "Sure it does," Robin said stubbornly, sticking to her six-year-old logic like glue. "The woman has to be the mommy and the man has to be the daddy and we like both of you and you like us and we can all live here together and you can read us stories every night. And even help us with stuff. Like cooking and homework and grocery shopping. In fact, you could stay here and take care of us while Claire goes to work at her law office and then I wouldn't have to go to the day care center with Bradley after school, like I do now." She had it all figured out, Zach thought. It even sounded like a good plan. If you didn't figure in the fact that he would go stark raving mad if he couldn't fly jets and travel the world anymore. "Honey," Claire said, "Zach is still leaving tomorrow morning to go to Europe." "But it's Valentine's Day!" Robin protested, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment. "He can't leave on Valentine's Day! I wanted him to come to school and be at my party. He can help you!" "I offered to bake cookies and assist the first-grade homeroom mothers," Claire explained, when Zach shot her a questioning look. A hint of melancholy crept into her dark-green eyes. "It sounded like fun."
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Like the kind of moment loving parents videotaped and photographed for prosperity, Zach thought to himself. Sadness flowed through him as he realized those were the kinds of moments he would never be a part of or even see if he walked away from Claire and the kids — as he knew he must. "I'm sorry I'll miss it," Zach said, forcing an amiable smile. He expected Robin to be angry. But, ever the six-year-old optimist, she merely grinned back at him and said, "You can still change your mind."
*** But Zach didn't change his mind. Not when he signed the legal papers Claire asked him to sign, or when he went with Claire to the family court to talk to the judge and explain why he felt Robin and Bradley would be better off living with Claire. The judge, a woman in her late 40s, sized him up over the rim of her bifocals and said, "Sounds like you've gotten mighty attached to those kids." Zach nodded, aware that he'd never cared about three people in his life as much as he cared about Claire and the kids. "I have," he said matter-of-factly. "And you only want what's best for them," the judge continued to grill Zach. "I do." Zach looked at Claire. She smiled and turned her gaze back to the judge, but not before he saw the glimmer of gut-wrenching sorrow in her eyes. And he knew more than ever that he never should have made love to her. Never should have let them get as close as they had. Not when he knew he was still going to leave.
Chapter Nineteen "You're really leaving?" Robin asked early Wednesday morning, as Zach knelt down to hug her and Bradley goodbye. Steeling himself against the strong urge to stay just one more day, Zach nodded at Robin matter-of-factly. Like it or not, the longer he stayed here, the harder it was going to be for all of them to let go of any Valentine's Day fantasy of the four of them living happily ever after. "I have to go," he told Robin gently, as he hunkered down beside her. "My flight leaves in a few hours and I've got to drive all the way to Dallas-Fort Worth airport before it does." Robin wrapped her little arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely before pulling back to look at him poignantly. "Can't you go to my Valentine's party at school today and then go to Europe some other time?" Zach knew Robin was only articulating what Claire was thinking but was too polite and adult to say. He shook his head. "My boss is already in Vienna. I've got to fly her to Amsterdam tomorrow." If he didn't get there, he would be fired. Margot Middleton had been very clear about that. And he couldn't afford to lose this job. "Well, I'm going to miss you," Robin confessed thickly, her lower lip trembling and tears flooding her eyes. She wrapped her arms about his neck, and hugged him hard. Three-year-old Bradley followed suit, looking just as sad as his older sister did. "I'm going to miss all of you, too," Zach told them thickly. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted them to know this wasn't easy for him, either.
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"Will you come see us real soon?" Bradley asked wistfully. Zach looked at Claire. Once they'd met with the judge, she hadn't wanted to talk about the future or extract promises of any kind from him. Now, they had no choice. "We'll have to see," Claire interjected finally. The passion they had shared was like an invisible force field between them. "It depends on how busy Zach is, and all that," Claire continued in the cordial but impersonal voice he was beginning to loathe, "but of course he's welcome to visit here whenever he can." "Thanks," Zach told Claire gratefully. Claire could be making this as hard as heck on him. She wasn't. Trouble was, he felt guilty anyway. But the guilt would pass, he reassured himself firmly, because he was doing the right thing for the kids and for Claire by leaving. "I love you," Robin whispered, hugging him all the harder. Zach swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "I love you, too," he told first Robin then Bradley. But when he stood to say goodbye to Claire, she merely smiled at him, shook his hand coolly and professionally, thanked him for all he had done for her and the kids, and wished him well. There were no hugs, no kisses, no tender goodbyes. Just cool acceptance that whatever they'd had, however brief and passionate, was over.
*** "I really wanted Zach to come today," Robin complained to Claire as they returned home after the Valentine's Day party at her school. "I know you did, sweetheart." Claire helped Robin and Bradley off with their coats. "I miss him." Robin confided sorrowfully as she sat down on the living room floor and spread all the valentines she had received out for Bradley to see. I miss him, too, Claire thought. I miss the way he looked at me — like I was the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world. I miss the tender way he held and kissed me. And most of all I miss the fact that he was there for me, whenever — however — I needed him, for just a little while.
Chapter Twenty Zach was standing on her front porch, a heart-shaped box of chocolates in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other. Just seeing him again, looking ruggedly handsome and strong, was the best Valentine's Day present Claire had ever received. And yet, just hours ago he had left her and the kids without a backward glance. Claire didn't think she could go through the heartbreak of losing him again. Aware that her legs were shaking, Claire opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch beside Zach. Determined not to let him hurt her or the kids again by falsely raising their hopes about the future, she folded her arms and assumed a contentious stance. "What are you doing here?" Claire demanded quietly. She didn't know whether to hug him or burst into tears. "You're supposed to be in Europe." "I couldn't go." Zach set the flowers and candy down on the porch swing. He slipped off his leather jacket and put it around her shoulders, engulfing her in the tantalizing warmth and smell of him as he wrapped his arms around her waist and brought her even closer.
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He cradled her against him, all the passion and tenderness she'd ever wanted gleaming in his eyes. "I tried to go." He favored her with a sexy half smile as he confided, "I even told myself it was best for all of us, but in the end, I couldn't leave you, Claire, and I couldn't leave the kids." The tears Claire had been holding back brimmed in her eyes. The ache in her throat made it impossible to speak. But Zach, it seemed, had all the words they ever needed. "I want us to build a life together, Claire." Tenderly, he smoothed the hair from her cheek. "The kind I never had growing up, but always wanted." "What about your job with Margot Middleton?" Claire asked, trembling all the harder. Whatever happened next, she didn't want there to be any doubts about how he felt about her or the kids, or what he was doing. She didn't want him to realize later that he'd made a terrible mistake, and would never be happy there after all. "I was halfway to the Dallas airport, feeling awful about leaving you and Robin and Bradley behind — like my insides had been hollowed out. Then I realized something. It's not the job I like, it's the flying. And I can do that here. I'm going to set up shop at the small airstrip just south of town, and use some of the money I've been saving to buy my own plane. I'll give flying lessons to those who want them, haul cargo, and fly passengers wherever they want to go, provided I can come back to you and the kids every night." "It's not going to be as exciting as what you're doing now," Claire warned. To her relief, Zach wasn't concerned. "I've seen the world, Claire," he told her ruefully. "In fact, all I've done the past 10 years is travel. It's time for me to settle down, to have a home and a wife and kids I love more than anything. You and Robin and Bradley are it for me. The question is, is marriage and a life with me what you want?" It was all she wanted, Claire thought. All she had ever wanted. But he still hadn't said the words she longed to hear. And until he did… "Are you doing this just because you love the kids?" She asked cautiously, glad he did, but knowing she needed more, much more, before she could accept his proposal. Zach's eyebrows drew together. "That's part of it, of course," he confided in a rusty-sounding voice, looking deep into her eyes. "But the biggest part is that I love you in a way I never thought I could love any woman, Claire." "Oh, Zach," Claire wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned in close, savoring his warmth and strength and the essence that was him. "I love you, too," she whispered as her heart soared. "So much." She stood on tiptoe and lifted her lips to his. Zach kissed her full on the mouth, a long slow kiss that made her tremble. "So what's your answer?" he teased, when at last the passionate kiss had come to an end. He lifted the veil of her hair and kissed her exposed throat, before looking deep into her eyes again. "Will you be more than just my valentine, Claire McCabe?" he asked, looking every bit as happy and content and full of hope for their future as she felt. "Will you be my wife and my partner and my very best friend for the rest of our lives?" "Yes," Claire whispered, wreathing her arms about Zach's neck. "The answer is yes." The tears she'd been holding back streamed down her cheeks and her heart brimmed with a joy that was unlike anything she had ever felt. "I will marry you," she promised, and sealed her vow with another slow, steamy kiss. "Although," she murmured, "I have to warn you. I don't think I have it in me to be patient. I want to make this love of ours official right away." "I do, too. And I want to adopt the kids with you, too," he told her in the low, serious voice she'd come to love. He took her hand in his. "So, what do you say we go in and tell Robin and Bradley the good news?"
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*** To their mutual delight, the children were as happy as Claire and Zach wanted them to be. "I told you we'd get a mom and a dad for Valentine's Day!" Robin told her little brother gleefully. Bradley grinned, too. "I wanted you to come back and be with us," he told Zach. "So we could all be happy and live here together." "Well, I'm here with all of you now, and I'm not leaving you again," Zach declared. He'd been shot through the heart with Cupid's arrow, and he was loving every second of it. Some things, he thought to himself, were worth waiting for.
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Cowboy to the Rescue by Dianne Castell Patience MacKay can't believe her good fortune when she steps off the plane in San Antonio and into a sea of mouth-watering all-American cowboys! There are broad shoulders, square jaws and cute butts as far as the eye can see — and Patience plans to spend the next week flirting shamelessly with all of them. Certainly she'll find someone to spend Valentine's Day with this year! But her plans are threatened when she learns that her overprotective family has enlisted local rancher Grady Calhoun to keep her out of mischief! Still, Patience isn't about to let Grady stop her from checking off every item on her naughty to-do list, no matter how distracting his gorgeous brown eyes are….
Chapter One Patience ogled the strong, rugged, gorgeous cowboys in the San Antonio airport and mentally sang out a chorus of hallelujah. So many hunks, so little time. A menu of mouthwatering Americana. Broad shoulders, square jaws, cute butts as far as the eye could see, and not one lab coat, PDA or thesis paper in sight. For once in her bookworm-ish, botany-saturated, twenty-five-year-old life, she intended to have fun, flirt, be outrageous and not spend Valentine's Day alone in some lab watching moss grow. What better place to do it than in San Antonio during the February rodeo, where no one knew her? "Patience MacKay?" called a male voice behind her. Her eyes bulged. Who? What? Here? She spun around and faced a chin stubbled with two day's growth of beard. She looked up, taking in a tan face, incredible brown eyes that took her breath away, too-long hair and a dusty cowboy hat. Was that a hoofprint on the rim? "You are Patience MacKay, aren't you?" He held up her picture. She peered at the photo. "That's me holding an Althaea rosea." He gave her a confused look. "Hollyhock." He pushed his cowboy hat to the back of his head. "Yep, you're Patience MacKay." "How'd you know…from behind, I mean?" He toed the carry-on by her leg. A sticker on its side proclaimed, "Botanists do it in the bushes." "Oh." She blushed. "I forgot that was on there. A little botany humor and…" She leveled him a hard look. "Never mind that, who are you? Where'd you get that picture?" "I'm Grady Calhoun. Your mother… Well it wasn't just your mother so much as your whole family — your two sisters, your step-dad, and especially your new brother-in-law, Tanner. Tanner was once my business partner, and as a favor he — and everyone else — asked me to take care of you while you're in San Antonio." "I do not need someone to take care of me! I teach college, for heaven's sake." She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "And you are not Grady Calhoun because I've seen pictures of him with Tanner. Grady's a pilot and lives in Alaska."
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"I moved." He reached into his pocket and took out his driver's license. "It's been a rough day at the ranch. Cows never do what you want them to." She glanced from the license back to the man. Rough day at the ranch was a huge understatement. She could see from his dusty clothes that this was a hardworking cowboy, the rough and tumble kind, not one of those glamour guys in the magazine ads. "Look, I really appreciate you taking time out from your horses and cows and all, Grady, but you can go back to them. No need to worry about little old me. I'm just here doing research on pecan trees." She turned to leave, but he placed his hand on her arm, stopping her, looking into her eyes and making little shock waves dance up her spine and her heart race. How'd he do that? "If I don't have you on my ranch by five o'clock when your family calls, they'll descend on San Antonio and me like a plague of locusts; Tanner will have my backside for lunch and every police officer in San Antonio will be looking for you. In case you didn't notice, your family is just a little protective of the youngest scientific member of the family. And it's my duty to do the same." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I don't believe I did this. I told my family I was going to Fort Worth to do research on the native Texas pecan tree. ‘No,' they said. ‘Go to San Antonio. It's prettier there. Better weather. You'll love it in San Antonio.'" She kicked her carry-on. "And I fell for it! ‘They don't know anyone in Texas,' I said to myself." She poked Grady in the chest, her eyes going beady. "Why couldn't you stay in Alaska? I have things I want to do here." She pulled a paper from her pocket and held it up to his face. "A list of things that have zilch to do with pecan trees, and you, Grady Calhoun, are not getting in my way."
Chapter Two Patience glared at Grady as he snatched the paper she held in front of him and read, "Skinny dip; enter wet T-shirt contest; run naked —" He looked her dead in the eyes — with his delicious, fascinating eyes. "I've got orders from Tanner to keep you safe, and send you back to your family's Thoroughbred horse farm just the way you left." He shook the paper — Patience's wish list of things she'd always wanted to do. "You teach college, come from a respected Kentucky family. You can't do these things." She pulled herself up to her full five-foot, nine-inches, her penny loafers toe-to-toe with his boots. No one, no matter how handsome a cowboy he was under all that dust, was going to ruin her good time. She'd come too far, made too many plans, got contact lenses, and she could ignore his eyes anytime she wanted to, thank you very much. "You're going to rat me out to my family?" Grady took in Patience MacKay's long blond hair that fell straight to her narrow shoulders, blue eyes, slender build, brown pants, sweater and shoes. His insides burned. His mouth got as dry as the dust on his clothes. Damn, she was good-looking. A botany babe! Even in blah brown. He'd get Tanner for this. Bookworm? Only interested in plants? Ha! That list he just read didn't have one plant or book on it. That list was nothing but trouble, and so was the gal who wrote it. He was supposed to show her pecan trees, make sure she didn't get eaten by something wild. He hadn't expected to include himself in that category. "I'm not calling your family…for your sake as much as my own. A visit from the MacKay clan does not sound like a day in paradise. " "My family's terrific, just a little controlling."
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"They left controlling behind years ago. And this list —" he held up the paper "— is history." He wadded it up and put it in his shirt pocket. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips — full and naturally pink — puckered with exasperation, and he suddenly wanted to pucker right back. I must be losing my mind, he thought. "Are you going to lock me up?" "Don't have to. My spread's a two-hour drive from here, and there's nothing to do in Ripple Creek." "Define nothing." "Zip. Nada. Not one thing. Blue sky, horses, cows. And we have lots of those pecan trees you wanted to study." She spread her arms wide and shook her head in exasperation. "I don't want trees. I've had a lifetime of trees. I want action, fun, excitement." She squinted at him determinedly. "I want to wear sexy clothes instead of jeans and hiking boots. I want cowboys at my beck and call." He pictured her in short shorts, a tank top and miles of exposed skin glistening in the hot Texas sun. Patience MacKay was temptation personified. Maybe he should lock her in a room, then swallow the key so he'd stay the hell out. He hoisted her duffle and started walking with her at his side. "Cows I got, and you can beck and call them anytime you want. As for the boy part, you're out of luck. It's just me and some old wranglers." And a week of sheer torture.
Chapter Three Patience looked out the truck window as the miles sped by. Flat, dry, uninteresting. But she stared all the same because it made more sense than staring at Grady Calhoun and feeling her heart accelerate into the danger zone. She cast a quick look his way. Tall, tan, handsome — once you blew off the dust and got him near a razor — obviously strong…and her own personal enemy-number-one. Her family had tricked her, blast them. And she'd fallen for it, blast her. She'd told them she was going to Texas to study pecan trees, when really she was seeking someplace she could escape her family's controlling ways and fulfill her personal wish list. They'd suggested San Antonio — then her whole family had conspired to ask this family friend, Grady Calhoun, to baby-sit her. For someone so smart she sure was stupid! She should have known what they were up to. "Here we are." Grady swept his hand through the air. "Ripple Creek, Texas, complete with general store, gas station, grocery with post office, drugstore and diner. My home town." "What's that?" Patience pointed to a weathered building with a neon Bud Light sign in the window. "That?" The truck sped up and Grady screeched round the next corner taking them out of town. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Used to be a bar. Now it's…closed." Patience turned in her seat, watching the building fade from view. "Two men are going in. You sure it's closed?"
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"Workers. Trying to fix the old place up. Won't be done till you're long gone." He tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. He pointed up ahead to a white clapboard house and barns to the back. "There's the ranch." "How long will the bar be closed?" "For a long, long, long time." He nodded toward a stand of trees. "Native Texas pecan trees just begging for research. Yessiree, nothing like a pecan tree to pique your interest." He really did have great eyes…even if he was the enemy. Wasn't the enemy supposed to look like Darth Vader, not Brad Pitt? "When can I borrow your truck to go back to San Antonio?" "Never. Because…we need it for the ranch. There are more pecan trees behind the barns. Big ones. Little ones." He pulled to a stop and she hopped out. "I should have rented a car at the airport. I suppose there aren't any car rentals in Ripple Creek." "Look around." He turned with his arms outstretched. Great arms, the kind made for hard work…the kind a woman dreamed of being held in. Forget dreaming, she reminded herself. She was on a mission. "All kinds of green stuff growing. Chlorophyll as far as the eye can see. A botanist's paradise." Grady continued. "Depends on the botanist." "I'll help you get settled and then I've got to ride out and tend the cattle. Just brought in a new herd." Ride out? Bless that new herd! She smiled sweetly…very, very sweetly and snatched her bag from the back. "You just take care of your cattle. I'll wait for my family to call then I'll take a look at those trees. Might as well do some research since I'm stuck out here." "That's the spirit." He thumped her on the back. "Good girl. I'll be home in a couple of hours and we'll have a late dinner. You just mosey around and get used to things." Yeah, she'd mosey all right. "Okeydokey." He gave her a suspicious look as he climbed back into the truck and took off for the barn. She headed for the house, walking jauntily, smiling, hoping she wasn't overdoing the innocent bit. Closed bar? Right! She'd been gullible once, but not again. Where there was a bar in Texas there were cowboys, and where there were cowboys there was mischief. Mischief and cowboys were just what she was looking for.
Chapter Four Grady zipped his jacket against the evening chill as he watched the sun set on the horizon. He headed for the house. No lights? Patience must be asleep, beat from her long trip and an afternoon of pecan tree research. He could picture her sleeping. Probably sprawled out, dead to the world, surrounded by papers and books. Soft lips, warm silky skin, tousled hair…and him curled up beside her, tucking her close, his arm draped across her firm breasts —
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He shook his head roughly to dispel the image. This was not what he should be picturing at all. He should be picturing Tanner beating him to a pulp if he even looked crossways at Patience. Tanner was Grady's friend and former business partner — and Patience's brother-in-law. Along with the rest of her overprotective family, Tanner had enlisted Grady to keep Patience out of trouble on this research trip. A note was taped to the front door. Exploring local wildlife. Be back later. P. Well, there you go, Grady thought. She's really gotten into this research thing. Forgotten all about her list and focused on trees and local plants. Grady was about to open the door when he spotted the sheriff's car turning off the main road, heading his way down the gravel drive. Duke pulled to a stop and leaned out the window, laughing. "Howdy, Grady. You sure got some fantastic houseguest visiting you. Surprised you're not with her." Uh oh. Grady had a bad feeling this was not about pecan trees. "Patience introduced herself around the Watering Hole, cured McDuff's poison ivy with some vinegar stuff she mixed up in the kitchen, then asked if anyone was interested in a wet T-shirt contest. Seems she's got a list of things she's always wanted to do and that was one of them." He laughed. "She's terrific." "Holy hell." Grady felt smoke curling from his ears. "I'm going to wring her neck." "Can you wait till after the contest?" Grady leveled an evil look at Duke. "Or not. Guess you didn't know about this, huh." Duke put the cruiser in gear and sped off. Patience in a wet T-shirt! Outlining narrow waist, trim midriff, perfect breasts, every detail on display… And at the Watering Hole, the most popular saloon in the area. Sweat trickled down his back. Was it from the thought of Tanner getting wind of this or from the thought of Patience MacKay dripping wet? Dammit all! He had to keep his mind on cattle and horses and…and anything but Patience MacKay. When he entered the bar he barely recognized the place. Twinkle lights were stretched from side to side, tables were draped with beach blankets and the thermostat had been kicked to eighty-plus. Music blared, beer flowed and everyone danced. Amazing what a cure for poison ivy and a request from a pretty girl could do. From the back he watched as Sally Spurlock boogied her way across the makeshift stage, wet shorts and top glued to her like a second skin, dispelling any myths about librarians being uptight or prissy. Patience was next. From what he could see she wore short shorts and a T-shirt knotted in the middle, exposing her midriff…and she looked sexy as hell.
Chapter Five Grady elbowed through the crowd at the Watering Hole as Patience sashayed her slender hips, gyrated her elegant shoulders and tossed her head side-to-side in time to the music, encouraging applause and whistles from the crowd — and hormonal overload from Grady.
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"Patience!" He snatched her elbow as she turned, and lost his footing on the wet hardwood. He grabbed for the bar to steady himself, missed, caught Patience instead and they landed on the floor, her on top, him on the bottom — lips-to-lips, chest-to-chest, hips-to-hips. This was not how to keep his mind off Patience and on cattle and horses. He gazed into her eyes as wolf whistles and suggestive comments echoed in his ears. All that plus the fact that Patience MacKay was the very last woman on earth he should be attracted to did nothing — not one damn thing — to stop basic lust from roaring through his veins like a charging bull. "Grady?" Her eyes shone bright blue, exciting, full of life, turning him on even more. "What are you doing?" Her lips were so close, so tempting, so taboo. "Taking you home." He pushed himself up then helped her to her feet. Droplets of water spiked her eyelashes and glistened on her flushed cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. Why this? Why couldn't she look like a drowned rat! He snagged a beach towel from the bar and tied it around his middle on the pretense of drying himself off when it was really an effort at hiding his sudden, very physical and completely uncontrollable reaction to Patience. Drops trickled down her slender neck to her chest, to her — "You're…wearing clothes under that shirt." The crowd laughed and Patience blushed. "This is a family bar, Grady. What did you think was going on?" Think? Since Patience landed in his life he couldn't think of anything…except her. Martha Blanchard called, "Get out of the way there, Grady. Time's a wastin'. Carry on with that pretty gal somewhere else. It's my turn to have fun and shake my booty tonight. At my age I may never get another chance." Grady took Patience's hand and led her to the back of the room. He snagged another towel from a table and draped it around her shoulders. "You should change." She grinned, looking happy and carefree. She waved her hand around the room, turning as she went. "That's what I'm trying to do, at least while I'm here. Isn't this great? Ripple Creek is a wonderful town." He eyed the cowboys ogling Patience and wrapped her in another towel. "Especially when a beautiful woman has a request. You just couldn't do this in Kentucky and drive your family nuts, could you? Had to come here and do it to me." Her eyes darkened, reminding him of the Texas sky at midnight. "You — you think I'm beautiful?" "Ah, hell, Patience. You're a knockout and you know it." She shrugged and tugged at the shirt. "It's the clothes and the contacts." He looked deep into her eyes. "No, it's you." She stood perfectly still, her delicate mouth open a fraction in surprise. She slowly shook her head. Damn, she really didn't know. Beautiful women always knew they were beautiful. Except Patience, apparently. "You have no idea that you're…stunning?"
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She glanced around as if he must have been speaking to someone else. Then her blue eyes widened as they met his. "Me?"
Chapter Six Grady touched Patience's cheek, his fingers lingering. "You're…irresistible." His insides tightened, her genuine unawareness of her beauty more of a turn-on then any skimpy lingerie or heady fragrance. His heart beat against his ribs in a steady thud as he smoothed her hair from her forehead. The heat from her skin warmed his palm; the mysterious look in her eyes took his breath away. He could have sworn they were the only two people in the bar…or maybe in all of Texas. Then he gently pulled her into his arms, intoxicated by the feel of her body next to his, and kissed her. Patience couldn't believe she was in Grady's arms, his lips on hers, his hands splayed across her back, his body nearly surrounding her. She felt light-headed, weak-legged as her insides ignited like dry timber. No one had ever kissed her like this before. She wound her arms around Grady's powerful shoulders and let herself melt against him. Nothing — no courses, no degree, no Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Men book — had prepared her for Grady Calhoun's kiss. Her lips parted a fraction in wonder, giving his tongue access to hers. She gasped as his mouth mated with hers, and if he hadn't held her she would have melted into a blob on the floor…probably like an amoeba, or maybe a protozoon. Who cared? Then he suddenly broke the kiss. How could he do that? She was just getting the hang of this. What woman wouldn't love kissing Grady Calhoun, tall, yummy and one hundred percent all American cowboy? His breath came fast and ragged as he asked, "What the hell am I doing?" "For someone who doesn't know, you do it awfully well." He stepped away from her and massaged the back of his neck. "Tanner wants me to protect you from —" he looked her in the eyes "— guys just like me. I can't betray Tanner. He taught me how to fly, took me in as his business partner. I owe him." Tanner was also Patience's brother-in-law, and Grady had promised him, along with the rest of the MacKay family, that he'd keep Patience out of trouble on her trip to Texas. She folded her arms. "In case you didn't notice, Tanner's not here…and that's no accident. I can kiss whomever I please." "But I can't." Grady took her hand. "Let's go. I'm taking you home." She took her hand back and stood her ground. "I can also go where I please, and I'm not leaving here right now." "Why not? You did the wet T-shirt thing. You can check it off your list. Now we can go. Maybe you should drive; maybe I should walk. Maybe a mountain lion will eat me and my problems will be over." "I can't leave now; my shift is starting." Grady's eyes rounded. "Shift?" She grinned devilishly. "It's number five on my list. Entering a wet T-shirt contest was number three."
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Grady pulled the crumpled list from his pocket and ran his finger down the page. "Get called darlin' by cute guys in a bar." He peered back at her. "What kind of a dumb list is this?" "It's a girls-just-want-to-have-fun list." She patted his cheek, twitched her hip and waved over her shoulder. "See you around, Grady Calhoun. I'll get one of the cowboys to drive me home. Don't wait up."
Chapter Seven Grady watched Patience strut away from him and fade into the crowd. He called, "I'm not leaving here till you do." She winked back at him and flashed a dazzling smile. "Suit yourself, cowboy. But it could be a long night." The way things were going, it promised to be the longest night in history. He parked himself at the far end of the bar. Everyone, including Patience, was having a grand time. Except for him. A beach party had come to Ripple Creek in February and he felt like the lifeguard. Patience swayed back to him, all legs and arms and sassy hair done up in a girlish ponytail. She balanced a tray of longnecks. "You're really not leaving? You look tired." "You're really going to be a barmaid? And you don't look tired at all." "Adrenalin rush. Got to squeeze in as much fun as possible. When I go back home, I'll teach college for the rest of my life and that's fine. I love botany. But for once I want to kick up my heels, do the things I should have done while in college or high school and my dear family and the college president aren't here to have a heart attack or fire me." She placed a beer in front of him. "To improve your disposition." "The only thing that's going to do that is you on a plane heading out of Texas." She winked and called over her shoulder as she left, "That's just six itty-bitty days away." There was nothing itty-bitty about her infernal to-do list or the time she planned on staying. Duke sat down next to him, beer in hand, fingers tapping on the bar in time with the music. "You look like something the dog coughed up. What's wrong?" He nodded at Patience. "Hell, man. That is not wrong. That's dynamite." "Her family wants me to keep her safe, protect her, make sure she gets back to Kentucky the same genteel Southern gal who left." He fished in his pocket and handed Duke the paper. "This is her to-do list while she's here." He glanced in the mirror behind the bar. "I think I'm going gray." Duke glanced at the items on Patience's list. He laughed, read on, then laughed harder. He pushed his sheriff's hat to the back of his head and handed the list back to Grady. "I get it. On the one hand you have to be around to protect Patience from whatever monkey business she's getting into, and on the other hand you should run straight for the hills because who's gong to protect the lovely Ms. MacKay from you?" Grady took a swig from the bottle "That obvious, huh?"
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"Maybe not to some, but I am the sheriff and I usually get a good read on people. You got yourself in a real pickle, Grady, and this is only the first day." Duke tapped his longneck to Grady's then wandered off while Grady watched Patience flirt shamelessly with the cowboys. His gut tensed, his lips thinned. He checked the list. Yep, there it was, big as you please: #4 Flirt shamelessly. Damn.
Chapter Eight Grady started to refold the paper, and then he caught sight of the last item on Patience's to-do list. Not spend Valentine's Day alone. Hell, with this crowd of guys, Patience would never be alone. The cowboy across the room sliding his arm around her waist was a perfect example. This was all part of her great plan, no doubt. Well, that was just too damn bad, because it sure wasn't part of Grady's. He clenched his jaw. To hell with her list. He had an obligation to keep Patience out of trouble, no matter how hard she tried to get into it. He settled his Stetson firmly on his head, squared his shoulders and strode across the floor to Patience and the cowboy. He took the tray from her hand and dropped it on the table with a resounding clatter, knocking over the bottles. He peered down at her. "We, as in you and I, are going home now, whether you want to or not." He wasn't sure he'd made this decision because of his agreement with Tanner or because he was damn tired or because having another man's hands on Patience lit a dangerous fire in his belly that he couldn't explain. At that moment, he didn't care. She stiffened her spine and jutted her chin. "I have a job to finish here." "Consider it finished." Her brow furrowed. "I am not ready to leave." "Wanna bet?" He scooped her into his arms and headed for the door. For a second she went perfectly still, shock splashed across her face. Hell, he shocked himself. He hadn't thought how wonderful she'd feel against his chest. How having his arms across her back and under her knees would be a huge turn-on. He'd already been down this route once tonight. Wasn't that enough? Obviously not. Good thing it was dark outside. Once again his present physical condition was a huge embarrassment. Well, maybe not huge but he'd never had any complaints. Patience's eyes narrowed and she pushed against his chest and kicked her feet. "You can't do this! It's the twenty-first century! I have rights. Men do not carry women off into the night. Oprah will hear about this! Let me go, you overgrown Neanderthal!" Grady gripped tighter — her slender body feeling perfect in his arms — and kept walking. Duke had held open the door so they could exit, and the others in the bar had cheered, slapping Grady on the back for encouragement. Patience folded her arms, stared straight ahead, angry heat radiating from every pore of her lovely skin. He set her down by the truck and she glared up at him, the moonlight reflected in her eyes, playing in her hair. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her. "What do you think you're doing?"
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"Number eleven on that list of yours." "Ha! There is no number eleven, wise guy." "There is now. It's the one that says, Stop acting like a bubble-headed twit."
Chapter Nine Patience poked herself in the chest. "Grady, did it ever occur to you that I want to act like a bubble-headed twit? At least for a little bit. Jenny Thompson was a bubble-headed twit and had more fun than I ever thought about having." "Who the hell's Jenny Thompson?" Patience looked up at Grady. "Jenny Thompson is the girl I wanted to be in high school. Popular. Guys lined up just to talk to her. She thought flora and fauna was a new rap group and no one cared." His eyes were hidden under the shadow of his hat, but she could clearly see his lips — firm, full, tempting, made for kissing. She knew about that part firsthand. Eat your heart out, Jenny Thompson. "While you were captain of some team and dating the prom queen, I had no dates, just books. I scared the heck out of guys." "Not every guy's captain of the football team, or even wants to be. And there are guys in the science field." "Lots of guys. Science is a guy-dominant field, but…" She took in Grady's broad shoulders silhouetted against the moonlight, the hint of tight abs under his denim shirt, his jeans slung low on his hips, molded to his thighs…and to the area above his thighs. "You've had an adventurous life. Alaskan bush pilot, cowboy, chasing women, women chasing you. I need a past, Grady. You're in my way." "And you're in mine. How am I supposed to run a ranch while running after you?" She let out a deep sigh. "I should have gotten a Ph.D. in fashion design. I'd be in Paris right now. The MacKays don't know one living soul there. I'd be sipping champagne, doing the can-can." "I'll spring for the ticket." "Too late. My idea of fashion is socks that match and the only can I know is the kind you need an opener for." She suddenly felt as tired as he looked. "All right, all right. You win this round." She opened the truck door and climbed in, flashing a devilish smile over her shoulder. "But there's always tomorrow, Grady Calhoun. Just think about that."
*** And at 3:00 a.m. Grady was still thinking about that and more as he stared at his bedroom ceiling. Sleep? Right! When all he could think about was how Patience intended to complete that blasted list of hers? Or maybe he couldn't sleep because every time he closed his eyes he pictured her asleep right next door. A step creaked. Then another. Now what's she up to? Don't people in Kentucky ever sleep? He waited a few beats, slipped on his jeans and boots then followed Patience downstairs. He stopped in his tracks before he reached the bottom.
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She stood in the open front doorway, moonlight falling around her in a silver pool, a cool breeze fanning her hair out behind her, naked as the day she was born…though she sure as hell didn't have that body when she was born. Fast, fierce, intense desire hardened every muscle in his body. His heart galloped like a cattle stampede. His lungs refused to work. He'd never seen any woman so lovely, so sensual, so feminine in his life, and he'd seen his share. But what was she —? Before he finished the thought, she ran out into the night. What the hell? He started after her, tripped down the last four steps, bumped his head on the banister and scraped his knee. She'd be the death of him in more ways than one. He saw her in the distance, making for a nearby stand of pines. A goddess, a nymph, an incredible vision…and a possible late-night dinner for the coyotes heading her way.
Chapter Ten The full moon cast long shadows through the pine trees as Grady watched the coyotes slink their way toward Patience. His blood turned to ice and he snagged his rifle from beside the door and took off after her, calling her name into the night. She slowed as if she'd heard him. He called again and this time she turned and seemed to freeze in place, zeroing in on the coyotes. Usually they weren't a problem, but Patience was alone, not all that big, looked like fair game and the coyotes were running in a pack. He fired once into the air but they didn't slow. She yelled, "Don't shoot them!" Grady rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we'll just serve you up with an apple in your mouth." He aimed and shot over the coyotes' heads at the same time as she threw something at them. One yelped. Nice shot, Patience. Then the pack turned and hightailed it away. He shouldered his gun, relief washing over him. He walked toward her, smiling like a baboon. "Stop. I — I don't have any clothes on." "And whose fault is that? I could kill you. What in the world are you doing out here!" "Just go to the house and I'll be along." "The coyotes will be back. I'm not leaving." He kept walking. "What did you throw at them?" "My shoe. You didn't think I'd run out here without shoes, did you? I'm not crazy." "Shoes but no clothes. And I'm not supposed to think you're crazy?" He was almost to her now. Her skin looked soft, smooth and radiant in the moonlight filtering through the pines. "That's far enough." Her voice was firm with an unmistakable quiver. Cold? Embarrassment? Hard to tell. She held up her hands as if warding off a freight train. "Why didn't you wear a shirt? I could use a shirt right now." "I could give you my pants." "No. Maybe I can find some branches." She looked on the ground.
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He found her shoe and walked her way as she yanked furiously at a tree limb. "What did that poor tree ever do to you?" She darted behind it then looked around the trunk. Her blue eyes were as big as the moon overhead. "Go away." He handed her the shoe, and she stuck out one shaky hand and took it. "Tell you what. I'll turn around, and you can walk up behind me. You can follow in my footsteps. All right?" She nodded. "All right." He turned and heard her steps on the ground. "I'm here." Her teeth chattered as she talked. "Next time you plan this stunt I suggest you choose a summer night." "Just get going." "You know, I've seen it before." "What before?" "A naked woman." "Yeah, well, you haven't seen this one, and I intend to keep it that way." He reminded himself with each step that he was a gentleman, and any woman who didn't want to be seen naked had that right. But, oh, he was tempted to turn around and drink in the sight of her. He heard her footsteps as they made their way to the house. "Maybe we should sing to keep the coyotes away." "Maybe you should get a move on before I freeze to death." He heard her teeth chatter again. Then he heard her stumble and mumble a string of curses as she fell to the ground with a soft thump.
Chapter Eleven "Patience? Are you okay?" She could feel Grady staring down at her, seeing everything she owned…at least on the backside. "I'm sprawled facedown, naked on the ground and you're asking if I'm okay? Here doggie, doggie, doggie." "What the hell are you doing?" "Calling the coyotes to come back and eat me." Grady laughed. "Look, just turn over and —" "I can't do that. You turn around and I'll get up and —"
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He flipped her over. She didn't know what to cover first, her hands flying to her breasts, then the juncture of her legs…but that left one breast open. Three hands…she'd never wanted them before, but she sure did now. What a predicament. Running in the moonlight naked was one of the things on her girls-just-want-to-havefun list. She thought it would be a simple thing to accomplish. She hadn't counted on Grady following her — or on the pack of coyotes that had briefly considered her a possible late-night snack. He dropped the rifle on top of her, the cold barrel across her abdomen, sending chills up her front. Or maybe that was from being naked around Grady…though at the moment her nakedness seemed to be the last thing on his mind. He didn't even seem to notice. Maybe he was…gay? Or she was just a turn-off. He snatched her into his arms for the second time that night. Though this time she was naked, carrying a rifle and his chest was exposed, showing off his wonderful muscles in the moonlight. He nodded at the hillside. "Our furry friends are back, and this time a shoe and warning shots may not work. There're more of them." She worried about the coyotes. She worried a lot more about keeping her hands off Grady. So fine, so tanned, so warm, with a smattering of soft black hair across his pecs and down his middle. He was delicious, a real cowboy, and the man determined to keep her from having fun. Couldn't she be attracted to someone else? "I can walk." "Fall again and you're a midnight snack." He took off in a slow run for the house, holding her to his chest. This must be the good part of being stalked by coyotes. The coyotes started toward her and Grady, eyes shining in the night, soundless. Menacing. "You do know how to shoot, don't you?" "I'm a Kentucky girl. Can pick bottles off the fence at fifty yards." Though she'd never done it from a man's arms before. Grady's heart beat against her bare breast. His rapid breathing fell over her exposed skin. She felt safe in his arms. She also felt embarrassed beyond words, but she'd deal with that later when she was alone and she could kick herself around the room. Grady reached the house, taking the steps to the front porch in two strides. He set her down, flipped on the porch lights and turned to the coyotes on the other side of the drive. He waved his hands in the air. "Git!" They scattered back toward the trees, houses and civilization not being to their liking. Patience dashed inside and flew upstairs. She grabbed her nightshirt as Grady burst into her room. "What the hell were you doing out there?" "Don't you knock?" "Not this time." Fire lit his eyes as he snapped the shirt from her hands and took her into his arms and kissed her. He held his hard bare chest tight against hers, his strong arms circled her back and his erection nestled at the juncture of her legs.
Chapter Twelve
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Grady held Patience close. Running with a gorgeous naked Patience in his arms had been torture, and he didn't want to be tortured any longer. He wanted Patience. Her sweet lips molded to his as if she'd been made for him, her arms slid around his neck as if they belonged there and her smooth, chilled skin warmed against his bare chest and under his palms, driving him over the edge. He ran his hands over her smooth shoulders, her slender back that narrowed at her waist, her shapely hips. He cupped her firm buttocks that fit perfectly into his palms and lifted her body tight to his, claiming her for his own. She gasped, her nipples hardening against his chest. His erection pressed painfully against the zipper of his jeans. He thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, and she shivered against him. Then he scooped her into his arms and tumbled them both onto her bed. He broke the kiss and smoothed her hair from her face, watching it flow over the rumpled covers. "You are so beautiful, so smart, so sexy." He kissed her again, not able to get enough of her. "I want you, Patience." His chest tightened at the words as he was suddenly aware of how much he meant them. He was desperate for her, desperate to make love to her. Her cobalt-blue eyes glazed with passion. Her voice was thick and ragged as she said, "I want you, too." Moonlight streamed in through the windows, falling across her rounded breasts, her slender neck, turning his blood to liquid fire. He sat up and yanked off his boots and jeans and dropped them to the floor in a heap. Then suddenly he snatched his jeans back up. She stared at him wide-eyed. "You're — you're having second thoughts?" Any other time he would have smiled. Now her desperation fueled his own, making him want her all the more. "No second thoughts." He took his wallet from his back pocket and retrieved a condom. "Protection." He made himself ready for her, her breathing becoming more rapid as she watched, which turned him on more still. He positioned himself over her, settling himself between her supple thighs. Patience MacKay was a woman made for loving. Every inch of her begged for his attention. She wrapped her legs around his middle, bringing her exquisite body tight to his. "Make love to me, Grady." "I want to take my time with you." She kissed him, her lips hungry and full. "Hurry." She closed her eyes. "Look at me, Patience. I want you to know it's me you're making love to." His heart hammered, his insides throbbed and he summoned every ounce of control he possessed to go slowly. He eased himself into her, watching her eyes go wild with pleasure, the intimate feel of her surrounding him, seducing him beyond his wildest dream. Then she tightened her legs and arched her back, taking him into her softness in one thrust. She gasped — or was that him? Her face flushed and her fingers dug into his back. "Oh, Grady."
Chapter Thirteen Patience lay under Grady, feeling his heartbeat return to normal along with her own. She wasn't prepared for the intensity of his lovemaking. How it made her feel a part of his body and his soul. How it left a permanent imprint of him on her heart. He rested his forehead against hers. His eyes still closed, his breath falling across her face. "Oh boy."
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She smoothed back his damp hair, her fingers tracing the curve of his ear. "Is that a good oh boy or a bad oh boy?" His gaze met hers. He cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers possessively through her hair and kissed her. "Making love to you is astounding. But —" he pulled in a lungful of air "— I have visions of Tanner and me at a necktie party." She gave him a questioning look. "Tanner with a shotgun, me with a noose around my neck. I made a promise to protect you from exactly this kind of situation. I shouldn't have betrayed him like this." "News flash: I'm not a child. This fall I'll be teaching botany full-time at the University of Kentucky. I can take care of myself." "Try convincing Tanner and your family of that. The youngest is always the baby. If you live to be a hundred, you'd still be the baby." He winked. "You're some babe, all right." Grady wrapped his arms around her and rolled her over in the rumpled sheets. She laughed, landing on top of him, loving the feel of his strength around her. His eyes sparkled, an easy smile played at his mouth. She kissed him. "I'm not telling Tanner anything. It's none of his business or…" She stopped talking when she realized he was staring at a dark spot on the cover. He touched it then looked her in the eyes, a stunned expression on his face. "Tell me you're not a virgin." She shook her head. "I'm not a virgin…now." His jaw dropped, he blinked several times in rapid succession. He wasn't smiling. "How could you not tell me?" His eyes beaded. "And don't say it's because I didn't ask you." He rolled her off him and stood, looking down at her. All handsome, all male, all royally pissed off. "I could have hurt you. You said you'd been with guys, colleagues. I just assumed you'd…" "Been to bed with a man somewhere along the way?" His fingers raked his hair. "Was this —" he waved his hand over the bed "— one of the things on that damn list of yours? Is that why you went along with it?" "It didn't occur to me to say, 'By the way, this is my first time.' In case you didn't notice, we weren't having that kind of a conversation. And you have my list. Do you see make love to Grady on it anywhere?" He quirked his brow. "Maybe this was the Make out with a cowboy item? What is that, number six? Or maybe it's Not spend Valentine's Day alone. This definitely qualifies as not being alone." She pushed herself from the bed and stood, glaring at him through the moonlight filling the room. "Valentine's Day is two days from now. This wasn't exactly a planned event. I didn't will you to follow me or cue the coyotes to chase us or arrange to fall on my face so you'd carry me off. It just happened, Grady." She snatched her duffle bag from the corner and angrily threw it on the bed.
Chapter Fourteen Grady watched as Patience opened her duffle. "What's this?"
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"I'm leaving." She scooped her clothes from the dresser drawer in one big armful and dropped everything into the bag. "No matter what you think, what happened between us was not premeditated. And I'm sorry you're not happy with the outcome." Patience threw another armful of clothes into her duffle as Grady said, "You're going back to Kentucky?" She zipped the bag closed. "You are not ruining my week. I planned this for a long time. I'm going to the Watering Hole. McDuff has rooms to rent. I have a key he gave me from my shift as a barmaid last night. I can let myself in." "Now?" She dressed quickly in jeans and a T-shirt, jammed her arms into her jacket and hoisted her duffle. Grady stood in front of the door, blocking her way, naked, rugged, imposing, the most handsome male God put on the earth. Why did He have to put him here? "It's late." "I refuse to be around a man who thinks I'd trick him into bed." She swiped her hair back. "I'm not desperate for a lover, Grady. That's why I waited till… Oh, never mind. Just get out of my way." She elbowed past him, scrambled down the stairs, slammed the door closed behind her, snatched up the rifle in case the coyotes decided to make this a three-act night and started down the gravel drive to the road. Behind her she heard Grady's truck come to life, and he soon pulled up beside her. "Get in." "Go to hell." "You stole my rifle." She scowled at him. "Don't tempt me to use it." Grady muttered every curse word he knew and invented a few. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel as he pulled onto the main road. "You are the most stubborn woman in Texas…and that's saying a lot." "You don't know Kentucky women. And I don't want to talk to you. I don't even want to see you. Do us both a favor and go home." "What do I tell Tanner and your mom when they call? They'll want to know where you are. Care to shed some light on that little problem?" "I don't give a flying pig what you tell them. Be creative." "What if I throw your stubborn butt in this truck and haul you back to the ranch? Is that creative enough for you?" "You and what army? And what would you do with me then? Tie me to the bed?" She tripped. He nearly ran off the road. Guess the bed idea was a little too close to home — for both of us, she thought.
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He watched her tramp up the steps of the Watering Hole, unlock the front door and let herself inside. He killed the engine and got out of the truck and followed her…only to find the door was locked. Dammit all, now what? He stood back and glared at the outside of the bar. "Patience," he stage-whispered. She opened the door and peered out. He folded his arms and gave her a superior look. "Come to your senses yet?" He saw a flash of the rifle barrel as she stuck it out the door. He took a step back. Uh-oh. Maybe he'd pushed her too far.
Chapter Fifteen Grady watched Patience lean his rifle against the side of the Watering Hole. "For all I care you can eat dirt and die, Grady Calhoun." Then she slammed the door and flipped the lock home. "Patience!" An upstairs window flew open and McDuff stuck his head out. "Go home, Calhoun. I don't know what in tarnation you did to piss the lady off but she's here now. Go back to your cows." The window slammed closed. What the hell just happened? An hour ago he was making incredible, mind-blowing love to Patience, and now he was alone, staring at an empty street in the middle of the night. Things like this never happened to him before Patience MacKay dropped into his life. He snatched his rifle from the porch and got back into the truck. He fired up the engine and headed for the ranch. What did he care where Patience stayed? She was just a fling, a one night stand, a virgin. Holy hell, why did she have to be a virgin? For that matter, why did she have to be Tanner's sister-in-law? He slapped his palm to his forehead. Why did she have to pick him to fulfill that part of her checklist? Why not some Kentucky boy? He needed to know the answer to that, and tomorrow he damn well intended to get it.
*** Patience served two longnecks then sat down across from Duke. His eyes were droopy, his mouth drawn tight in a thin line. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Sinus headache. Get them a lot. The pills I take either make me sick or drowsy. What's going on with you and Grady?" "Grady Calhoun's a jerk." "That's not what most of the gals in these parts think." "Ever try herbs for your sinuses? I've got something in my duffle upstairs that could help without upsetting your stomach." "Grady can be a nice guy. Born and raised here. Moved back when his dad couldn't run the ranch by himself and took care of him. Grady still has his plane in one of his barns and flies people whenever they need to be in a hurry. You should give him a chance."
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She smiled and patted Duke's shoulder as she got up. "You date him." "You know, for a pretty Kentucky girl you can be a real smart-ass." "Comes from being the youngest of three sisters." Next she dropped off a longneck to Bobby Lee. His prized horse, Lady Killer, hadn't foaled yet, but the lavender Patience suggested he tie in her stall to calm her down had worked like a charm. "By the way," Bobby Lee added, "how're you and Grady getting along?" "We're not." Next Patience served a hot toddy to Martha for the cold she caught in the wet T-shirt contest, answered questions about a new strand of grass to solve an erosion problem and dodged more questions about Grady. Grady, Grady, Grady! Just because she couldn't get him out of her mind didn't mean the whole town had to act the same way. They hadn't been the ones held naked in his arms and been made wild passionate love to in the moonlight. Her toes curled at the thought. Well, her toes could curl till she could hang from trees. She'd have nothing more to do with Grady Calhoun…ever!
Chapter Sixteen Patience's patience had run out. She'd come to Texas to have a little fun, Grady Calhoun had gotten in her way and now the whole town of Ripple Creek seemed to expect them to couple up. She stalked over to the old jukebox and pulled the plug. She waved her tray in the air and stood on a chair, getting the attention of everyone in the Watering Hole. "Just to let you all know, there's nothing going on between me and Grady Calhoun." Duke yelled, "That kiss he planted on you last night sure didn't look like nothing." "Well that's over with. Grady and I are history. A very short history — more like a footnote. I never intend to see the man again. Now you can all get on with your lives without fretting over mine." She jumped from the chair, plugged the music back in, turned and came face-to-face with Grady Calhoun. And he had such a nice face…and back. And everything in between. But she didn't want think about that. Fact is she'd tried all day to forget it. She looked into Grady's chocolate-brown eyes and knew that was impossible. Grady looked down at Patience as she asked, "What are you doing here?" Going crazy over you. All day he'd tried to get her out of his mind; nothing worked. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from taking her in his arms and kissing her senseless. He was already that way. "Call your family. They're getting suspicious." "I'll take care of it. Message delivered. Now you can go." His legs refused to take him away from Patience. "I got business with Duke." He sat down at the sheriff's table and Patience strutted off. Duke hitched his chin in her direction. "Nice little walk she's got there."
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Grady glared at Duke and he laughed. "Whoa, you got it bad, boy." "Got what? There's nothing wrong with me. " "That hands-off look and your fists say it all." Grady relaxed his hands, not even aware they had clenched into fists. Duke took a swig of beer. "If you stare at her any harder you'll put holes in her back. What happened between you two? And don't say nothing, because nobody here would believe that." "It's that damn list. I don't like being used." Duke pushed his hat to the back of his head. "Let me get this straight. Somehow Patience used you. 'Course she could have had her choice of any single guy here or probably in Kentucky to use, but she chose you?" Duke slapped his hand on the table. "The floozy." "You don't know what this is all about." "And I don't want to. But it seems to me the girl is not the conniving sort. She's just here to have a little fun…then this big, handsome cowboy got in her way and she wasn't really ready for that." Duke thumped Grady on the back. "And maybe the big experienced cowboy wasn't ready, either." Grady let out a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. "Yeah, the cowboy kind of lost his head. I'm not used to this, Duke. I know my way around women. Never had a stick of trouble in my whole life with a woman…till now. What the hell's going on?" "Well, you better apologize." "Apologize? For what?" "For whatever the hell you did. Then help Patience with the rest of that list…or other guys sure will. They'll be lining up around the block to help Patience MacKay any way they can." He nodded toward her. "It's starting already. Isn't that Bobby Lee heading her way?"
Chapter Seventeen Grady gave Duke a sarcastic grin. "You just had to remind me that other guys would be tickled to their toes to help Patience with her list, didn't you?" "Hey, what are friends for?" Duke laughed and sauntered off as Grady pulled the list from his back pocket and scanned the items not checked off. Go skinny-dipping; Dance all night… Yikes! Yeah, any guy in town would love to help Patience with those things. He looked up in time to see her heading for the back door, taking off her apron as she went. What now? Another item on her list to complete? What kind of trouble was she heading for this time? "Patience." He caught up with her in the back room. "Going somewhere?" "Maybe." She snatched up a towel and went outside; he followed. "Skinny-dipping? It's forty degrees out, girl. You'll freeze. " She gave him a sassy grin. "Not in the Lees' backyard hot tub. Bobby Lee's going to give me a lift."
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Like hell! Grady took Patience's elbow and steered her toward his truck. "I'm not going back to the ranch with you. You don't trust me, and I certainly don't want to be with you. And I intend to go skinny dipping no matter what you think or —" "I'll take you to the Lees' cabin, and then I'll drive you back here." She stopped by the truck and stared up at him, reminding him how she looked at him when they made love, how her hair felt running through his fingers, how her lips felt on his, how her body cuddled next to his. "If you think I'm going to let you watch me, you are sadly —" "No watching." Though every inch of him begged to do just that. "And I'll make damn sure no one else does, either." "Because of your agreement with Tanner?" Agreement? Oh yeah, Tanner. He'd forgotten all about Tanner and his promise to his friend and former business partner to keep Patience, his new sister-in-law, out of trouble. "Of course. Why else?" He could think of a million reasons why else and most had to do with the thought of another man with Patience. The very idea made him want to break something. He opened the truck door. "Get in." She didn't budge. Okay, she was still mad at him. He had to spill his guts, tell her how sorry he was that he jumped to the wrong conclusion or she'd never get in and she'd trot off on her own to the Lees' hot tub. "I owe you an apology. You didn't trick me into making love to you. I lost my head, said stuff I never should have." She smiled, her whole face lighting up, making him feel incredible happy, too. See, he could do this. He was on a roll. "The last thing I wanted to do was make love to you." Her brows furrowed. "The last thing?" "And then when I found out you were a virgin…" He took off his Stetson and swiped his forehead with the back of his arm, the memory of taking her virginity making him sweat. "Definitely one of those best of times worst of times events. Guess I wasn't thinking too straight. It was all my fault. Nothing but a big mistake." "Making love to me was a big mistake?" "Absolutely. There, I cleared the air. I apologized. I messed up and I admitted it. All's well. Now get in the truck and let's get this over with." "Damn you, Grady Calhoun!"
Chapter Eighteen Grady watched Patience as she walked down the road. He was completely dumbfounded. What the heck went wrong? He'd apologized to her like Duke had said. That was supposed to make things right between them and maybe get her back to the ranch. Hell, she wasn't even heading in that direction. She was heading straight for the Lees' cabin — and their backyard hot tub. "You can take your truck and — and go home, Grady Calhoun." She fired back over her shoulder, never breaking stride.
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He caught up with her and walked, shortening his stride to match hers. "I said I messed up. I apologized. Why are you in a huff?" "I'm not in a huff," she huffed. "And I wouldn't want you to put yourself out and make any more big mistakes on my behalf." "How could me looking out for you while you skinny-dip in a hot tub be a mistake? " She waved her arms in the air. "I have no idea but I'm sure you'll think of some way to mess it up like you have every other thing on my list." "I'm trying to keep you safe, dammit." She stopped walking and leveled him a hard look. "I don't want to be safe. You didn't go to Alaska to be safe, you went for adventure. That's what I'm trying for." She looked at him and growled, "Go home." Patience turned and walked on. She couldn't believe it. She'd finally found a man she was attracted to, someone she admired for taking care of his dad and the town, someone fun and sexy and bigger than life. Someone she really and truly wanted to make love with. And he thought their lovemaking was a mistake? She was darn good at science; she sucked at picking men. She should be a nun! Sister Mary Fungus. She flagged down Duke as he drove by in his cruiser. He stopped and she ran to catch up and got in. "Can you take me to the Lees' place?" "The Lees' place? What the hell happened now? Didn't Grady apologize for…for whatever he did?" Her eyes widened in disbelief as they rode along. "You put him up to that? That was your idea?" "More like a suggestion. I read Dear Abby." He gave her a wary look. "This apologizing and all is kind of new to Grady. He's used to the gals around here who think he can do no wrong." "Oh, good grief." "Don't think he's ever apologized to a gal before." "No kidding." Duke pulled onto a gravel drive and drove up to a big log cabin. Patience got out. "Thanks, Duke. Bobby Lee was supposed to pick me up but he must have gotten waylaid somewhere." "Guess I won't be giving Grady any more advice. " Duke left and Patience took the steps onto the front porch and rang the bell. Bobby yanked open the front door. He looked as if he'd been ridden hard and put away wet. "Sorry I couldn't pick you up like I said, Patience, but Granddad's sick." He nodded toward the steps. "He's got a cold and he's coughing so hard he's gasping for air. Doc's over at the Martins' checking out their baby with the flu and won't be here for a half hour. What should I do?"
Chapter Nineteen
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Grady paced across the front porch of his house. Stars blanketed the sky. The moon hung low. It was a gorgeous Texas evening. He couldn't have cared less, because all he could think about was Patience and where she was and what the hell she was doing…skinny-dipping with Bobby Lee. Damnation! She was like a toothache…he couldn't get her out of his head. There was only one way to settle this. He got in his truck and headed for the Lees. Within minutes he pulled up to the log cabin, got out and banged on the door. No one answered and he banged again. The door suddenly flew open and Bobby Lee stood there…in a towel? "Grady?" "Where's Patience?" He gave Bobby an accusing look. "And just what the hell are you doing?" "Patience is upstairs in the bedroom. She's taking care of things while I grabbed a quick shower. It's going to be a long night. She sure is great —" Before Grady even thought about what he was doing, his fist connected with Bobby Lee's chin, sending him flying back into the hallway against the wall with a solid thud. Bobby slid to the floor, nearly losing his towel. He looked up at Grady. "What the hell was that for?" Grady stepped over Bobby and headed for the stairs. "Patience?" She came into the hallway as he reached the top step and bellowed, "What do you think you're doing here?" "Is that Grady out there?" Came Granddad Lee's voice from inside the bedroom. "Tell him to come in and sit a spell. That woman of his is plying me with bourbon and aiming to have her way with me." He laughed and coughed hard. Patience went back in the bedroom, Grady following. Old Tommy Lee was propped up in bed, the TV playing low in the background. Grady asked, "Are you okay, Tommy?" "Fit as a fiddle. Patience fixed me up with some bourbon concoction her mama uses back in Kentucky. I had a coughing fit, hard on my ticker, so the doc's keeping me in bed, and Bobby and Patience here are taking turns fussing over me. " Bobby stood in the doorway, glaring at Grady, his jaw red. "Why'd you hit me?" Patience stared open-mouthed. "You hit Bobby?" Grady rolled his shoulders. "I thought… Hell, never mind what I thought. I was wrong and I owe you an apology." Patience folded her arms and looked at Bobby. "He's really bad at apologies." Yeah, but he was getting a lot of practice. Which meant he was doing a lot of things wrong. He held out his hand to Bobby. "Sorry. I overreacted. If you need anything for Tommy, let me know."
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Patience followed him downstairs. She stopped him at the door. "Just what did you think was going on upstairs?" "This." He snatched her in his arms and kissed her full tempting delicious lips. He backed her up to the wall were Bobby had landed. "Except not with me." He pinned her there, his chest to hers, his knee between her legs parting them, his erection pressing into her softness. His tongue took hers as hot desire throbbed in his veins. He wanted her…forever.
Chapter Twenty Grady stood alone in the middle of the Lees' driveway staring at the sky as Duke pulled up. He got out and gazed into the sky with Grady. "Is there something going on up there?" "I have no idea." "The boys in the little white coats put people in padded cells for this sort of thing, you know. Or —" he looked at Grady "— maybe you're just in love. The symptoms are the same." Grady leaned against his truck. "She's been here two days, Duke. I can't be in love in two days." "You sure can, and you sure as hell are. Everyone in town can see it. What the hell are you going to do about it?" "There's nothing for her here." "There's Ripple Creek. Patience loves small towns, the people and how they pull together. Hell, she's given advice to half of them already." He tipped his hat back. "And there's you. You just going to watch her waltz out of town?" "Probably." He pulled in a deep breath. "But there is one little thing that needs to be taken care of before she goes. "
*** The next night Patience stepped from Duke's cruiser in front of Grady's house. She smoothed the skirt of her black satin dress. "Okay, tell me again why Grady wants me to wear this? And just why did I let you talk me into coming here in the first place?" Duke laughed. "That's easy. You're dying of curiosity as much as the rest of us to see why he drove into San Antonio to buy you this dress." Duke nodded to the house. "I have no idea what's going on. The only thing I can promise is that it won't be boring." She sighed. "True enough. Grady Calhoun is a lot of things but never ever boring." Duke left, and she took the steps to the front door and knocked. Dim lights glowed through the windows. Soft music floated in the air. "Grady?" He answered, dressed in a cowboy-style suit, complete with string tie. Handsome, polished, mannerly. "Welcome." "Oh, Lord! Someone died, didn't they? My family?"
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"Good grief, Patience. No one died. They don't play "The Way You Look Tonight" at funerals. It would be really tacky." He opened the door wider and she stepped inside. Red and pink streamers were draped across the ceiling, red hearts were pasted on the wall, and red and white carnations stood in vases on the tables. Candles burned everywhere. "It's…beautiful." She looked back to him. "What's going on?" "Number eight is Dress up and dance all night. Number ten is Not spend Valentine's Day alone. When you go back to Kentucky you can take a completed list with you. And tonight…" He cupped her chin in his palm, bringing her eyes to meet his. "I want tonight to be special." "Why?" "Because you deserve it and I want to make it happen for you." He pulled her into his arms and danced, his slow steps easy to follow, his arms easy to get lost in. "I care about you. I didn't realize just how much until I thought you were with Bobby. " He kissed her as they danced, still holding her tight. "And I know you care about me or we wouldn't have made love. It just took me a while to realize it. I think I was afraid to admit it." He kissed her forehead. "Think about me, pretty girl, when you're in Kentucky." "Can I think about you in Ripple Creek?" She slid her arms around his neck. "I don't what to leave you, Grady. I can teach in San Antonio and do research with herbal medicines. Helping people with plants is so much better than just reading about them." She stood on tiptoes and kissed him. "All my life I've been waiting for you, Grady Calhoun." "Me?" "Oh, yes. You. Definitely you. I just didn't realize it until you tried to rescue me from myself." He grinned. "Then marry me, Patience MacKay, and make me the happiest cowboy alive." She kissed him again. "It's wonderful to be rescued by a cowboy."
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Shadows of Blanchard Manor by Lenora Worth Go back in time, to Christmas, 1971, the first time Ronald Blanchard brings his future bride, Trudy, home to meet his family… Trudy can't seem to shake the sense of foreboding that settles upon her when she arrives at the grand, but gloomy, Blanchard Manor. It is clear that Ronald's father doesn't approve of Trudy, and secrets and heartbreak seems to lurk around every corner. Will Trudy ever be able to call the old place home?
Chapter One "Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow's bliss." Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice December, 1971 This house made her shiver. Nineteen-year-old Gertrude Hall, Trudy to her family and sorority sisters, clutched her antique gold locket and stared up at the rambling Gothic-style mansion looming before her. "It's big," she said to the man driving the sleek red roadster. Ronald Blanchard chuckled, then took her hand in his. "Don't let it scare you, Trudy. It might look like a cathedral, but it's my home." Trudy hoped she didn't do or say anything stupid. It had taken all her courage to agree to make the drive down the coast of Maine for a holiday visit with Ronald and his family. But then, being in love gave one a lot of courage, she reasoned. And wanting to be with Ronald and impress his wealthy father and his sister, Winnie, had been uppermost in Trudy's mind when she'd finally given in to Ronald's invitation. But now, she wondered if she'd made the right decision. Her stomach twitched and roiled with the same precision as the snowstorm building over the Atlantic. "I hope your father approves of me." Ronald brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. He laughed as the furry cuffs of her purple crushed velvet midi coat tickled his face. "Stop worrying. Father will adore you. How can he not?" Trudy thought back on everything Ronald had told her about his formidable father, Howard Blanchard. Blanchard Fabrics was legendary and well known across New England. Howard had started the company in his youth and turned it into a multimillion dollar conglomerate, and Trudy knew that Ronald was being groomed to take over that company one day. She also knew his father expected him to marry a blue-blood socialite in keeping with the family standard. But Ronald wanted to marry Trudy. Trudy was not a socialite. Her family back in California didn't have a prestigious social standing. Her parents weren't rich in material things, but they had given their two daughters an upbringing rich in literature and the arts, Shakespeare being one of her father's favorite authors. Right now, Trudy was worried about her parents. They ran a small literary press and while that was notable and noble in the literary world, it didn't always bring in a huge profit. Now, because of some bad business decisions, the bills were piling up. Between putting her through college and trying to stay ahead of the mortgage company, the Halls were reaching a financial crisis. Her younger sister Genie had written to her just this week, lamenting the lack of Christmas presents underneath the tree. Maybe Trudy should have gone home for the holiday break, instead of coming here for the weekend. As if reading her thoughts, Ronald leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Then he brushed her long blonde hair away from her face. "Smile, Trudy. You know how I love your beautiful smile."
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"But…will your father love me? I want him to love me, too, Ronald." Ronald opened the car door, then ran around to help her out. "Let me handle my father. Believe me, I know how to deal with the man." Trudy took a deep breath to calm her jittery nerves. But when she looked back up at the dark, shadowy mansion with the massive front door, her doubts came rushing at her like a wave hitting the cliffs below. In spite of the evergreen wreaths decorating the door and the festive red ribbons tied across the gas lamp posts, there was something sad and forlorn about this old house. "I'm scared, Ronald. I'm afraid to go in there." Ronald put an arm on her shoulder and guided her toward the stone steps. "Trudy, I love you with all my heart. And I promise, as long as you're mine, nothing will ever hurt you. Not even my father." Trudy hugged him tight, praying with all her might that his promise would last a lifetime and beyond. "I believe you, Ronald. And I love you, too. So much." Pushing at the shadows of her fear, Trudy followed Ronald up the steps toward Blanchard Manor.
Chapter Two Dinner at Blanchard Manor was anything but festive. Howard Blanchard kept a glare of disapproval on his face as he sat at the head of the long table centered in the elegant dining room. And while Ronald's older sister, Winifred, or Winnie as she was called, seemed bubbly and talkative, Trudy hadn't missed the way she sent covert glances her father's way every now and then. Trudy didn't know how to act or what to say. She felt as disoriented and out of place here in this dark, rambling mansion as a mouse lost in a maze. Howard shot a condescending look at Trudy. "So, you're a freshman this year, young lady. And what are you studying?" Before Trudy could muster up an answer, Ronald held up a hand. "Trudy is following in her parents' footsteps. She'd majoring in English lit. The Halls love anything Shakespearean." Winnie smiled, her fork resting on the delicate, white china plate in front of her. Tossing her long red hair, she said, "I do, too. Who can resist Romeo and Juliet. I sure know a thing or two about star-crossed lovers." Noting the sadness in Winnie's eyes as she sent her father a pointed look, Trudy turned to her. "Well, I hope I never have to deal with such a tragedy." She glanced over at Ronald and saw the love in his eyes. Then she chanced a look toward the head of the household. Howard Blanchard was not smiling. "English lit. I'm not much on wasting time in books myself. Hard work—that's the only kind of entertainment I need." He aimed his fork at Ronald. "You need to remember that, son. I'll need you back here once you graduate next spring. Pretty soon, you need to stop all this romantic nonsense and get ready to settle down." His harsh expression indicated Trudy would not be a part of that plan. Ronald took a long drink of water, then looked over at his father. "Father, I certainly understand the plans you have for me, since you've drilled this into me from birth. When the time comes, I can assure you I will be ready to go to work at Blanchard Fabrics. But there is one thing you need to understand before that can happen." Howard shot his son a challenging frown. "Oh, and what might that be, Ronald?"
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Ronald leaned forward then reached for Trudy's hand. "I don't intend to marry some hand-picked socialite who only wants to attach her name to ours. I am going to marry Trudy. And that's final." Howard slammed a hand down on the polished wood of the table. "We'll just see about that. I will not allow you to throw your future away just for the sake of some college fling." Trudy felt the heat of his wrath all the way to the bottom of her brown suede boots. The man hated her! Horrified, she struggled to get out of her chair, and in doing so, managed to knock over her crystal water glass. Turning to Ronald, panic in her heart, she whispered, "I need… I need to go up to my room." Ronald got up to steady her, his hand holding her arm. Then he pivoted toward Howard. "You owe Trudy an apology, Father." Howard shook his head. "I have nothing for which to apologize." Winnie came around the table, her big hazel eyes shining with tears. "I'll take you upstairs, Trudy. Your room is right next to mine." Helpless and shocked, Trudy stared over at Ronald. The look on his face was both tender and apologetic. "Go on up, darling. I'll be there soon to check on you." Winnie guided Trudy away from the dinner table. But when Trudy turned at the door, she saw the malice on Howard Blanchard's ruddy face. That man would never accept her as Ronald's wife.
Chapter Three "We could visit for a while," Winnie suggested as she guided Trudy into a dainty sitting room just off her bedroom. A tiny, silver Christmas tree with bright red and green ornaments stood on a mahogany table by the windows. "Just until Ronald comes to find you. I'm sure he feels horrible about how Father treated you." Trudy looked at Ronald's older sister, wondering why Winnie lived here when she could afford to live anywhere. Winnie and Ronald's mother had died, and their father was so distant and cold. Hoping to reassure Winnie, since she seemed just as upset, Trudy sank down on a chintz-covered stool in front of the fireplace. "I'm all right. I just want to sit here by the fire, if that's okay with you." Winnie nodded, her shimmering red hair falling around her shoulders. "Of course. I rarely get visitors here. And I'm always up for some girl talk." Trudy put her fingers out toward the fire. "I like this room. It seems more…welcoming than the rest of the house." Then she put a hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry. It's just that this place is so big and…dark." Winnie bounced down onto a wing chair, her pearls glistening against her cashmere sweater. "I know what you mean. I still get lost around here myself, and I've lived here all my life." She leaned forward with a conspiring grin. "They say there are secret caves underneath the bluffs around here. But I've never had the courage to explore them." Trudy shivered. "I don't blame you." Then to change the subject so she wouldn't have nightmares, she said, "Tell me more about you. You know, boyfriends, school, that sort of thing." Winnie's brilliant smile vanished. She sank back against the floral fabric of her chair, her expression becoming somber. "I'm not going back to school. And I had a boyfriend once, a few years ago. We were so in love. But…it didn't work out." Trudy could see the pain in Winnie's eyes. "What happened?"
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Winnie lowered her voice to a whisper. "We met at boarding school in Switzerland when we were teens. His name was Tate. We were so in love." She sighed, closed her eyes. "Then Father found out. Later he informed me that Tate was engaged to someone else. Father paid him off to avoid scandal. I never could find Tate to confront him. After that he was out of my life for good." She shrugged, her bangle bracelet falling down her arm. "Father proclaimed Tate had used me and never loved me. And one does not question Father's proclamations." Appalled, Trudy leaned forward. "Have you heard anything about him? I mean, do you ever wonder what might have been?" "All the time," Winnie said, tugging at her black skirt. "But…Tate didn't really love me. Not the way Ronald obviously loves you." She smiled. "I can see it in his eyes, Trudy. My brother is in love." Trudy basked in that assurance, even with the image of Howard Blanchard's wrath still fresh in her mind. "I love him, too. I just wish your father would accept me." Winnie got up to pace around the room. "Father never approves of anyone we bring home, unless of course it's someone he's hand-picked." Trudy found an instant friend in Winnie. "I'm going to try to win your father over. I'll just have to show him how much I love Ronald." "Good luck with that," Winnie said, touching a finger to a bubbling lava lamp. Then she shook her head. "I love my father, but he can be very controlling at times." Trudy shuddered, ignoring the little warning trembles going down her spine. Hadn't she seen that bit of a controlling nature in Ronald already? He was self-assured and confident, no doubt. But then, she reminded herself, those traits were part of what had attracted her to him in the first place. A knock at the door brought Winnie out of her chair. Ronald entered the room, his frantic gaze searching for Trudy. Winnie winked at Trudy, then walked toward her room. "I'll give you two some privacy." Ronald kissed Winnie's cheek. "Thanks." Then he turned to Trudy. "I'm so sorry, darling." Trudy rushed into his arms. She felt so safe with Ronald, even if this old house did give her the creeps. "Me, too." "We will be married," Ronald assured her. "I promise." Trudy held to that promise, even as the storm outside gathered strength.
Chapter Four Trudy entered the dining room and found Howard Blanchard sitting at the head of the polished table. His stern frown contrasted with the cheerful, red-tipped poinsettia blooming in a silver centerpiece on the side board. "Good morning, Mr. Blanchard," Trudy said, afraid to step into the room. "Don't just stand there, young lady," Howard barked. "Please, get some breakfast." Trudy walked to the sideboard, her hands trembling as she found a cup and poured hot tea. Careful not to spill it, she sat down in a chair away from Howard. "Doesn't the snow look pretty?" she asked, hoping to break the awkward silence.
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"Snow? A messy nuisance if you ask me." Trudy sipped her tea, wishing Ronald would hurry down. Thankfully, Winnie came strolling into the room, her green wool dress flowing around her calves. "Good morning, Trudy. Father, are you attending church with us?" Howard grunted. "I have too much to do to go to church, Winnie. I'll have the chauffeur drive you." Winnie looked disappointed. "But…you promised you'd go. It's only days before Christmas." Howard threw down his napkin. "I shall attend Christmas Eve services, Winifred. But today I have a lot of work to do in my study." Then he got up and stared down at both women. "Don't interrupt me." Trudy felt the brunt of that harsh stare. Tears welled in her eyes as Howard walked out of the room. "He hates me." Winnie shook her head. "No, that's how he treats everyone. The servants run when they hear him coming." "How do you live like this?" Trudy asked. "Aren't you just miserable?" Winnie's playful smile died on her lips. "I try to stay positive. Going to church helps. I have friends there and I volunteer just to get out of the house. I help out at Blanchard Fabrics and help Father in his office sometimes. It's not so bad." She got up. "I'm going to check on the menu for dinner tonight. I'll be back soon. Please, eat something or our cook will be insulted." A crawling shiver worked its way down Trudy's spine. Even with the sunshine reflecting off the snow outside, she couldn't seem to find any warmth in this big, rambling house. And she certainly didn't have an appetite. Ronald came into the room. "Trudy, how long have you been up?" "A little while," she said, not daring to tell him she hadn't slept very well. He kissed the top of her head. "Did you eat yet?" "No. I've just had some tea. Your father… I think I upset him." Ronald frowned, then sat down beside her, his gold-edged cup steaming with coffee. "Trudy, you have to stop imagining things. Father will come around. I'm sure you can manage to be civil to him while we're here for the holidays, can't you?" Hurt that Ronald thought this was her fault, Trudy pushed her cold tea away. "I've tried to be polite, Ronald. But he refuses to acknowledge me. He won't even go to church." Ronald drummed his fingers on the table. "Father doesn't go to church very much anyway. He's a busy man." Then he touched his fingers to hers. "I want you to have a good visit, so try to stop worrying so much." Trudy nodded. "I guess I'm just feeling guilty for not going home. My parents are having a hard time right now and my sister is very upset that I'm not there to help out." "Is there anything I can do?" "I don't think so. They're just struggling. Running a literary press doesn't bring in a whole lot of money and…they might have to sell the business."
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Ronald pulled her out of her chair. "I have an idea to take your mind off things. How would you like to go ice skating down at the pond?" "Ice skating?" Trudy immediately brightened. "I've never tried that." "Well, then, let's go. We have plenty of time before we leave for church." Trudy grinned as he spun her around. "I'll grab a muffin to take upstairs." "Dress warmly. Winnie should have everything you need." She turned to smile at Ronald. "I'm glad I'm here." "Me, too," Ronald said. "And maybe I can figure out a way to help your parents." After Trudy left, Ronald turned to find his father standing in the doorway. Howard entered the room in a fast stalk. "You will get rid of that girl immediately, Ronald. Do you understand me?"
Chapter Five Trudy felt exhilarated after ice-skating. In his usual charming way, Ronald had managed to take her mind off her family worries and his father's obvious disapproval. Now, as they moved along the cliffs behind the Victorian mansion, Trudy gazed up at the old house. "I can't imagine growing up in a place like this." Winnie laughed, turning to face the frigid Atlantic Ocean. "This view makes it all worthwhile." But Trudy wasn't looking at the crashing gray waves or the quaint lighthouse just beyond the bluffs. She stared up at the formidable house sitting on the hill. It looked like a gingerbread house, all windows and gables and porches. "I'm afraid I'm going to get lost," she said, grinning at Ronald. He pulled her close; the warmth of his heavy wool overcoat took away the wind's brisk chill. "It looks intimidating, but this house has a rich history. It'll be your home someday, too." Winnie grinned. "Wouldn't that be great, Trudy? You'd be like my sister." She tossed her hair back, her wool mittens catching against the brilliant red strands. "Ronald, don't look so forlorn. You're my favorite brother, but a sister…that would be such a joy." Trudy longed for that since she didn't get along so well with her own sister. She could imagine Ronald coming home from work to find Winnie and Trudy overseeing a wonderful meal in the formal dining room, underneath that elaborate brass chandelier. They'd laugh and share the events of the day. Then she thought of Howard sitting at the head of the table and her dream vanished like the foam washing up on the rocks below them. A cloud shifted over the sun, making the morning sky gray and dark. Ronald pushed her long bangs aside. "Are you all right?" "I'm fine." She touched a gloved hand to his face. "I want you to be proud of me. I don't want you to be embarrassed by me, ever." Ronald waited until Winnie moved up the path. "What do you mean?" Trudy fought at the depression warring with her happiness at being here with Ronald. "I've worked hard to make it to college, to make something of myself. My parents always taught me the value of a good education, even if they couldn't give me a lot of material things. I just wish I had more to offer." "You're still worried about my father, aren't you?"
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She nodded. "I don't think he's going to change his mind about me." Ronald tugged her close. "I told you, I can handle my father. And I could never be ashamed of you. I love you." Trudy managed a smile. "It was love at first sight for me. But it took you a while to come around." She remembered seeing Ronald on campus. He was the preppy rich boy, a senior about to graduate to a world of wealth and privilege, while she was the flower child, hoping to work for peace and love in a world torn apart by war and death. Ronald grinned, then kissed her cold nose. "Well, I did finally come around, the day you were handing out flyers for that sing-along." "But you didn't want to attend the sing-along." "No, that's because I wanted to take you to what has now become our favorite spot." "The coffee house." "I've never drank so much coffee—just so I could see you smile and laugh and talk about saving the world." "I wish I could save the world. I want to explain to people about Christ." "You do have a strong faith." He kissed her again. "My dear, little, naive Trudy." Trudy stepped back to stare up at him. "Is that how you see me? As naive?" "I didn't mean it in a derogatory way, darling. You just have such idealistic views." Ronald pulled her toward the house. "I'm sure if there's a way to find peace on earth, you'll be the first in line. But I have other things to think about—such as taking over Blanchard Fabrics." Guiding her up the cliff steps, he said, "After church, we'll go for lunch and I'll give you a tour of the business. Maybe then you'll understand why it's so important that I focus on that after we're married." Feeling chastised again, Trudy followed Ronald. Glancing up at the third floor windows, she felt a bonechilling sense of dread sweep over her, just as the clouds swept over the sun once again.
Chapter Six Trudy pressed her hands against the crushed blue velvet of her midi dress. This was her best dress, so she hoped it would be appropriate for the Sunday night dinner. Ronald had kept his promise by showing her all around Blanchard Fabrics. What a beautiful building, old and antique, but equipped with the best technology money could buy. She loved the way Ronald's eyes lit up each time he described the exotic silk fabrics and explained how the giant machines in the factory worked to create beautiful textiles. Now that she'd seen what would one day become his heritage, she understood that he would most certainly come back to Stoneley to work at Blanchard Fabrics. And she also understood that she needed to quit whining about his father. Howard Blanchard was a very powerful man, used to making demands and getting his way. Trudy had to prove to him that she would make Ronald a good wife. Starting with this dinner. But as she entered the spacious parlor across from the dining room, her gaze moved from the enormous Christmas tree centered by a floor-to-ceiling window to the woman standing beside Ronald. Surprised, Trudy noticed how the beautiful dark-haired woman held tightly to Ronald's arm. He was smiling down at her as he listened to something she whispered.
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"Well, our guest has finally come downstairs," Howard said, holding up a mug of cider in salute to Trudy. "We were beginning to think you were going to sleep the afternoon away." "I wasn't asleep, sir," Trudy said, trying to sound firm. "I was reading. Winnie was kind enough to share her library with me." Howard's harsh gaze intensified. "Winnie reads too much. Wasting an entire afternoon stuck in a book. Do you like to read, Maria?" The woman standing with Ronald turned to dismiss Trudy with a haughty look. "I don't have time to read, Mr. Blanchard. You know, holiday parties, visits with my sorority sisters, romantic dates." She smiled up at Ronald, then leaned close. "You still like romance, don't you?" Ronald shot Trudy an apologetic look. "Of course I do. Trudy and I love to take long walks, or go to the movies." Trudy moved toward Ronald, a cold fury coursing through her system. She'd never been jealous before, but then she'd never been in love before. "That's right. We saw Love Story the other night. What a sad movie." "And very timely, I'd say," Winnie quipped from her corner stool by the fire. "That is, if Father has his way." "Whatever are you talking about, Winifred? You know I don't go to the movies." "We know, Father. You work. That's what you do." While Howard glared at his defiant daughter, Ronald pulled away from Maria, and took Trudy's hand. "Trudy, this is a friend from high school. Maria Carlton, this is Trudy Hall." Maria looked petulant, but had the good grace to smile. "What a quaint little dress." Her compliment was meant as anything but. "Thank you," Trudy said, holding her head high. "It's nice to meet you." Maria's gaze fluttered over Trudy, then back to Ronald. "No wonder you never call anymore. I'm so glad your father let me know you were in town." "And invited you to a family dinner. He's so thoughtful that way," Winnie added, her words laced with sarcasm. Howard shot Winnie a warning glance. "Ronald needs to keep up with his old friends." "He sure does," Trudy said, taking Ronald's arm. She was quaking with fear, sure that the white lace at her neck was trembling to prove it. But she would not let this mean man or this very obvious woman steer her away from her love for Ronald. Not after he'd shown her what their future together could be like. And that future had nothing to do with money or power. But it had everything to do with love and family and security. "I'm so glad Mr. Blanchard thought to invite you, Maria. Maybe you can fill me in on some of Ronald's high school antics. I'm sure he was quite the ladies' man." Shocked, Maria stood speechless. As did Howard Blanchard. But Winnie couldn't hide her sudden burst of laughter. Marching up to her father, she said, "I'm so hungry. Shall we go into dinner, Father? I think it's going to be a very interesting evening." Howard reluctantly took her arm. But he didn't say anything. Ronald reached out to Maria. "Shall we?"
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Still silent and seething, Maria took Ronald's other arm. Trudy heaved a deep breath, then smiled up at Ronald. She was rewarded with a wink and a grin. She'd won this small battle, but Trudy was sure the war had just begun.
Chapter Seven The next morning, Trudy opened the back door leading from the garage. "We cleared out all the stores." Winnie giggled, heaving bags into a pile. "I guess we'll have to find a way to get all of this upstairs before Sonya scolds us." In a whisper, she added, "She's so moody and bossy, but Father refuses to fire her." Trudy nodded. The housekeeper, Sonya Garcia, was exotic-looking, but moody. She couldn't be much older than Winnie, but her brooding attitude didn't allow for any nonsense. Putting thoughts of the hired help out of her mind, Trudy gathered her bags. "I want to wrap the sweater I found for Ronald. I'm glad you told me he loves blue." "He's so boring," Winnie said, dragging bags as they headed up the back staircase. "Mr. College Man. Always dressed in his sweaters and ties. He was born to be a staid businessman just like father." "I beg your pardon?" The girls whirled to find Howard staring up at them. "Father, what are you doing home in the middle of the day?" Winnie asked, clearly surprised. "I left some paperwork on my desk," Howard replied, holding up a folder. "And I have a question for you, Winifred. Did you spend all of my money, or did you just let Trudy indulge by opening up my bank account?" Winnie gasped, then turned to face Trudy. Trudy's heart started beating so fast, she thought she'd topple down the stairs. Instead, she took a deep breath and prayed for courage. "Mr. Blanchard, I didn't spend any of your money. I work part-time at the college bookstore, and I've saved up for Christmas presents since January." Looking down at her bags, she added, "I wanted to buy Ronald something nice. And I wanted to give Winnie and you something…for your hospitality." "I don't want any gifts," Howard retorted, clearly not impressed with her explanation. Instead of apologizing, he turned to Winnie. "Get that stuff upstairs. I think you've done enough shopping for one day." "Good to see you, too, Father," Winnie said, her eyes misting over as she lugged her bags up the stairs. She didn't speak again until they'd reached her bedroom door. "He wasn't always like this, Trudy. When Mother was alive…he was so different. Still stern, but almost…doting. But he's changed. We've all changed. He's disappointed in me, because I created a scandal when I fell in love with Tate Connolly." Trudy lifted bags onto Winnie's four-poster bed, then turned as Winnie shut the door. "The boy from boarding school?" Winnie nodded. "I loved him so much. But Father was determined to show me Tate's shortcomings. And he did. To think the whole time I believed Tate loved me, he was actually engaged to another woman. Father couldn't wait to tell me and to point out my lapse in judgment." "Is that why…you don't date?" Winnie sank down on the bed. "It's just easier to stay here with Father. I see people at church, but…there will never be anyone like Tate."
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Trudy thought about how much she loved Ronald. It would be hard to push away those feelings. "You still love Tate, don't you?" Winnie untied her wool scarf. "I'll always love Tate. And I don't want to find anyone else." It was sad, the way Winnie tried to please her distant father. If Trudy married Ronald, would she have to fight Howard at every turn to prove her worth? Did she have it in her to do so? "He's going to break up Ronald and me," she said, clutching the cashmere sweater she'd found at half-price for Ronald. "I want to be Ronald's wife, Winnie. I want to make him happy. I want lots of children, too. I've always loved children." Winnie's smile was triumphant. "That might be the best way to win over Father. He loves Ronald and me, but he's just so demanding sometimes. But a grandchild…now that might soften him a bit." Trudy paused. "One day," she said. "But for now, I'm content to just be with him. Ronald has to finish school first." "Where's the romance in that?" Winnie said, grinning. Then she held up a hand. "You are so sweet and smart. My brother is blessed to have you." "Thank you," Trudy said, an overriding dread crowding out Winnie's words. "I hope Ronald comes home from the factory soon."
Chapter Eight Winnie lifted herself off the bed. "Just like Father to send Ronald to the factory on his holiday time. I'm sure he did it to keep Ronald away from you." Trudy shook her head. "I don't mind. I enjoyed shopping. Ronald and I will have the rest of our lives together, in spite of what your father tries to do." Winnie busied herself with admiring her purchases. "I wish I could be so positive. I need to work on my Christmas spirit." The phone rang across the hall in Trudy's room. Hurrying to pick up the extension, she listened as Sonya explained in clipped tones that she had a call from her sister. "Thank you," Trudy said, her dread deepening. "Genie?" "Well, I hope you're having fun, sis. What's it like being a part of the high and mighty Blanchard clan?" Rolling her eyes at her sister's theatrics, Trudy sat down on a chair by the bed. "A bit awkward, but I'm having a good time. How are things at home?" "Not so great," Genie said, her tone full of resentment. "Dad's a mess. He's so fidgety and grouchy. Mom just walks around wringing her hands. And I'm bored to tears. I wish you were here. At least you and I could get out and have some fun." "I wanted to come home. You know that. But…I really wanted to visit with Ronald and his family, too. I'm going to marry him, Genie. Can't you be happy for me?" Genie's long sigh gave Trudy her answer. But her sister's next words left her speechless. "You always win, don't you, Trudy? You always get whatever you want, while I'm left here cleaning up all the messes. It's just not fair."
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"Did you call to fuss at me?" Trudy asked, her earlier jubilance gone. "I just thought you might like to know that while you're frolicking with the rich college boy, your family is suffering. Does that even matter to you at all?" "Of course it matters to me," Trudy replied, her gaze centered on the snow-covered trees and shrubs beyond the window. "Ronald knows I'm worried about all of you. He even offered to bring me to see you." "Don't bother," Genie said, her tone rising. "I don't want the great Ronald Blanchard to see the way you really live, and I'm sure you don't either." "What can I do to help?" Trudy asked, hoping her sister would at least be reasonable. "You can find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow," Genie told her. "We could use some cash flow." Trudy's slumped in her chair. She'd just spent way too much on Christmas gifts for Ronald and his family, in an attempt to impress his father. Why hadn't she just gone home to California? The money she'd spent could have helped her family. Wanting to reassure her sister, Trudy spoke into the phone. "I'll find a way to help, I promise. Don't worry, Genie. You know I'll find a way." "Better hurry," her sister replied. "I don't think I can hang around here much longer. I might just take off." "Don't do that," Trudy cautioned. "I'll quit school and come home. I can find work." "Oh, no. Not the golden girl. You just stay there and do right. You always do the right thing, Trudy. I'm the black sheep of this family. Might as well play our parts. You know what mother says. 'All the world's a stage.'" "You could try turning to God," Trudy suggested, hoping her cynical sister would listen. "God doesn't care about us," Genie replied. "I sure don't see Him anywhere in this dreary old house." Then she chuckled. "But if it makes you feel any less guilty, then pray away, big sister." Trudy hung up the phone, more confused and anxious than she'd been before. It seemed Howard Blanchard wasn't the only one who resented her happiness. Her own sister resented her, too. And that was much worse than dealing with Ronald's father.
Chapter Nine Trudy tried to hide her gloomy mood behind a smile. It was Christmas Eve and the family had just returned from a beautiful service at Unity Christian Church. She had sat beside Ronald, holding his hand, her love for him and her faith holding her steady. After hearing the beautiful Christmas hymns and hearing the retelling of the birth of Christ, she had regained her courage. On the ride home, she had enjoyed the twinkling lights decorating the houses along the coast, thinking she would somehow overcome all the things weighing on her heart. But now with Howard's rigid stare centered on her, Trudy instantly became agitated and afraid again. Maybe it was because the service had been so beautiful, and this night, snow-covered and quiet, should be a time of togetherness and family. She missed her own family. Winnie had turned the radio hidden in a cabinet to a rock station the minute they arrived home, and now "Bridge Over Trouble Water" was playing. Maybe even the formidable Howard Blanchard would mellow,
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hearing that popular song. Chancing a glance at him, Trudy watched as Howard settled in a chair, his frown intact. He would never accept her. "Are you okay?" Ronald asked as he handed her a steaming mug of hot cocoa. "You look tired." "I'm fine," Trudy said, her love for him overflowing. "I just miss my family. Maybe I should have gone home." "You're still concerned about the business, aren't you?" She nodded. "Hall Publishing is all my father has ever known. I don't know what he'll do if he has to shut down the press. You'd think with all the great works published there, he'd have enough clout to find someone to save his business." Ronald glanced over to where his father sat reading the Wall Street Journal by the fire. Winnie was putting last-minute gifts underneath the big tree, humming along to the ballad on the radio. "I think I can help," he whispered to Trudy. "How?" she asked, eager to hear his plan. Then she shook her head, guessing at his intent. "I think I know what you have in mind, but I can't ask that of you. It wouldn't be right." "You fret too much," Ronald assured her. Then he took her cup of cocoa and placed it on a table. Taking her by the hand, he said, "Trudy and I are going for a walk along the bluffs." Howard glanced up, disapproval on his face. "It's a bit late for a walk, son." Then he looked directly at Trudy. "And those cliffs can be treacherous if you're not used to them." Ronald glanced at his watch. "It's only nine, Father, and I can walk all the paths along the cliffs and the beach with my eyes shut. Are you afraid we'll keep Santa from landing on the roof?" "Don't be ridiculous, Ronald. Just don't stay out in the cold for very long." Winnie smiled up at them. "Have a good time." Ronald grabbed their coats from the closet by the stairs, then helped Trudy with her long wool cape. Together, they hurried toward the back of the house. "I wanted to have you all to myself," he said, kissing Trudy on the cheek. She followed him down the steps of the back terrace, toward the path beside the sea. Below the crashing waves hissed and spewed against the jagged rocks. The moon was out, highlighting the cliffs and shore in an eerie blue-gray light. Holding close to Ronald, Trudy tried to overcome the dark emotions swirling all around her. As much as she loved Ronald, she was beginning to wonder if she could ever live under this roof. Blanchard Manor seemed to hold its secrets too close. Trudy thought if she stayed here, she would surely disappear into one of the shadows and be swallowed into nothingness. I really do read too much Shakespeare. But one quote from Macbeth stood out as she looked back over her shoulder at the dark house: "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more." Trudy trembled in the wind, wondering if she would somehow wind up here, lost, and heard from no more.
Chapter Ten "Are you feeling a bit better?" Ronald asked as he turned to lift her down onto the beach. A gas lamp flickered near the steps, illuminating his face in a golden light. Near the filagreed lamp post, a heavy wooden swing suspended on sturdy beams squeaked back and forth in the wind.
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"Better," Trudy admitted, even if the big house did cast shadows all around them. "The fresh air feels good." "It's cold," Ronald said, tugging her cape around her shoulders. Then he took her gloved hands in his. "I wanted us to have some privacy." Trudy gazed up at him, a dark dread bearing down on all her hopes. "Is something wrong? I mean, besides how your father feels about me?" "No, darling. Everything is just right." He kissed her, then pulled back to smile at her. "I told you I want to help your family. Trudy, I have an enormous trust fund. I can pay off your father's debts." "No," she said, pulling away. "I can't allow that. I told you it wouldn't be right." Ronald tugged her around. "Think of it as an investment. I can offer your father some advice on how to improve operations, too. I'm good at this, so let me do it—for you." "But your father—" "He won't have to know. The fund became mine, free and clear when I turned twenty-one. I can do what I like with the money." "But how will you explain this, Ronald? Moving a vast amount of money—" "I can do it," he assured her. "Father knows I like to play the stock market." Trudy wondered why he'd go to such great lengths to help her. His father would disown him if he found out. But, she reminded herself, Ronald was very savvy with financial matters. If anyone could pull this off, he could. All of his college friends came to him when they had financial problems. They often bragged about how Ronald could make money and hide money all in one day. Still, she didn't think it was a good idea. "I don't know…" Ronald took her by the hand, pulling her along the rocky shore. "I want to see you smile again. Your mood shifts from giddy to blue." "I'm sorry," she said, the frigid wind pricking at her skin. "I guess I've been a real drag." "It's not that," he said, his arm around her shoulder. "I want to make you happy. And we can start with helping your family. Then we'll work on my father." Trudy savored the warmth and security he always brought. "I don't know what to say." Ronald lifted her chin. "Say yes to the money, and…to this." Reaching inside his pocket, he pulled out a black velvet box. Trudy's heart hit against her chest with the same force as the waves slamming the shore. "Ronald?" Grinning, he opened the box. Even in the soft glow of moonlight, Trudy could see a diamond solitaire winking at her. "Ronald…" "Will you marry me?" he asked, a catch in his voice. "I want you to be mine forever, Trudy." Trudy closed her eyes, her tears cold in the wind. She'd dreamed of this. "I can't believe it. I know we've talked about it. But shouldn't we wait?"
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"I don't want to wait. I want to make it official." He took her left hand in his, and tugged off her glove. Taking the ring in one hand, he dropped the box back in his pocket. Then he slipped the ring on her finger. "Perfect." Trudy stared at the glistening diamond. "Oh, Ronald. I love you so much." "Is that a yes?" She nodded. "Yes, I'll marry you." He drew her into his embrace. "That's the best Christmas present I could ask for." Trudy pressed her cheek against his wool coat. "Me, too. This and saving my parents from disgrace. You are so good to me." He laughed. "I'll take care of things with your parents. Hall Publishing will soon be secure. We'll keep it in the family forever, because that's how long we'll be together." He kissed her, his touch washing away her fears. All except one. Trudy clung to him, staring up at the house that stood silently listening, and again, she had a premonition she'd somehow become lost in the maze of all those rooms. And all of that darkness. In spite of Ronald's warmth and the thrill of wearing his ring, she shuddered. Forever was a very long time.
Chapter Eleven Christmas morning turned frigid and dreary. The whole countryside was snowed in, the weather fickle and stormy, which suited Trudy's mood as she came downstairs. She truly wanted to be happy, to celebrate her joy in being properly engaged to Ronald. But she wasn't sure how she could do that with his father's obvious disapproval and her sister's resentment hanging over her head. She's prayed during yet another sleepless night, but dreams of wandering around in a dark hallway had kept her awake. Now as the sparkling Christmas tree and the warm, glowing fire beckoned her, she put aside her worries to concentrate on the beauty of the season, reminding herself that this day was sacred and special. Later, she'd call home to wish everyone a happy holiday. While her parents had understood her wanting to be with Ronald, Trudy knew Genie was still angry with her. Maybe, dear God, You could send Genie someone special to love. If only her sister would allow pure love into her heart, Trudy thought. Genie had always had a selfish streak. Wanting attention, her sister resorted to shock and manipulation to get everything her way. Then Genie usually blamed Trudy when things went wrong. "Why is it, young lady, that you always look so forlorn?" Trudy turned toward the other side of the parlor, spotting Howard standing near a door that led to his study. Glancing around, she realized they were alone. "Where's Winne?" she asked, her voice steady even if her heart was pumping hard enough to shake the wide tie on her silk blouse. "I asked you a question," Howard replied. "If you're so in love with my son, why do you look so sad and…frightened all the time?" Deciding honesty might work best with Howard Blanchard, Trudy stepped into the room, her long plaid skirt swishing against her black boots. "Do I really seem that way, sir?" Howard actually smiled, surprising her. "If I said 'boo,' I do believe you'd run."
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Trudy headed to the fire, seeking warmth. "I suppose I might." She turned to look at him, a soft smile moving across her face. "You are a very intimidating man, Mr. Blanchard." He relaxed just a little bit. "I just want what's best for my children." "I understand that. My parents are the same way." "Speaking of your parents," he said, "I've read up on Hall Publishing. Very impressive little literary press." Wondering just how much he knew, Trudy nodded. "My parents work very hard. They're both scholars. Their love of reading helped me with my own study habits. That's why I got a full scholarship to school. Of course, they help with my out-of-pocket expenses." "Again, impressive." He looked at her, his stance rigid, his bifocals down low on his nose. "But tell me something. Do you think marrying my son will solve all of your financial problems? Is that why you find him so attractive?" Trudy held back the answer forming on her lips. Did he already suspect that Ronald had offered to help her parents? Were there spies all around this vast property, reporting back to him? Hoping to convince him, she said, "I don't care about money, sir. I fell for Ronald the first time I saw him. And I didn't even know who he was then. Once we got to know each other, I fell in love with him in every sense of the word. He's smart, funny, caring, and he makes me feel safe and secure." Wanting to find some common ground, she added, "Is that how it was for you and your wife?" Howard's calm demeanor immediately became menacing. "Do not presume to know me well enough to ask such a personal question, young lady. You have no idea what real love is all about." "But I'm trying to learn and understand," Trudy shot back, amazed at her own boldness. "And I want you to accept that Ronald and I love each other. Why do you disapprove of that? Why do you disapprove of me?" Footsteps hit the polished wood of the hallway. "I'd like to hear the answer to that myself." Trudy turned to find Ronald standing there, his expression full of anger as he waited for his father's answer.
Chapter Twelve Trudy's heart went out to the man she loved. Ronald looked livid. He also looked very sure of himself, his dark hair clipped and combed, his gray sweater highlighting his blue-gray eyes as he glowered at his father. Howard didn't even blink. "Merry Christmas, son. Now where is that sister of yours? We have all these presents." Winnie came bouncing into the room, wearing a quilted red robe and a plaid flannel lace-trimmed nightgown. "I'm right here. Let's open presents!" Ronald ignored her. "I'm waiting, Father. Why do you disapprove of Trudy?" Winnie glanced from her brother to her father, then hurried to Trudy's side. "What's the matter?" Trudy shook her head, but didn't speak. Howard shrugged, looked away. "It's Christmas, son. Let's enjoy the holiday."
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"You can't even give me a good reason," Ronald said, moving toward Trudy. "Maybe because you're so miserable, you just can't stand for anyone else to be happy. Is that it?" Trudy glanced up at him, hoping to salvage the morning. "It's okay--" "It is not okay," he retorted, some of his anger misdirected at her. Trudy wished she'd just kept her mouth shut. But it was too late for that now. Fingering her locket, she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble." "But you did, didn't you?" Howard said, waving a hand in the air. "Why did you insist on bringing her here, Ronald?" "Because I love her," Ronald retorted, his face red with fury. "I wanted you to meet Trudy, to see in her what I see. She's a good person, Father." Howard looked from Ronald to her. "One day, you'll be parents. Then you'll understand all that being a father involves. I've worked hard to be able to give you and your sister the best of everything. I only ask for your respect in return. I never do anything without your best interest at heart." "Except make unreasonable demands," Ronald said. "You forced Winnie to give up the man she loved. But you won't force me to give up Trudy." Grabbing Trudy's hand, he held it up so his father could see her ring. "Take a good look, Father. I asked Trudy to marry me. And she said yes. And there is nothing you can do to change that." Howard was about to say something else when Sonya came into the room. In her heavy Spanish accent, she announced, "Breakfast is ready, Mr. Blanchard." "Thank you, Sonya," Howard replied, ignoring the intense gaze the maid gave him. Trudy didn't miss it, though. Nor all the other strange vibes reverberating around this huge, high-ceilinged room. Maybe Ronald was right; maybe his father was so lonely and miserable, he just naturally had to alienate everyone he loved. "Did you hear me?" Ronald asked his father. "I sure did," Winnie said, her cheery smile too bright. She hugged Trudy close. "I'm so happy for you." Then she turned to Howard. "Can't we just have a good Christmas, without you two fighting?" Howard stared at his son, his expression wistful and full of regret. "You're just being impulsive, Ronald. It's just a college fling. I was hoping you and Maria might take up where you left off before she went to Europe, but you were so rude the other night I doubt she'll come around again. You know her father is one of our best clients. It would be a suitable match." Ronald jabbed a hand through his dark hair. "I'm not in love with Maria, Father." A pleading look in his eyes, he added, "I love Trudy. Have you forgotten what falling in love means?" Unable to take anymore, Trudy stepped forward. "Mr. Blanchard, I promise I'm not out to get Ronald's money. I just want to be his wife." She looked down at the ring on her finger, and knew what she had to do. "I never dreamed I could be so happy. Or, at least, I wanted to be happy. You asked me earlier why I seem so forlorn. It's because I'm worried that you'll punish Ronald because of me. And I can't allow that. I don't think I can be happy, knowing how you feel." With that, she took off the ring and handed it to Ronald. "I'm sorry, but I won't come between you and your father." Bringing a hand to her mouth, she whispered, "I can't marry you, Ronald."
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Then she turned and ran out of the room, ignoring Ronald's calls for her to come back.
Chapter Thirteen "Trudy!' Trudy whirled at the back door, her cape in her hands. "Just let me go, Ronald." "I can't do that," he said, rushing to stop her. "Where are you going?" "I just…need to get out of this house." She opened the door and stepped into the cold mist of snow and sleet that came rushing over the porch. The air hit her, waking her senses with an arctic wind. The dampness felt good after the heated embarrassment she'd just had to endure. And not just from Howard. Ronald had been angry at his father, but he'd also been angry with her, too. Trudy could now see things so clearly. Ronald didn't really want her or love her. He just wanted to defy Howard. He caught up with her just as she ran down the last slippery step to the beach. "Trudy, you're being childish." "Am I?" she asked, turning, her hair flying out in the brisk, bone-chilling wind. "I said I can't marry you, Ronald. And I mean it." "If you'd just ignore my father—" "How can I? The man hates me. He hated me even before he ever met me. He's already made up his mind. He wants you to marry someone better suited. And maybe he's right." Ronald brought her close, then stared down at her, some of the anger leaving his eyes. "I don't want anyone else. I just want you. You have to take this ring back." Trudy looked down at his hand. He held the glittering ring up so she could see it. "This represents my love for you." Trudy pushed him away. "No. This represents you trying to get back at your father. You don't really love me. You just want to rebel against Howard. You've been upset with me several times this weekend and now I understand why." Ronald stepped back, then dropped the ring in his pocket. "You can't be serious?" "I saw it in there, Ronald. I saw the way you spoke to him. You're enjoying this. You're using me as a means to get to him. And that hurts worse than your father's disapproval." "You are so wrong," Ronald said, shaking his head. "Why would I take pleasure in seeing you hurt?" "I don't know. But…since we've been here, we've had so many disagreements. With each other, with your father. I can't seem to relax. I just don't feel welcome." "But we've had good times. What about ice skating? And sitting by the fire with Winnie? You can't let my father's dark moods ruin our whole holiday, Trudy." "It's not just your father. You get so angry with me if I don't do or say exactly what you think I should. Maybe you're ashamed of me, the same way your father seems embarrassed about me."
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"Now you are imagining things," he shouted. "If you really believe that, then you're right. We shouldn't get married." Trudy's heart turned to ice. She could feel it shattering into shards. She'd never been so hurt and disillusioned in her life. "I wanted us to be happy. But I don't think that's possible." Ronald looked down at the wet sand and snow. "Maybe you're right. Just come back to the house and let's try to get through the rest of the day. I'll take you back to the campus first thing in the morning." Trudy watched him stalk up toward the mansion, her hand holding to her treasured locket. Her parents had given her the ornate gold filigree necklace for her sixteenth birthday and she rarely took it off. She turned it over, reading the inscription on the back. "To thine own self be true." Maybe she should listen to that sage advice. Then she turned to stare at the gray and black waves of the Atlantic. The water foamed and hissed like a laughing shadow reaching for her. Gathering her cloak close, Trudy stood there, icy tears streaming down her face. Her life with Ronald was over. She loved him so much, but she was afraid he'd never love her in the same way. Trudy loved with her heart. Ronald seemed to love revenge. How could she ever live with that? And how could she spend another night in this bleak, sad house? Forcing herself, she turned to go back inside. As she glanced up at the turret room, she saw Howard Blanchard standing at the window, his expression full of triumph.
Chapter Fourteen Trudy came back inside the house and heard the sound of voices in the big parlor. Staring down at her hands, she wished she could have kept the engagement ring Ronald had given her. But this was about more than just a ring. She loved Ronald; but being here and seeing him with his family had opened her eyes to so much more. Being in love was easy. Living in Blanchard Manor would be the hard part. She'd never thought about having to deal with a distant father-in-law or being made to feel inadequate. Now she'd alienated Ronald and probably lost him forever. Thinking she'd apologize then stay in her room the rest of the day, Trudy entered the parlor, the warmth of the fire reaching across the drafty room. "I'm so sorry about…earlier," she said, glancing from Howard to Winnie. "I didn't mean to ruin your Christmas morning. Ronald's taking me back to the campus tomorrow." Winnie frowned. "Don't leave. You and Ronald will make up and everything will be fine. I don't want you to leave." Then she turned to Howard. "Father, don't you have something to say to Trudy?" Howard shifted in his chair, unopened packages all around him. For the first time since she'd arrived, he looked up at Trudy with sincerity in his eyes. "I'm sorry, young lady. I don't want you to think I'm some kind of selfish monster. You are welcome to stay here for the remainder of the holidays. I won't stand in your way or make you feel frightened anymore." Surprised and touched, Trudy came to sit on a leather ottoman near his chair. "Thank you, Mr. Blanchard." She wasn't sure she could trust him, but at least he was making an effort. Winnie must have given him a good talking-to. "Did you open the package from me yet?" Winnie quickly found the small package underneath the tree. "Here, Father."
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Howard grudgingly opened the box, then held the pewter paperweight she'd had inscribed with a quote from The Merchant of Venice. He read, "'The quality of mercy is not strain'd. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.'" His gaze softened. "Thank you, Trudy. We'll open the rest after brunch." With that, he got up and left the room, the paperweight clutched in his hand. Winnie turned to Trudy. "Now my brother needs to apologize." "I'm not so sure," Trudy said, her heart still bruised. "Ronald is angry and I'm tired of fighting. I think we're finished." "Well, you did give the ring back," Winnie pointed out. "Maybe you should find him and make up. That's always the fun part." Trudy shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. "I miss my family so much." "We can fix that," Winnie said. "Call them." Maybe talking to her parents would cheer her up. Then she'd find Ronald and try to reason with him. Winnie handed her the nearby phone. "I'll go check on brunch and give you some privacy." Trudy dialed her parent's number. Her mother answered on the first ring. "Trudy, how are you? Are you having a good Christmas?" She hesitated. "Yes, but…I miss all of you." "We miss you, too. Genie keeps us posted. Are you really considering marrying this man?" "I was, but now I'm not so sure. We had a terrible fight." "On Christmas? That's a shame. Genie says you're rushing into this." "Genie doesn't understand, Mom. I love Ronald. He's a good man. He's charming and handsome and…for some strange reason, he seems to love me." Or so she'd thought. "But Maine? Trudy, that's so far away." "I'm away from you now. Why would living in Maine permanently be any different?" "I just want you to be sure, honey." "I'll think this through, I promise. Nothing is certain." "Do you want to come home?" She could fly home for the rest of the holiday break. But she didn't have money to buy a plane ticket. "No, Mom. I'll be fine. I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. Will you tell Dad I called?" "Of course, darling. We love you." Trudy hung up, then stared into the fire, more confused than ever.
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Then she heard footsteps behind her and turned to find Ronald there. "Don't go," he said. He kneeled in front of her and pulled her into his arms. "Please don't leave me, Trudy."
Chapter Fifteen Trudy cried on Ronald's shoulder. "I don't think I should stay." He lifted her chin, the fear in his eyes real. "I didn't mean what I said. We can work through this." She wiped her eyes, then looked up at him. "Do you really love me?" "You know I do." He moved to sit next to her on the stool. "But you're right—I was pitting you against my father. He sometimes brings out the worst in me. I didn't mean to put you in the middle of our differences." "I meant what I said, Ronald. I don't want to make things worse between you two." Pulling her into his arms, he kissed the top of her head. "You were just one more thing for him to use against me. But…I think he'll soften toward you." "He did open the gift I got for him," Trudy said, sniffing. "And he apologized to me." "My father telling someone he's sorry?" Ronald drew back to smile. "Now that is progress." "I think Winnie got to him." "She is good at bringing people around." "I'm sorry for being so sensitive about everything," Trudy said. "I guess I miss my family and I'm worried about them. My sister likes to lay a heavy guilt trip on me every time I call home." "Then you should just ignore her," Ronald said, patting her hand. "Why don't we just start over and try to have a good Christmas?" "I think that's a good idea." She kissed him, then looked down at her hands. "I … I want to be your wife." Ronald reached inside his pocket and pulled out the ring she's tossed back in his face. "Do you want to wear this again?" "Yes," she said, fresh tears misting in her eyes. He got down on one knee, his own eyes bright with hope. "Trudy Hall, will you marry me?" "Yes, I will," she said, waiting as he slipped the ring back on her finger. "And this time, I won't let anything stand in the way." Ronald grinned, then kissed her hand. "This looks so perfect on your finger. Don't ever take it off again." Trudy hugged him tight, then sent up a prayer that God would help them through all the obstacles they'd have to face. Telling herself this had to be right, she sighed. "I'm so glad we made up." "Me, too," Ronald said. "Now…let's go find out when that delicious-smelling brunch is going to be served. I'm starving."
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Trudy took his hand and followed him across the hallway to the dining room. Winnie was busy helping Sonya and the kitchen staff put out steaming trays of eggs and bacon, muffins and freshly baked cinnamon bread. Hearing their footsteps, she turned to greet them. "I see you two have patched things up. I'm so glad." Trudy glanced over at Ronald. "It all seems so silly now." Winnie's smile disappeared for just a minute. "Most lovers' quarrels are over silly little things. You two have a second chance, at least." Winnie must be thinking about her own lost love. The holidays could be a joy, but not having someone special to share them with must be very hard. Trudy didn't know why she'd been such a pain, but she was determined to be positive and upbeat for the rest of her time here. "Do you need any help?" she asked Winnie. "No, no. You're our guest," Winnie said over her shoulder. "Ronald, Father is in his study. Would you go and get him?" Trudy didn't miss the meaningful look Winnie sent her brother. She wanted everyone to make amends. Winnie was the peacemaker in this family. Trudy would do well to remember that after she and Ronald were married. Ronald took the hint. "Of course. I'll be right back. Pour me some apple cider, please. And save me a molasses cookie." Winnie laughed as he hurried out of the room. "Now this is the kind of Christmas morning I had hoped for." Trudy went about pouring coffee and hot mulled cider. "I feel so relieved, as if Ronald and I have cleared a big hurdle." "You did," Winnie whispered. "You got past my father. I saw something there in his eyes when he opened your gift. I think he's warming up to you." "I certainly hope so, and thanks for your help with that. I told Ronald I wouldn't let anything else come between us and I intend to keep that promise." No matter what.
Chapter Sixteen The next couple of days went by in a blissful haze. Trudy hadn't been this happy since they'd left college. Ronald had been sweet and considerate, taking her all over the village of Stoneley, showing her the sights. The harbor was so pretty with its many boats and yachts. Trudy especially loved the old lighthouse that had been turned into a quaint restaurant. She and Ronald had a romantic dinner there to celebrate their engagement. After kissing her good-night, he'd told her to get up bright and early because he had a surprise for her. Eager to find out what he had planned, Trudy hurried downstairs, finally comfortable with the morning routine of breakfast in the dining room. Finding Howard in his usual spot, reading the Wall Street Journal, she cleared her throat. "Good morning, Mr. Blanchard."
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Howard looked up, a curt nod his only response. Then after a second or two of silence, he said, "Why don't you call me Howard?" Trudy's hand stopped on the silver coffee urn. Turning shyly, she gave him a surprised look. "Are you sure?" He frowned, but she could see the bemused look in his eyes. "Of course I'm sure. If you're going to be a part of the family one day, then we need to drop the formalities, don't you think?" "Yes, sir," she said, grinning. Pouring herself some coffee, she grabbed an almond scone and sat down at the table. "You know…I'm beginning to love this house." Howard arched an eyebrow. "I'm glad to hear that. It's been in my family for a very long time. Lots of history in this old place." "My parents would love it," Trudy said, nibbling at her food. "They're history buffs. Maybe one day they can come and visit." Then she quickly added, "I mean later, of course. Once—" "Once you and my son are married and settled in," Howard finished for her, his tone firm and concise. "Yes…hopefully after Ronald finishes college." "I'm glad we agree on that," Howard retorted. Then he went back to his paper. Trudy finished her food in silence, wondering where everyone was. Even if Howard was being agreeable, she still wasn't completely comfortable around him. A few minutes later, Ronald came into the room, kissed her on the cheek and spoke to his father. Trudy's rush of relief at seeing him must have shown. Howard glanced at her with a frown. Ronald didn't seem to notice the slight tension in the room. "Ready for our big adventure, Trudy?" he asked, coming to sit next to her. Trudy took in the scent of his spicy aftershave, then noted he was wearing the sweater she'd given him. Ronald was so handsome and such a gentleman; she thanked God again for allowing her to fall in love with him. "I'm ready. Am I dressed okay?" Ronald looked over her Fair Isle sweater and dark jeans. "You look great." He quickly gulped down the last of his coffee. "Let's get going." Howard glanced up as they giggled and held hands. "What are you up to, son?" Ronald put a finger to his lips. "Just a little extra something for my girl." Howard's sharp stare was intimidating, but Trudy was beginning to think it was mostly an act to scare people off. She smiled at him, hoping to break through his harsh nature. She was rewarded with a quick nod of his head. Once they were on their way, Ronald glanced over at her. "You're winning him over, just as I knew you would." Basking in his approval, Trudy grinned. "You were right all along. Once I quit worrying so much and relaxed, things seemed to get better. Your father and I actually had a conversation this morning." "See, I told you." "I'm so happy," she said, snuggling close in his tiny sportscar. "But where are you taking me?"
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"You'll see," he said, giving her a brief kiss before he shifted gears. Trudy's exhilaration went beyond the sunny day and the breathtaking view. She felt so alive. As they rounded a spiraling curve on Ocean Drive, she took a deep breath and held on for dear life as she laughed into the wind.
Chapter Seventeen The coastal road was both beautiful and dangerous, with winding curves and sharp drops down to the rocks and the sea below. But being with Ronald gave Trudy a confidence and security she'd never felt before. When they pulled up to an official-looking building in the heart of the village, Trudy let out a gasp. "The bank?" Ronald looked delighted. "Yes. I promised I'd help your family and that's exactly what I'm going to do. I've already talked to my banker. The money will be transferred to them in California before the week is out." "Oh, Ronald, I can't believe you're doing this. I don't know how to thank you." "You already have," he said, his finger touching on her engagement ring. "You're going to be my wife." Trudy's gratitude was so overwhelming, she grabbed him and kissed him. "Wow, I should bail your parents out more often." "Just this once," she said, her hand touching his dark bangs. "I love you so much." "I love you, too." He hopped out and came around to help her out of the low car. "But this is just the first surprise of the day. I have more." "You're spoiling me." "That's the plan." After a few minutes in the bank, her parents' worries were over. Ronald had saved their business. Trudy didn't know all the details, but she didn't care. Her family would be safe for a long time to come. Ronald had signed documents and talked in a low-key voice with several bank executives. There was even a lawyer present, just to make everything official. Ronald always took care of the details. "Do you want to call them and tell them the good news?" he asked Trudy as they were about to leave. "I suppose I should. They will certainly wonder what happened." Motioning to the bank president, Ronald soon had Trudy in a private office, waiting for a connection to California. Excited, Trudy explained to her father what Ronald had done. Then she put Ronald on the phone to talk with her father. Ronald reassured Mr. Hall that he considered this a good investment. From what she heard, Ronald managed to convince her father. And no wonder. Her fiancé had gone way beyond the call of duty to prove his love for her. Maybe now her parents would understand why she cared so much about Ronald. Later, as they zoomed along the coast again, she looked over at him. "My parents were astonished, to say the least." Then she bit her lip. "But I heard you telling the bank president to keep this confidential. And you told my father the same thing on the phone. I don't want your father—"
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"Let's not worry about my father," Ronald replied, his eyes on the spiraling road. "I have enough money to keep the bank happy. It is confidential and it's my business. I know how to take money and make more. Just trust me, okay?" "Okay." Trudy tried to focus on the positive again. "I'm just so relieved." "Good." He pulled up to a quaint little shop. "Our next stop." "A perfumery?" Trudy clapped her hands together, then got out of the car. "I've never been to one before." "They make special scents," Ronald explained. "I thought it might be nice…something unique…just for you." Touched yet again, Trudy waited as he opened the door, floral scents hitting her nostrils when they entered the dainty little shop. "I love the roses and jasmine in my mother's garden." "Then roses and jasmine it is," Ronald replied. "Something that will always remind me of you and only you." Once again, Trudy was overwhelmed by his generosity. "Isn't this expensive?" Ronald shook his head and chuckled. "Need I remind you that I have lots of money?" "How could I forget?" she shot back, grinning. "But…you shouldn't spoil me so much." His expression turned serious. "I want to spoil you. I want you to have everything you've ever dreamed of." Trudy thought of one of her favorite Shakespeare quotes from Hamlet. "'To sleep, perchance to dream,'" she said in a whisper. Ronald reached out to touch her windblown hair. "I see you in my dreams. I hope both you and Master Shakespeare understand that." Trudy closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of his touch. Was this the stuff of dreams? Or was it too good to be true? She didn't want to find the answer to that.
Chapter Eighteen She wanted to stay this happy forever. But what if she failed? What if she let Ronald down? Her dreams could turn into a nightmare. Putting her doubts aside, she nodded. "I understand." But there was still so much about this man she didn't understand. Ronald was so complex, so confident, he sometimes overwhelmed her. "I only want you," Trudy said, wishing he didn't seem so determined to prove his love with material things. It scared her with its intensity. "I want us to have a good marriage and a big family. I want us to be safe and secure and faithful to God's plan for us." "Then we want the same things. Now, let's find you the perfect perfume to seal the deal." Trudy followed him to the counter where a lovely young woman was waiting to help them. Suddenly, the overpowering sweetness of a thousand different scents assaulted her, but she smiled up at Ronald anyway, her love for him far outweighing any doubts she might have. Within an hour, Trudy had a scent created exclusively for her. As they left the store with a brand-new crystal decanter of what Ronald had named "A Midsummer Night's Dream," he turned to her. "You can reorder this for as long as you want. It'll be your trademark."
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"I've never had my very own perfume before," Trudy said, the scent of delicate roses mixed with sweet jasmine all around her. "This was very thoughtful." Ronald closed her car door, then came around to get inside. "One more surprise left." "I don't think I can take much more," Trudy said, laughing. "I want be able to come down to earth when we go back to school." "Maybe you won't have to," he said, his eyes twinkling. Trudy didn't dare ask what was next. If she'd learned one thing this week, it was that Ronald Blanchard was a powerful man. He could move mountains, make good things happen. Make bad things disappear. His power frightened her, even while it attracted her. She supposed she'd better get used to it. "After this stop, we'll go to the Coastal Inn for lunch," Ronald said. "I want you to see that place." He gave her another mysterious smile. "Okay. Sounds lovely." He pulled up to a dress shop. Trudy looked at the beautiful clothes displayed in the window. "Ronald, you can't buy me anything else." "Just one more thing, darling," he said, his hand taking hers. "Your wedding dress." "What?" Her heart beat accelerated. "But…we haven't even set a date. We have to wait until you graduate." "No, we don't," he said. "Why wait? We'll be at school together the rest of the year. We can find a nice apartment near the campus. Then when I graduate, we'll move back here." "But what about me? I have to finish school somehow." "You can take classes closer to Stoneley. There are some great colleges within driving distance." "But I purposely came across the country from California because I got a scholarship. I'm majoring in European Literature." "And we have a full library at Blanchard Manor—anything you'll need in the way of research." Trudy looked at the picture-perfect display in the window. "I've never thought about school. I knew you'd graduate soon, but I never stopped to think about my own education." "If we get married, you can still get an education. Unless you decide otherwise." Trudy weighed the pros and cons. What did it matter where she went to school, just as long as she finished? "I guess that could work." "Of course it can." He patted the leather encased steering wheel. "My family has connections everywhere. We'll get you in one of the best school nearby, don't worry." But Trudy was worried. What if they were rushing into this marriage without thinking things through? As much as she wanted to be Ronald's wife, she had to think about the consequences of acting too brashly. "I don't know—"
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"I want to marry you," Ronald said, his heart in his eyes. "I want to marry you on New Year's Eve. When we go back to school, we'll be Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Blanchard. Then I can finish out the year knowing that you're mine, completely." Shocked, Trudy could only stare over at him. What should she do now?
Chapter Nineteen "This is so exciting." Winnie clapped her hands together, her gaze wistful. "I wish I could have eloped with Tate, but then he was already engaged and he took my father's hush money, rather than stay and fight for me." Trudy's heart went out to Winnie, but she was too keyed up to offer much sympathy. Staring at her reflection in the standing mirror, she said, "I can't believe I'm doing this. My parents are going to be so disappointed." "Not to mention my father," Winnie retorted. "Don't be surprised if he tries to have the marriage annulled." Trudy ran her hands down the delicate lace of her dress. It was very Victorian and dainty. Not really an official wedding dress, but lovely just the same. Frowning, she turned to face Winnie. "Do you think he'd do that?" "In a heartbeat," Winnie said. "But…knowing my brother the way I do, I don't think Ronald will let that happen. He's determined to make you his wife." Trudy pushed away the fear clouding her mind. All week long, Ronald had been so attentive. He was her knight in shining armor. He'd saved her family by paying off a tremendous debt. He'd showered her with gifts to prove his love for her. And now, he wanted to marry her. She'd never felt so pampered and treasured. It didn't matter how or when they got married, just as long as they were together. She'd prayed to God to help her, to give her the courage to be the best wife possible. "I'll be a married woman come the new year, Winnie." Winnie sank down on her bed, her fringed poncho flowing out around her. "I don't know how I'll be able to cope until next spring when Ronald brings you home for good." Trudy grabbed Winnie's hands. "I'm so glad I'll have you here to keep me company. Maybe you can enroll in some classes with me at the local college." Winnie made a face. "You're going back to school?" "Well, of course. I want to get my degree." Winnie got up to help Trudy unbutton the high-necked dress. "Have you discussed this with my brother?" "Yes, and he assured me I could finish school." Winnie snorted, then bobbed her head. "Well…if he promised." "What are you saying?" Trudy turned as the lacy dress fluttered to the floor. "Winnie?" Winnie shrugged, then put the dress back on its satin hanger. "Ronald has always said he wouldn't want his wife to work. He wants to start a family right away." Trudy tugged on her robe and sat down on a velvet-encased vanity stool. "We've talked about that, too. But school is different from working." She'd had dreams of maybe teaching or working in the arts, but Trudy had decided she could do that when her children were older. She'd never been strongly into the women's lib
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movement, although she certainly appreciated the cause. "I've just always imagined marriage as equal. That my husband and I would discuss any decisions and work out compromises. I want to be a good wife and mother, but I also want to pursue my own interests. I think that's the only way to have a strong marriage." Winnie rolled over and stared at the sailboat mobile floating in the corner of the tall ceiling. "You're right. You can have it all if you want. Ronald isn't so selfish that he wouldn't allow you to do your own thing." "Of course he's not." Trudy fell down beside her. "Ronald is very open-minded. That's one of the things I love about him." "He sure loves you," Winnie replied through a sigh. "You make him happy." Trudy grinned. "I'm getting married tomorrow. The last day of the year." "And a happy new year as my brother's wife." Trudy twirled the sash of her chenille robe. "I wish my family could be here." "Maybe you can visit them during spring break. They could give you a reception out in California." "That's a good idea." Trudy thought about how her parents would react. But now that Ronald had helped save their business, they shouldn't be too angry at him. She'd promised she wouldn't call them about the wedding until after the new year. Ronald didn't want her upset before the wedding. Pushing up off the bed, she wrapped her arms around her knees and let out a contented sigh. "It's all going to be all right, isn't it, Winnie?"
Chapter Twenty Winnie sat up, her arm going around Trudy's shoulder. "Of course it's going to be all right. God will take care of the details. He's already answered one of my prayers. He's brought you to us." Trudy hugged Winnie close. "We are blessed." She hoped God would continue to bless her as she began her life with Ronald. The phone rang and Winnie hurried to pick it up. "It's for you," she told Trudy. Trudy took the phone. "Hello?" "Hi, it's Mom." "Mom, is everything okay?" "Oh, yes, everything is wonderful, darling. Our worries are over." "Why is that?" Trudy asked, careful of Winnie nearby. "You know why, Trudy. We own the business free and clear now. Isn't that amazing?" "It sure is," Trudy said, relaxing. "I'm so glad." "Ronald was quite persuasive. Genie goes on and on about how wealthy he is. She thinks he did this just to win us over."
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"He's a good man, Mom. He loves me." She stopped short of telling her mother they were about to get married. "Well, I should think so. We hope to pay him back, of course." "Just enjoy this." After talking a while longer, she hung up with a smile. "I almost let it slip about the wedding." Winnie didn't seem curious. She was busy searching the closet for her own dress. She would be a witness to the nuptials. Twenty four hours later, Trudy woke up in her husband's arms. They were at the Coastal Inn in a beautiful honeymoon suite. "We have to go back to school tomorrow," she whispered to Ronald. He kissed her hair. "I could stay here with you forever." "Me, too. My parents are safe, and I'm Mrs. Ronald Blanchard." Ronald kissed her again. "You will always be safe with me, Trudy. You do believe that, don't you?" "Yes," she said, happiness clouding over her qualms. "I just wish we'd told your father." "It was the only way," Ronald said. "He would have managed to stop us. We did the right thing." "When are we going to break the news to him?" Ronald sat up, pulling her with him onto the crisp white pillows. "I think it would be best to wait until after I graduate. He won't be able to do anything then. I'll bring you home as my wife and…he'll just have to accept that." "He and I were getting along better. Maybe waiting will help." Ronald looked down at the heavy comforter at the foot of the bed. "I think he was trying to get through the holidays. I have no doubt that he's still not happy with me." "Because of me?" Pulling the blanket around her lacy gown, Ronald nodded. "No, with me. That's why I wanted us to get married right away. Now he can't hurt us." An icy warning shot through her body, in spite of the warm blanket. Would Howard Blanchard accept her into the family with open arms? Or would he be livid that they hadn't told him the truth? Thinking she had a few months to spend with Ronald back at school before they had to confront his father, she snuggled close. "What if someone here says something?" Ronald chuckled. "I don't think anyone will do that. This place is known for being discreet. We're married and we're happy. Besides, my father will be too busy with work now that the holidays are over to listen to gossip." Trudy smiled up at him. "You think of everything." Ronald's gaze held hers. "I was only thinking of one thing—how much I wanted to marry you. And soon, I plan to take you to Milan for a real honeymoon."
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Trudy held tight, contentment coloring her world with hope and a joyful bliss. "I can't wait to start our family, to begin our life together." As she sat there with her husband, Trudy counted her blessings. She'd just married the man of her dreams. She planned on being a good wife. She wanted to become a part of the Blanchard legacy. And she wanted to pass that legacy on to her children. "Look outside," Ronald said, draping his arms around her. The snow, a brilliant pristine white, glistened with possibilities. "It's beautiful. A perfect start to our new life." Ronald held her in his embrace. "We'll always be together." "Yes, we will," Trudy said. Somehow, she knew that even with troubles down the road, she would always find her way back home to Ronald. No matter what.
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Puppy Love by Victoria Pade When Zelda McAffry moved to Denver two weeks ago, the first thing she noticed was how sexy her new neighbor looks when he’s doing his prejog stretching. Not knowing anyone in her new hometown, she’s just working up the courage to ask the hunk for a favor when her energetic Jack Russell terrier, Charlie, gets her into a jam that forces the introduction at the worst possible moment. Max Greer couldn’t help but notice the pretty woman that’s moved into the house behind his. He also couldn’t help but notice her noisy little dog. It’s too bad that he’s had it up to here with pets and their owners, or he might have asked her out…. Chapter One “It’s 7:30, Charlie,” Zelda McAffry said to her Jack Russell terrier as she hurried to the kitchen. Charlie followed on her heels, taking his position at the sliding glass door. Zelda landed at the sink, and trained her eyes through the window above it onto the back door of the house directly behind hers. Like clockwork, the man who lived there came outside as he had every morning of the two weeks Zelda had lived there so far. He was tall, he had short dark hair, Adonis good looks, and the best buns she’d ever seen. Pure eye candy dressed in running shorts that exposed thick thigh muscles and a T-shirt that clung to impressive pectorals and bulging biceps. Charlie started barking his head off just as he did every day. Zelda ignored him, feasting on the sight of magnificent male pulchritude as her neighbor did his pre-run warm-ups on his back porch. “Wow,” she muttered on a sigh when the man finished and went through the gate to the side of his redbrick house. “Okay, now you can go out,” Zelda told Charlie, moving to the sliding door to open it so the terrier could charge into the glorious June day. Charlie wasn’t out there more than a minute, though, when he spotted a squirrel on the other side of the four-foot chain-link fence that separated their two yards. He took off to bounce on his hind legs in addition to his frenzied barking. Zelda opened the sliding door again and yelled, “Charlie! Stop!” But Charlie didn’t stop. Instead, he jumped high enough to actually catch his front paws on the top rail of the fence and pull himself over it. “Oh, no!” Zelda ran out after the dog, shouting Charlie’s name as she did. Charlie didn’t pay any attention to her. Instead, once the terrier realized he was in new territory he lost interest in the squirrel and made a beeline for the house, where he disappeared through the doggy door as if it were meant for him. “Charlie! Come!” Zelda called firmly. But Charlie didn’t reappear. Zelda didn’t know what else to do but follow the same path through the doggy door. She got down on her hands and knees and poked her head through the flap.
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And there was Charlie all right, watching for her as if he’d been expecting her to do just that. “Come out here,” Zelda said in no uncertain terms. Charlie backed up a few feet and sat down. “I mean it! Get over here!” Zelda said, pushing forward and forcing her arms through so she could try to grab her dog and make a getaway before her neighbor ever knew she’d been there. But Charlie just moved farther away, cocking his head to one side as he did. And that was when Zelda made a tactical error. She lunged for the dog. And got stuck but good. “Oh, great,” she wailed. Just then she heard a deep, rich voice from outside say, “What the hell is going on?” Chapter Two Karmic retribution. That’s what it had to be, Zelda thought. Every morning since she’d moved to Denver from Kansas City she’d made it a point to watch her backyard neighbor as he did his prejog warm-ups on his back porch. She’d been admiring the perfect specimen of a man on the whole, but she’d been particularly enjoying the sight of his rear end. And now there she was, stuck in his doggy door, presenting her posterior while her upper half was inside his house as she tried to reach her recalcitrant pooch, Charlie, who had availed himself of the minientrance. “I know this looks bad,” Zelda called in answer to her neighbor’s “What the hell is going on” when he’d prematurely returned from his run to find her like that. “But I’m your neighbor from behind and my dog jumped the fence and ran in here. I was trying to get him out but I got stuck.” “Or maybe you’re just an inept burglar and I’m lucky to have you incapacitated while I call the cops,” the man suggested in a tone that might have been angry or might not have been. Zelda couldn’t tell. “Do I look like a burglar?” she countered before she recalled what part of her he could see. “Scratch that,” she added, realizing only after the words were out how they sounded. “I mean, never mind what I look like. My name is Zelda McAffry and I assure you I live in that house right behind you. I just moved in. And I could use some help getting out of here.” “Mm-hmm,” he said noncommittally. “Really, I’m not a burglar,” she assured. “I’m perfectly harmless. I’m just stuck. And getting very uncomfortable.” Her neighbor didn’t say anything to that and she didn’t know if he was contemplating whether to call the police or how to help her. She just knew that he was out there, ogling her derriere. “Please?” she said as if that were the magic word he was waiting for. “I honestly don’t know what to do except to try to give you a shove,” he finally said, apparently giving up the whole burglary theory.
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“Go ahead and shove,” Zelda said. “That means my hands on your -“ “Just do it!” she ordered. So he did. He put his big, warm hands on her sweatpants-clad butt and pushed. And two things happened. She didn’t budge and she liked the feel of his touch. More than she should have. “Don’t be so gentle,” she advised, trying to ignore her response to him. “I could hurt you.” Not any worse than her pride was. “It’s okay. Just put all your strength into it and push.” “You’re sure?” “Positive.” So that was what he did. He put the force of all those muscles she’d been admiring into shooting her into the dining room, where she landed with an extremely unladylike thud. And then she heard him put a key in the lock to open the door, and she knew she was about to have to face him - the jaw-droppingly handsome neighbor in front of whom she’d just humiliated herself. Chapter Three Zelda was not thrilled to meet her hunky neighbor for the first time by being stuck in his doggy door and having to get unstuck by him pushing her rear end through it. But she hadn’t had a choice. She and her Jack Russell terrier, Charlie, were inside the neighbor’s house, and within moments of getting to her feet from his dining room floor and grabbing Charlie to keep him from attacking, there he was. He looked even better up close than he had from the distance of her kitchen window, where she’d watched him prepare for his jog every morning. But good looks didn’t matter to Charlie. The moment he saw him, the dog went into a frenzy of barking. “Shh, Charlie! Be quiet,” Zelda commanded as she smiled nervously, held out her free hand and introduced herself properly. Her neighbor accepted her hand, warily keeping an eye on Charlie as he did. “Max Greer.” Zelda had some difficulty ignoring the lightning bolts that the touch of his hand sent sizzling up her arm. “I’m sooo sorry about this,” she said. “Charlie was chasing a squirrel and he jumped the fence and then forgot the squirrel and ran in here. I didn’t know what else to do but try to get him out. I love him, but he’s not very friendly with strangers.” “No, he doesn’t seem too friendly,” Max Greer agreed. “He used to be. It isn’t his fault that he’s skittish now. But I couldn’t leave him for you to find when you got back from your run. He might have bitten you.”
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Max’s expression turned curious. “How did you know I was out for a run?” “I saw you leave when I let Charlie out.” Zelda had prepared that excuse in advance in case she was caught spying on him one of these mornings. Then she added, “It was a pretty short run.” “I forgot my cell phone and came back for it.” “Ah.” Zelda had been planning to approach this man the next day, at any rate, and now that she was there she thought maybe she should broach the subject she’d wanted to talk to him about rather than waiting. “I’ve never seen your dog outside,” she said as a segue. “I don’t have a dog. The door was put in for the pets of someone else who lived here for a while.” Zelda was dying to know if the someone else had been male or female, but she couldn’t ask. Instead she said, “But you have been around dogs in the past?” “Unfortunately.” Uh-oh. Not a good sign. “You don’t like them?” “I used to like them. Then I had my fill.” That didn’t improve things much. But Zelda was in such a bind. “Could you get unfilled for a really short time?” Something about the way she said that made him smile. If she’d thought he looked good before, it was nothing compared to the way a grin lit up that face. “Could I get unfilled?” he repeated. “It’s just that I saw the doggy door and figured you must like animals and I had a favor to ask.” Chapter Four Zelda had only just met her drop-dead gorgeous neighbor Max Greer and already she knew he was a bit of a tease. A charming tease whom she was about to ask for a favor. “You see, I’ve only been in Denver for two weeks. I moved here from Kansas. And I work from home so I haven’t met anyone yet. But I have to go back to Kansas to close on the house I sold before I left and I couldn’t get flights there and back in the same day. That means I have to be gone overnight and Charlie can’t be left in a kennel with strangers, so I was hoping -“ “You want me to watch your dog?” Max finished for her, not sounding at all enthusiastic. “Yes,” Zelda confirmed. “How am I not a stranger? Just because he barks at me every day?” So he’d noticed.
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“No, you’re a stranger, too. I was just hoping that I could persuade you to get to know him this weekend before I leave on Monday so you wouldn’t be a stranger anymore.” Max’s sterling silver eyes went from Zelda to Charlie and back to Zelda. “Let me get this straight. You want me to spend my weekend getting to know your dog so I can take care of him while you’re out of town.” “Right. And I’ll make it worth your while.” His great smile returned with a hint of devilishness around the edges. “And how would you do that?” Some very wicked images of her own came to mind, but Zelda resisted them. After all, she already knew Max Greer wasn’t a dog person, and while she might be in the position of having to trust him with Charlie for a short time, she knew better than to expect anything more involved than that. “Money?” she blurted out in answer to his question. “I’ll pay you for your time this weekend and for watching Charlie.” “And if I don’t need your money?” He was just giving her a hard time and she knew it. “How about I buy you the best dinner in town, complete with wine and dessert?” she offered. “And will I have your company over dinner?” “Sure, if you want it,” she said breezily, as if the idea didn’t make her heart skip a beat. Max studied her face as he seemed to think about it. Then, more to himself than to her, he said, “It just might be worth it.” “So we have a deal?” “Let’s just say I’ll give you some time this weekend to see if Charlie will stop baring his teeth at me. And if he will, then okay, I’ll dog-sit for you. But the dinner is going to cost you big.” “I’ll start saving up.” “I have office hours tomorrow morning but I can give you tomorrow afternoon.” “That would be great,” Zelda agreed, curious about what he did to have office hours on Saturday morning. But rather than be nosy, she said, “And again, I’m really sorry about this whole getting stuck in your doggy door thing.” He just nodded his head. But still Zelda went away wondering if her impression was right - that he just might not have minded all that much. Chapter Five “Dog-sitting? You? The guy who said if he never saw another dog, cat, ferret, rabbit, turtle, or pot-bellied pig as long as he lived it would be to soon?” Max was having lunch that afternoon with his business partner and best friend. He’d told Chad about his morning’s activities with Zelda McAffry and Charlie. And what he’d agreed to do.
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“Yeah, I’m the guy who said all that,” he confirmed. “Which is why, since she moved in and I saw she had a dog, I’ve kept my distance.” “But then she gets herself stuck in your doggy door and you changed your mind?” “I met her and liked her.” “Description,” Chad demanded. Just thinking about the way Zelda looked made Max smile. “She’s not too tall - maybe only three or four inches over five feet. She’s thin but not too thin - just right. She has long, straight blond hair to the middle of her back. Big, electric blue eyes. Peaches-and-cream skin. A perfect turned-up nose. Great teeth -“ “Always a factor.” “And she made me laugh.” Max paused, sobering some before he said, “But I’m still not wild about the whole dog thing. Plus the dog isn’t wild about me, either.” “Oh, wonderful,” Chad said facetiously. “I can already see this isn’t a match made in heaven. Maybe you can get bit a couple more times.” “Zelda is hoping I can get to know the dog and vice-versa before she leaves him with me.” “Which means what?” “That I’m seeing them both this weekend.” “Bingo! I knew you had something up your sleeve. What you mean is, you’re seeing this Zelda this weekend.” Max just grinned his confirmation of that. “But I’m still torn. You know after Prue and her pet menagerie, I swore off anybody with animals of any kind. And not only did I mean it, this particular dog has been driving me nuts since they moved in. It barks at me and growls and acts like it wants to tear me to shreds every time it sees me in the yard. I’ve even had an estimate on a six-foot wooden fence to block it out.” “But still you agreed to take care of it just so you can get up close and personal with its owner.” “Couldn’t help it. She seems pretty special,” he said, thinking about how adorably flustered Zelda had been when she was stuck in his doggy door. About the lilting sound of her voice. About how much he’d wanted to go on talking to her this morning. About how he hadn’t been able to think about anything but her ever since. “Still,” Chad warned, “don’t forget how it was with Prue - love me, love my pets. And you didn’t love her pets.” “No, I didn’t,” Max conceded. “And given the ultimatum to choose you or them -“ “That part you don’t have to remind me of.” “I’m just saying to be careful. No matter how hot you are for this woman, she’s already got one strike against her.” “Mmm,” Max agreed. The trouble was, Zelda also had the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen….
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Chapter Six When the knock sounded on Zelda’s back door at nine o’clock Friday night it startled both her and Charlie. Charlie launched into his protective bark and Zelda peeked through the drapes. Max Greer was standing on her patio outside and she immediately pulled the curtains, pretending that she didn’t feel pure delight at the opportunity to see him again. “Charlie! Stop!” She commanded the terrier to quiet his barking as she opened the door. “Hi,” she greeted with a question in her voice. “I know it’s late,” Max responded to the unspoken query. “I just got home and ordered a pizza for my dinner. Then it occurred to me that you might want to share it.” “Believe it or not I’ve been unpacking boxes and I haven’t eaten yet tonight either,” Zelda said. “Pizza sounds good.” “Great. It should be here in about ten minutes and I’ll bring it over.” He turned and went back across the yard, doing a sexy leap over the fence that Zelda drank in the sight of before she closed her door and made a mad dash for her bedroom. Off came her flannel pajama pants and T-shirt, and on went a tight pair of hip-hugger jeans with a brown tank top and a sheer shirt over it. Then she charged into the bathroom to yank the scrunchie out of her hair, brushing it smooth. Next she dabbed on a little blush, swept her eyelashes with fresh mascara, and applied a hint of her new mauve lipstick. She barely made it back to the kitchen in time to answer Max’s second knock on the door. “You didn’t have to change,” he commented as she let him in - again over Charlie’s loud complaint. “I was kind of grimy,” she said as if changing hadn’t been at all about him. He looked good himself, though, in a pair of jeans and a plain beige mock turtleneck T-shirt. “We can eat at the dining room table,” Zelda suggested with a nod in that direction after she’d again chastised Charlie into silence. Zelda brought plates, silverware, napkins, and glasses of iced tea to the table to join Max, who was keeping as wary an eye on Charlie as Charlie was keeping on him. “No big date for a Friday night?” Zelda asked then, obviously fishing for information as they served themselves slices of pizza and started eating. Max smiled a half smile. “No, no big date.” “Is that because your significant other just couldn’t make it?” “It’s because I don’t have a significant other.” Zelda relished that explanation much more than she should have. Then Max said, “What about you? Anybody waiting in the wings back in Kansas?” “Nope. Charlie’s the only man in my life.”
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Max gave the terrier a look out of the corner of his eye that reminded Zelda that he wasn’t enamored of her beloved pet and that she should only proceed with caution. But in spite of that, she heard herself say, “So, tell me a little about yourself.” Chapter Seven “You want me to tell you a little about myself.” Max repeated what Zelda had just said to him as they sat at her dining room table late Friday night sharing a pizza he’d brought over. “What do you want to know?” Zelda refrained from saying everything. “You could tell me what you do for a living, for starters,” she suggested, wishing she were even slightly less interested in this man who so obviously didn’t love her dog. “I’m an orthodontist.” “Ouch!” Max laughed. “It’s not that bad.” “My fondest memories are not of my orthodontia.” “But you ended up with a beautiful smile.” “Well, there is that,” she said as if it didn’t thrill her to hear he thought so. “Do you have your own practice?” “I’m in with my best friend, Chad Thompson. We grew up together, went to college together, even went to dental school together.” “And tomorrow morning is your Saturday to work?” “Actually, we both work on Saturday mornings. We have a clinic in downtown Denver for kids whose parents can’t afford braces.” “That’s nice,” Zelda said, impressed by him and thinking that it redeemed him somewhat for not being a dog person. “What about you?” he asked then. “What is it you do for a living that has you working out of your house?” “I’m a technical writer.” He laughed again and Zelda liked the sound of it far too much. “A technical writer? As opposed to writers who have no technique?” “Playing with semantics, are we? No, not as opposed to writers who have no technique. I write brochures, pamphlets, prospectuses, instruction booklets, things like that. Technical stuff.” “No great American novels?” “Maybe someday. But in the meantime, an occasional charity pizza just won’t keep me going. Plus I like sleeping with a roof over my head.” “In other words, even writers have bills to pay.” “Exactly.”
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“But this wasn’t a charity pizza,” he pointed out. “I was just looking for an excuse to see you again.” He’d said that in such a way that she wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or not. But they’d finished eating by then and rather than giving her a chance to find out, Max glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room and said, “I’d better get some beauty sleep. Saturdays are always early days and for some reason I have the feeling I’d better be on my toes for tomorrow afternoon’s dog training.” “No doubt about it,” Zelda agreed as she and Charlie walked him to the back door. “Thanks for the pizza,” she said when they got there. “My pleasure.” He paused then, studying her with those penetrating eyes of his. And Zelda suddenly found herself wondering if he might kiss her good night. She knew it was a silly thought. After all, they’d only just met that morning. But it didn’t seem to matter when she was fighting the wish that he would. He didn’t, though. Instead he broke off eye contact and left with a simple “See you tomorrow.” And along with the need to dispose of the pizza box once he was gone, Zelda was left to dispose of some pretty potent - and totally unfounded - disappointment, too. Chapter Eight “Okay, I know this sounds crazy but the dog psychologist said -“ “The dog psychologist?” Max repeated what Zelda had just said, his tone full of disbelief. Zelda, Max, and Charlie were in Zelda’s living room on Saturday afternoon, ready to begin Max’s getting-toknow-Charlie session. Zelda’s first goal was to get Charlie comfortable enough with Max so the terrier would at least not go into his frantic mode every time he saw their neighbor. “I know,” Zelda conceded. “Taking a dog to a shrink is a bit much. But I was trying to get him resocialized.” “Resocialized?” “It’s a long story. Anyway, if you would just get down on the floor with him, on his level, so you’ll be nonthreatening.” Max studied her, his expression a combination of incredulity and amusement. “Is this just a way to get me to my knees?” he said with a hint of lasciviousness in his tone. Zelda smiled back. “As a matter of fact, it is. For Charlie’s sake.” Max chuckled. “You know, I wouldn’t do this for just anybody,” he said. He didn’t get down on his hands and knees, though. He sat on the floor with his legs crossed Indian fashion. Zelda - who was holding Charlie - set the terrier down. And Charlie immediately growled at Max. “Don’t make eye contact,” Zelda instructed. “Let him come to you.”
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“Is he going to sever a limb?” Max asked as if he were only half kidding. “He’ll probably sniff you, but he’ll be tentative about it at first, until he knows you won’t grab him or hurt him. Nonthreatening, remember?” Charlie did just that, checking out Max by slow increments, growling as he did. And the entire time Max stayed still, letting the dog do as he pleased. “It’s a positive sign that he’s getting closer and closer,” Zelda said. Finally Charlie sat down in front of Max, reducing the growling to only intermittent grumblings. “Now what?” Max asked. “Say hi to him in a quiet, calm voice that’s kind of high-pitched - dogs like high voices.” “You want me to be a falsetto?” “And tell him he’s a good boy,” Zelda confirmed. “Are you just trying to make me make a fool out of myself? Are you secretly taping this?” “Dog psychology - that’s all this is. If I get a little entertainment out of it, well, all the better,” she teased. “I’ll do it. But only if you say you’ll have dinner with me tonight. Without Charlie.” “Don’t hurt his feelings.” “Say you will or else,” Max warned. “Nonthreatening,” Zelda reminded. “Say you will or else,” Max repeated in a ridiculously high voice that made her laugh. “Okay, yes, I’ll have dinner with you tonight without Charlie. Now use that voice on him.” “Not a chance.” But Max did tell Charlie he was a good boy in a soft, soothing tone that sounded much better. “Now hold your hand with your fingers curled so it looks like a paw and slowly reach it out to him without actually touching him so he can sniff that.” Max looked at her suspiciously and shook his head, again in disbelief. “This better be worth it,” he said with a glint of pure wickedness in his eyes. Very appealing wickedness that made Zelda look all the more forward to dinner alone with him. Chapter Nine Max had told Zelda that he was taking her to an upscale Mexican restaurant called La Loma Saturday night, after their first round of getting her dog familiar with him. So she dressed in a pair of black Capri pants and a white sweater set. She twisted her hair at the back of her head, held it there with chopsticks, and left a spray of ends at her crown. Then she applied blush, mascara, and lipstick - all slightly heavier for the evening.
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Max came to her front door to pick her up this time, looking very spiffy in charcoal gray slacks and a black silk shirt with a banded collar. He drove a red sports car and his manners were impeccable - he held the door open for her at the curb and again in the restaurant parking lot, and he even helped seat her when they were shown to a table. “I recommend the margaritas and the green chili on anything,” he told her as they glanced over the menu. Once they’d ordered, his attention was so focused on her that Zelda felt as if he didn’t realize there were other people in the place. “So how’d I do today?” he asked. Zelda knew he was referring to how things had gone with Charlie. “I think it went okay. Charlie stopped growling at you and showing you his teeth.” “And he didn’t take off my hand when I tried to pet him at the end. Don’t forget that.” “True,” Zelda agreed. Then she said, “What about you?” “What about me?” “Feeling any warm, fuzzy feelings for my dog?” Max laughed. A bit uncomfortably, Zelda thought. “As dogs go, I guess Charlie is...a dog.” Zelda laughed at that even though the joke wasn’t heartening. “In other words I don’t have to worry about you fighting me for custody of him.” “My lawyer is out of town.” “And you haven’t been won over to the dog lovers’ side of the fence.” He let that go unanswered and instead said, “What do we do with him tomorrow?” “I thought we’d try a walk to the park, along with more of the stuff we did today. Charlie loves the park and maybe he’ll love you for taking him.” Max looked dubious but he didn’t voice his doubts. He just said, “I promised to baby-sit my niece in the afternoon. Does Charlie hate kids, too?” “He’s wild for kids. How old is your niece?” “Four. And she likes parks, too.” “I’ll bring a ball for her to throw for Charlie. They’ll both get a kick out of that,” Zelda said. “But for some of the time I should probably take your niece to the swings or something and leave you and Charlie to play catch so he connects you with having fun, too.” “Ah, more doggy psychology. It takes a lot of work just to leave your dog overnight,” Max commented then. “It didn’t used to.” But Zelda didn’t want to go into that and she was spared the need when their food arrived.
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Once their waiter had left, Max said, “Okay, no more dog talk. The day belonged to Charlie but tonight belongs to me.” “Down, boy,” Zelda teased at the devilish wiggle of Max’s eyebrows. But under the surface she was only too happy to have the subject of Charlie closed so she could get to know more about the great-looking guy she was with. The guy who seemed to make her every nerve ending come alive just with a glance of those gorgeous eyes. Even though he still didn’t seem to care for her dog. Chapter Ten “So do you have just the one niece?” Zelda asked Max over burritos smothered in green chili when they’d put a moratorium on talk of Charlie to enjoy their Saturday night date. “Tiffany - who will be with us for Get-Charlie-Acquainted-with-Me Sunday - is my only niece. But I have five nephews.” “Wow. From how many brothers and sisters?” “One of each. My brother has two sets of twins, believe it or not - four boys. And my sister has Tiff and a one-year-old baby boy. But since I don’t do diapers, our folks are keeping Tommy tomorrow afternoon.” “So your parents are still living?” “Alive and well and usually traveling in their motor home. What about yours?” “There’s just my mom. She’s the librarian at the same elementary school I went to as a kid,” Zelda said. “And what about brothers or sisters? Nieces or nephews?” “I have one sister and she’s pregnant for the first time. The baby is due Christmas day. There are three other dogs in the family, though. All Jack Russell terriers. My mother has two and my sister has Charlie’s brother.” Max rolled his eyes. “You really are dog people, aren’t you?” “We love our puppies,” Zelda confessed. Dinner conversation continued in that vein, without there ever being a lull or an awkward silence. Max was just so easy to talk to. Or listen to, since he talked as openly as Zelda did. The problem was, before she knew it, it was nearly midnight and Max was walking her to her door to end the evening. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” she asked, hoping he would say yes. But he didn’t and she was afraid the sound of Charlie barking from inside the house was the reason. “I’d better not,” Max said. “Tiff is being delivered to me at eight in the morning and I was hoping to get in a little gym time before that. Besides, Charlie’s probably already mad at me for taking you away tonight.” Zelda unlocked her door but didn’t open it. Instead she turned back to Max with thoughts of kissing once again dancing through her head.
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“Thanks for dinner. Again,” she said, trying not to get her hopes up. “Any time,” he answered in a voice that was suddenly quiet, more intimate. He was looking into her eyes, searching them, and Zelda was held in that silver gaze. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and actually did kiss her. Softly at first, as if he were testing the waters. But the waters were just fine and Zelda let him know that by kissing him back, even raising a hand to that hard chest she’d been memorizing from afar since she moved in. Then he deepened the kiss and oh, was he good at it! His lips were parted just so and warm against hers as he brought one big hand to brace the back of her head and laid the other along the column of her neck where he made tiny circles with his thumb that sent tingles raining all over her. But all too soon the kiss was over and he said good night, leaving her to slip into her house alone. With only the memory of that kiss and the longing for much, much more. Chapter Eleven Sunday at noon Zelda went into her kitchen to fix herself lunch before she and Charlie spent the afternoon with Max. But on her way to the refrigerator she passed the window over the sink that gave her a panoramic view of the rear of her neighbor’s house. And there he was, on his patio, with the niece he’d told Zelda he was baby-sitting today. Zelda couldn’t resist taking her favorite spy position at the window over the sink to watch the two of them. It was quite a scene. They were apparently having a tea party that the little girl - whose name was Tiffany had set up. After all, Zelda doubted that Max had arranged for his niece to sit in one of his lawn chairs and himself to sit on a small step stool behind their respective TV trays. Max was a big man and his knees were nearly to his chin while Tiffany’s feet dangled at least a foot from the ground. But she was sitting very primly, drinking from a miniature teacup, and, from the way it looked, urging Max to do the same. Zelda had to smile at the sight of Max’s large fingers delicately grasping the tiny handle of his cup. It was all so sweet. And even from a distance Zelda could tell Tiffany was taken with her uncle. Not that Zelda could blame her. She was pretty taken with Tiffany’s uncle, too. Even though she didn’t want to be. Yes, he seemed like the perfect guy. He was kind and intelligent, he was funny and even-tempered. He was incredible-looking and so sexy he made steam rise off her skin. But despite the fact that he obviously liked kids, he still wasn’t crazy about Charlie. And to Zelda, Charlie was like her child. So she was torn. It would have been easier if he wasn’t as terrific as he was. If he was just some plain, ordinary, boring guy. Some plain, ordinary, boring guy who didn’t turn her on. But he was definitely not plain or ordinary or boring. And boy, did he turn her on! That simple kiss they’d shared the previous night had left her every sense awake and alive. She hadn’t been able to sleep until the wee hours of the morning because that kiss had replayed itself in her mind a million times. The feel of his mouth against hers. His lips slightly parted. The taste of him. His hand cupping her head. The hardness of his pectorals where she’d pressed her palm to his chest...
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Zelda lost herself all over again in just the thought of it. She wished that wasn’t the case. She wished what was happening to her, what was happening between her and Max, wasn’t happening. He was stirring things inside her that she didn’t want stirred by someone who didn’t love her dog as much as she did. “So put on the brakes,” she advised herself aloud. But as she watched him mimic his niece by dabbing at the corners of his supple mouth, Zelda just couldn’t help the swell of emotions inside her. Or the driving need to be with him again as soon as possible. Chapter Twelve As planned, Zelda, Max and Max’s four-year-old niece, Tiffany, took Charlie to the park Sunday afternoon. Tiffany was an adorable little girl with coal-black hair and bright green eyes who clearly adored her uncle. She was enamoured of Charlie, too, and walked ahead of the grown-ups to be beside the Jack Russell terrier as they all headed for the small park not far from home. “Did you enjoy your tea party earlier?” Zelda asked Max, who was holding tight to Charlie’s leash. Max smiled and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Saw that, did you?” “When I went into the kitchen to make my lunch. How come you got stuck sitting on the step stool with your knees up around your ears?” “Because Tiff was the princess, so of course she had to sit on the throne. I was just her slave, Dagworth.” Zelda laughed. “Dagworth? So if I call you that will you be my slave, too?” “Maybe,” he said with a wicked undertone. “But I might want more than a tea party from you.” “Guess you better just be the dog-sitter then,” she countered. But the innuendo was enough to send goose bumps up her arms. When they reached the park Zelda taught Max how to get Charlie to obey simple commands. Then she took Tiffany to the jungle gym and left Max to throw the ball so Charlie could fetch it. Charlie loved the game and it went a long way in making him like anyone who played it with him. As Zelda watched the two, she came to the conclusion that Max was good enough with Charlie to put to rest her qualms about leaving Charlie with him. She felt confident that Max would treat her dog well for the short time she was gone. He just wasn’t likely to get down on the floor to cuddle with him or play tug-of-war. And while Zelda told herself that was okay for a single night, it didn’t seem to bode well for anything beyond that overnight dogsitting. And that gave her some sharp pangs she tried to ignore. After Max had thrown the ball for Charlie for a long while Tiffany got to take over that duty for a few tosses before Max suggested they walk a little farther down the street to a small shop that sold gelato. Tiffany jumped at the idea but was incorrigible when it came to slipping Charlie bites of the wafer cookie that came with her bowl of ice cream. Still, it was a nice afternoon and by the time it was over Zelda was even more impressed with Max’s skills with kids.
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“You’ll make a good dad someday,” she told him as he handed Charlie’s leash to her and gave Tiffany a piggyback ride home. “Are you suggesting something? Because I have the night free,” he joked. But Zelda ignored that second innuendo and instead said, “Good, because I’ll need to run you through Charlie’s routine and show you all his stuff so I can just hand him over to you in the morning.” “Do I get dinner, too?” he said as if she’d propositioned him. “Burgers and fries?” He pretended rapture. “You do know the way to my heart. I can never say no after something like that.” Zelda laughed. “Maybe I was wrong and you are a bad man.” “Nuh-uh,” Tiffany said to voice her disagreement. Max leaned over to whisper in Zelda’s ear, “But I can sometimes be persuaded to be bad.” Then he straightened up and said, “I’ll be over as soon as Tiff gets picked up.” Chapter Thirteen For Sunday evening’s dinner with Max, Zelda opted for spaghetti, meatballs, salad, and bread rather than the burgers and fries she’d told him they were going to have. As she set the table it occurred to her that they’d eaten dinner together every night since they’d met. She didn’t regret it. In fact, what she thought she was likely to regret was not having dinner with him every night when she returned from Kansas and they went back to their respective schedules and routines. But she still had tonight, she reminded herself, deciding not to ruin it by thinking about the future. “You brought wine to have with burgers and fries?” Zelda commented when Max arrived at seven and presented her with the bottle. “I thought we’d both earned it after a day of kids and dogs. Besides, now that I’m here, it isn’t fast-food burgers and fries I’m smelling. It’s something Italian.” She confessed that she’d cooked, and they decided to run through the last of her instructions for Charlie’s care before they really put the dogs and kids part of the day behind them. But once Zelda had completed all the feeding and sleeping information, they sat at her dining room table - lit by two long white candles - and concentrated on each other. “So tell me why there’s no Mr. Zelda McAffry,” Max encouraged. “There almost was. About a year ago. I was engaged to a stockbroker.” “But you didn’t go through with it?” “No.” “Why not?”
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“Because of Charlie,” she answered. “You broke off your engagement because of your dog?” Max said in a neutral tone that didn’t fool Zelda for a minute. “Because of Charlie and what Terry did to him and what that said about Terry.” “Explain?” Zelda took a deep breath. “When we got engaged Terry moved into my house. He hadn’t shown much affection for Charlie but he’d seemed to tolerate him and so I didn’t think it was a problem. But after about a month of living together Terry’s true colors started to show - primarily with Charlie. He was impatient. He lost his temper easily and would scream at Charlie until Charlie cowered behind a chair. He’d throw things at him. He’d leave Charlie outside no matter what the weather - things like that. I was hoping Terry would get used to Charlie and mellow out but instead he only got worse. Then one day I caught him literally kicking Charlie out the door. He broke one of Charlie’s ribs.” “What a jerk!” Zelda appreciated the very real outrage in Max’s voice. “Physically Charlie was okay but by then he was so fearful of men that his whole personality had changed -“ “Which is why he needed resocializing.” “Exactly. And as for Terry, well, he was history with me.” They’d finished eating by then and Max insisted on helping with the cleanup. Zelda would rather have stayed at the table, looking at his handsome face but she was going to have to get up at four a.m. to make her flight the next day so she knew she shouldn’t drag out the evening. Still, as she began to wash the dishes and hand them to Max to dry, she was intent on doing a little inquiring of her own, so she said, “What about you? Why isn’t there a Mrs. Max Greer?” Chapter Fourteen “Why isn’t there a Mrs. Max Greer?” Max repeated the question Zelda had just asked him as they washed and dried the dishes after sharing Sunday dinner and a bottle of wine. “I considered marriage once. About two years ago. But instead I decided to try the whole living together thing first.” “And it didn’t work out?” Zelda probed. “I think if it had only been the two of us, it might have.” “Did she have kids?” “Animals.” “Bad kids?” Max laughed. “No, I mean she really had animals. Four dogs, three cats, two rabbits, a ferret, a box turtle, and a snake.” “She had a lot of animals.”
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“A lot.” “And you didn’t like them?” Zelda assumed. “It’s not as if I hate animals. I even went out of my way to accommodate them - that’s where the doggy door you got stuck in came from. But it just got to be too much. All the hair and dander and mess. The smells. Having animals in bed with us. On the furniture. Fighting with each other. Getting out of the yard. Getting sick. Biting me. Prue was never interested in letting me get used to her pets slowly - it was all or nothing. Finally I had my fill. I said it’s the animals or me - choose.” “And she chose the animals.” “She chose the animals,” he confirmed. “And you swore off pets for good,” Zelda added. Max didn’t answer that readily but she thought that pause was pretty telling in itself. Finally he repeated, “I really had my fill of critters.” He would probably never know how sorry Zelda was to hear that. But he softened the blow somewhat by saying, “But one thing I can swear to - no matter how bad it got, I never kicked or hurt a single one of them. So you don’t have to worry.” After Zelda had explained to Max that her former fiancé’s kicking Charlie had ended their relationship, she appreciated that reassurance. Although since she hadn’t seen any signs that Max had the temper Terry had had she wasn’t concerned that he would harm Charlie. “I trust you,” she told him. The dishes were all done by then and as Max set the dish towel on the countertop he said, “I should take off so you can pack.” “I don’t need much for just overnight,” she said by way of hinting that she didn’t want him to go. But Max headed for the back door anyway and Zelda had no choice but to follow him. Once he reached the door, though, he turned to face her. “Thanks for dinner,” he said, taking her hand to squeeze for emphasis. “Sure,” she said, distracted by his touch and the rush of warmth that ran through her. “I’m going to miss you,” he said then in a husky voice. “Seems strange since we’ve only known each other a few days, but it just hit me.” He was looking so intently into her eyes that she was melting rapidly beneath his gaze and the touch of his hand, and she didn’t even answer him. She just tipped her chin up to him as he leaned in to kiss her. But unlike the night before, there was no hesitancy even from the start. This kiss started out full of passion as Max wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. His mouth opened over hers and his tongue came to tease her tongue.
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But then the kiss was over, and she was light-headed and weak-kneed, and had to fight not to beg him for what her body was craving. As if lingering might make it impossible for him to leave at all, Max said a raspy, “See you in the morning,” and left. And Zelda deflated against the door he closed after himself, wondering how she was going to survive even two days without him.… Chapter Fifteen “There you go, Charlie, dinner is served,” Max informed the terrier Monday night when he set the dog dish on his kitchen floor and then took his own cartons of take-out Chinese food to the table. Charlie was lying with his head between his two front paws. He moved only his eyes to look from Max to the dog dish and back again, staring at Max rather than showing any interest in his evening meal. Max interpreted. “That’s right, it’s just you and me tonight. Zelda is back in Kansas and we’re on our own.” Charlie merely went on looking at Max with sad eyes. “Yeah, I know, things aren’t the same without her, are they? It makes sense that that’s the way it is for you. But what about me? Why should everything seem so drab and colorless and boring just because she’s not here? Last week at this time it didn’t matter that I didn’t know her and now here I am, feeling all down in the mouth just because she’s gone.” Charlie continued to ignore his food and Max realized he wasn’t enjoying his, either. He pushed the cartons away. “Wish I knew what the hell was going on with me,” he confided to the dog. “Three lousy days - that’s how long I’ve known her and here I am, pining for her as much as you are.” Except that the three days he’d known Zelda had been anything but lousy. They’d been great. So great that he couldn’t remember when he’d felt as good. So great that he’d spent every minute that they’d been apart looking forward to seeing her again. So great that now that he knew he wasn’t going to see her, even getting out of bed didn’t seem worth the bother. “She’s something, your mom is,” he informed Charlie. “She’s bright and beautiful and she makes everything a little better just by being around. In case you hadn’t noticed.” Charlie finally got up but he didn’t go to his dish. Instead he came to stand beside Max as if he’d understood what Max had been talking about and since he felt the same way, they’d forged a kind of bond. Max reached down to pet the terrier, laughing wryly as he did. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Moping around like two lovesick puppies.” Lovesick? Was that what he’d just said? He couldn’t be lovesick after only three days. Was he out of his mind? Maybe. What other explanation could there be for sitting at his kitchen table feeling low because Zelda wasn’t with him? Or for dog-sitting - of all things - for her? He actually had another animal in his house, at his feet, and he was petting it - that was so unbelievable it had to qualify as insanity. Especially when he’d sworn off pets and people with pets and ever having another pet in his house. “I could be in some trouble here, Charlie,” he said then. As if to reciprocate the comfort Max had given him, Charlie jumped into Max’s lap and licked his face.
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And it actually made Max smile and feel a little better. “Oh yeah, I’m in trouble.…“ Chapter Sixteen “Okay, I’m all checked in and they’ll be boarding in about twenty minutes,” Zelda told her sister Kate on Tuesday afternoon. Kate had taken her to the airport and was waiting with her at the gate. “You must really like Denver,” Kate said then. “You’re so anxious to get back.” “I’m just worried about Charlie. This is the first time I’ve left him since the whole Terry deal.” “Uh-huh,” Kate said as if she weren’t buying that for a minute. “And I suppose it doesn’t have anything to do with that guy you haven’t stopped talking about since you got here?” “I haven’t talked about Max that much.” Kate laughed. “Enough so that you know who I’m referring to even without my telling you.” “Oh, you’re full of it,” Zelda claimed as if her sister were talking nonsense. “No, you’re full of this guy.” “He’s just my neighbor. And if he’s been on my mind it’s only because he’s taking care of Charlie and I’m worried about it.” “Hasn’t sounded like worry.” “Well, that’s what it is. He’s just a nice man who agreed to help me out of a bind even though he doesn’t like dogs. Or pets of any kind.” “Like Terry.” “He’s not as bad as Terry was. Max isn’t mean to Charlie -” “He’d just prefer it if there wasn’t a Charlie.” “Yes,” Zelda conceded, hating that it was true and just how much of an obstacle that was for her. “And if there wasn’t a Charlie? Would you admit that you really - really - like this guy?” “I’m not denying that I like him.” “But Charlie is a great big wrench thrown into the works,” Kate persisted. “So does that mean there’s no future for you and the neighbor?” It surprised Zelda to find how sharply her sister’s conclusion jabbed at her. Certainly it was something she’d thought herself since meeting Max, but hearing it out loud, said by someone else, made her want to refute it. She fought the urge but wasn’t completely successful and ended up saying, “I don’t know.”
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“You don’t know if you would submit Charlie to another guy who doesn’t like him?” “No, I know I won’t do that.” “Then you don’t know what? If this guy doesn’t like dogs and you won’t have a non dog-person around Charlie long-term, then there’s no future with the neighbor, is there?” “Maybe Max will learn to like Charlie,” Zelda said hopefully. “You thought that about Terry,” Kate reminded. “What do you want me to say?” Zelda asked her sister more snappishly than she’d meant to. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m just trying to find out what’s going on with you and what the possibilities are.” “Nothing is going on with me,” Zelda said, cooling her tone. “I’ve only known Max for a few days. Yes, he’s incredible-looking. Yes, he has a body to die for. Yes, he’s funny and fun to be with and smart and accomplished and he kisses so well that my toes curl. Yes, I like everything about him except that he’s not crazy about animals and doesn’t want them around. And as long as that’s true, we’re at opposite ends of the spectrum and that’s that.” And if she couldn’t help wishing things might be different? Then maybe she just had to remember that wishing didn’t make it so. Although some wishes did come true, didn’t they? Chapter Seventeen At six o’clock Tuesday evening Zelda drove straight from Denver International Airport to Max’s house rather than to her own. She told herself it was the quickest and easiest way to pick up Charlie. And that was true. It was just that she was also trying to pretend that seeing Max wasn’t a factor. But deep down she was every bit as excited to see her neighbor as she was to see her dog. So her first thought when she parked at Max’s curb and he rushed out his front door was that he was as eager to see her. Except she didn’t understand why that handsome face of his was so tense. “He’s gone,” Max announced before Zelda had managed a hello. “Who’s gone?” she asked dimly. “Charlie. I got home from the office a few minutes ago, let him out the back, and went in to change clothes. Charlie started barking his head off and I looked out the window to see why. He was chasing a squirrel and he went right over the front of the fence after it.” It took a moment for that information to sink in. “And you didn’t go after him?” Zelda demanded, looking up and down the street for signs of Charlie but finding nothing. “That’s what I was coming out to do right now.” “Instead of the minute he went over the fence?”
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“I had to put on pants, Zelda.” Zelda fought the instant image of Max without pants. “Did you see which way he went?” she said as panic began to rise within her. Max pointed to the west. “If you want to go home, I’ll look for him.” “I already trusted you with him and you’ve lost him. You go home and I’ll find him myself.” “I didn’t do this on purpose, Zelda,” Max said, shocked by her reaction. But Zelda’s fears were multiplying by the minute and she didn’t have much control over what was going through her mind or coming out her mouth. “I know you don’t like him. Are you sure you didn’t see him go over the fence and take your time going after him so he’d be long gone?” “You don’t believe that,” Max said, his own tone heating up. “I believe I left my dog with you and now he’s gone.” “And do you not believe that he’s getting farther away every minute you waste accusing me of something ridiculous?” “Oh, now I’m ridiculous,” Zelda shouted. But he was right that she was wasting precious seconds so, without saying more to Max, she headed up the street, calling Charlie’s name, watching for him, making the clicking sound that Charlie always mistook for a squirrel’s chattering and usually brought him running. But by the time she’d reached the cross street - with Max a silent partner right beside her - she still hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of Charlie, and her panic level was rapidly increasing. And then another horrible thought popped into her head and before she’d thought better of it, it also rolled out off her tongue. “Are you sure you didn’t take Charlie to the dog pound yesterday after I left for the airport?” Chapter Eighteen “Did you really just ask me if I took Charlie to the pound yesterday when you left for the airport?” Max repeated the question Zelda had blurted out. She’d arrived home to find Max rushing from his house, claiming that Charlie had just jumped the fence chasing a squirrel. But they couldn’t find him and unreasonable fear had taken over in Zelda, putting all kinds of bad thoughts in her mind. “You think I got rid of your dog and then just waited for you to come home to pretend he ran away?” Max continued in disbelief. “I don’t know what to think.” “Well, I don’t know how the hell you could think that. In the first place it isn’t something I’d ever - ever - do. And in the second place, the damn dog actually grew on me. I even let him sleep in my bed last night and I came home for lunch today to play with him so he wouldn’t be lonely.”
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A part of Zelda believed him. But another part of her was so scared, so worried, she just couldn’t think straight. All she knew was that the dog she loved like a child was lost and Max was responsible for it. That she’d left her pet with a man who had told her from the get-go that he didn’t like dogs and maybe she’d been so enamored of his good looks and personality and sex appeal that she’d discounted his feelings for Charlie when she shouldn’t have. But rather than making things worse by saying something else she might regret, she didn’t answer Max. She just went on searching for Charlie, calling his name, desperate just to find her dog. And then she did. She spotted Charlie between two houses, nosing at the fence. “Charlie! Come!” she commanded. Charlie’s ears perked up and he paused to see who was calling him before his tail wagged wildly and he ran toward them. Right to Max. Max picked him up as if Charlie were his dog. “Hello, trouble,” he said affectionately, yet still sounding frustrated and relieved, too. Then he handed Charlie to Zelda and said, “Well, would you look at that? He wasn’t at the pound after all. He must have just jumped the fence a few minutes ago the way I said he did.” “Okay, maybe I was a little out of line. But -” “A little out of line? You had me arrested, tried, and convicted of unlawful dog disposal, and you were ready to string me up yourself.” “I knew you didn’t like him” was all Zelda could think of to say to defend herself. “Then why did you leave him with me?” Max said, obviously the angrier of the two of them by then. But apparently he was too angry to even allow her to answer because before she could, he said, “Look, I’ve already had experience with someone who put animals before people. I don’t need a repeat of it.” Then he turned and walked back the way they’d come. And Zelda was left with nothing but her dog, helplessly watching Max go and taking with him any hope for more of what they’d begun over the weekend. Chapter Nineteen For a time Zelda just stood on the street, watching Max walk away. She’d only returned from her trip a short time before to find Max rushing outside to search for Charlie, who had jumped the fence. But in her panic over the thought of her dog being lost, she’d said some harsh things to Max. He’d gotten angry. Very angry. And even though Zelda knew she’d played a part in it all, she was slightly taken aback herself to see Max’s temper. A temper that had thrown her into memories of her former fiancé’s outbursts. So she didn’t go after Max. In fact, she stayed where she was - far up Max’s block - holding tight to Charlie until Max was nearly to his house. Only then did she head for her car where it was parked at his curb.
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“I don’t want someone who yells at me any more than I want someone who yells at you,” Zelda informed Charlie along the way. Of course she’d been the one to start the shouting, a contrary little voice in her head reminded her as she reached her car and put Charlie inside. But still she didn’t go up to Max’s house. She got behind the wheel and drove around the block to her own place. Only, once she was home again and Charlie was safely carrying around his toy beaver as he always did when he first came in, Zelda began to cool off. She began to calm down. She began to have regrets. It was pretty crummy of her to have gotten so furious with Max, she thought. After all, she knew for a fact that Charlie could go over the fence in the blink of an eye. He’d done it on her watch, too. That was how she and Max had met. And apparently Max had been good to Charlie while she was gone since Charlie had run to Max instead of to her when they’d finally found him. Obviously Charlie was not only no longer afraid of him, Charlie liked him. Plus now Max liked Charlie, too. He’d told her so. But what had she done almost the moment she’d arrived on the scene? She’d accused Max of not going after Charlie fast enough when he’d seen the terrier jump the fence. And worse, she’d even suggested that Max might have taken Charlie to the pound to get rid of him and was only pretending that Charlie had run away. Zelda cringed when she recalled that now. Max had done her a huge favor by dog-sitting for her. He’d spent most of his weekend complying with her request to let Charlie get familiar and comfortable with him. But had she thanked him for all his trouble? No, she’d attacked him. So she had to admit that maybe Max had had cause to lose his temper with her. Maybe it wasn’t a show of the kind of short fuse her former fiancé had exhibited too often. “Do you think I really blew it?” she asked Charlie. But even though Charlie was busy with the beaver and ignored her, Zelda still realized that she really had been unfair to Max and that she couldn’t just let it go at that. Even if it wasn’t going to be easy to face him again. Chapter Twenty Zelda hoped no one was watching as she lifted Charlie over the fence that divided her property from Max’s and then set about climbing over it herself. It wasn’t the most graceful thing she’d ever attempted. She put her foot into the chain link about halfway up and hoisted herself to a sitting position on the top rail. She had every intention of swinging her legs onto Max’s side and hopping down. There was only one glitch. She didn’t lift her second leg high enough and her cuff got caught. “Oh, great,” she muttered, trying to retain her balance and free herself at the same time. As she did, Charlie made a beeline for Max’s house and, rather than wiggling through the doggy door as he had before, he sat there and barked until Max appeared. “Thanks a lot,” Zelda said under her breath as a still angry-looking Max came outside.
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“Stuck again?” he asked. “I’m afraid so,” she admitted reluctantly. Max had reached her by then. He did a quick survey and pulled her pant leg free so Zelda could finally drop down on his side of the fence. “I would have brought Charlie’s things over,” he said then, clearly assuming that had been the purpose of her attempted visit. “That’s not why I’m here.” “No?” She would have liked a better segue but since it was too late for that, she plunged in. “I’m here because after I thought about it I realized that you have every reason to be mad at me. I totally freaked out and I was wrong to say what I said to you. I can tell you were good to Charlie by the way he’s acting with you now and I had no business accusing you of not taking care of him or taking him to the pound. I’m sorry.” For a long moment Max didn’t respond and Zelda worried that she really had ruined things with him. She was afraid he was going to say her apology was too little, too late, and that she should just stay on her own side of the fence and leave him alone. And really, she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. But then he said, “I overreacted, too. I was upset myself that I’d lost Charlie. I don’t really think you’re like my animal-crazed ex.” “So we’re okay?” Zelda hazarded. Max finally cracked a smile. “No, we’re better than okay.” He took her hand and pulled her into his arms, kissing her there and then to prove it. A deep, passionate kiss that was almost too intimate for the outdoors. And when the kiss ended he remained holding her, smiling down at her. “But I think we’d better consider putting up a higher fence around the perimeters of both yards to keep that mutt inside. And maybe we could just get rid of this stretch in the middle. I don’t think I want anything coming between us from here on.” It was music to Zelda’s ears. “Charlie will be in and out your doggy door,” she warned. “And what about Charlie’s mom?” “I’d rather not use the doggy door, if it’s just the same to you. I’m kind of tired of getting stuck and needing you to rescue me.” Max laughed. “I’m happy to do it. But that isn’t what I meant. I meant what does Charlie’s mom think about tearing down fences so nothing comes between us?” “Charlie’s mom likes that idea. A lot.” “Good. Because I don’t know about you, but I think thanks to Charlie we have something worth hanging on to here.” It was Zelda’s turn to smile. So big it almost hurt. “Me, too.”
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Max kissed her again, a kiss full of promise of things yet to come. But in the middle of it Charlie barked at them, wanting some attention. They ended the kiss and both glanced down at the terrier, but it was Zelda who said with a grin, “Sorry, Charlie, you had your turn - now he’s mine.”
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The Wrong Side of the Law by Mallory Kane When Shannon St. John wakes up beside the dead body of her boss, clutching the bloody knife that killed him, she has no memory of what happened. But in all of Texas, there's only one man she can trust to keep her alive long enough to find out who's trying to frame her for murder. Deputy Sheriff Luis Enriqué Spinoza answers a desperate late night phone call from his college sweetheart and suddenly finds himself on the wrong side of the law….
Chapter One Deputy Sheriff Luis Enriqué Spinoza groped for his phone in the dark. His fingers finally closed around it and he managed to punch the On button. "Yeah?" "Riqué?" The rasping voice in his ear made him squint at the number on the phone's Caller ID. His sleepy brain struggled to separate dream from reality. The phone confirmed it. This was no dream. It really was Shannon. Nobody but her and his sister had ever called him Riqué without consequence. "Azulita?" It slipped out. The nickname he'd given her when they were in love. "Little blue" because of her eyes. He cleared his throat and plowed his fingers through his hair, working on waking up. "Shannon?" "Riqué, you've got to help me. I can't—" He kicked the sheets away from his bare legs and planted his feet on the floor. "Shannon? What is it?" Her voice sounded strange—terrified. Another glance at his phone told him it was 4:30 in the morning. "Where are you?" She sobbed quietly. "Please, Riqué. Please get here. I don't know what to do." Her voice was shrill. She was quickly escalating toward hysteria. "Shannon!" he snapped. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew for damn sure she was about to lose control. "Shannon, listen to me. Take a deep breath." He propped the phone precariously between his shoulder and ear as he pulled on his jeans. Just as he got them up over his butt he dropped the phone. He grabbed it in time to hear her shaky sigh. "Okay now," he said soothingly. "Tell me what's wrong." He tried zipping up his jeans with one hand, but he couldn't move the zipper more than a couple of inches. "Riqué, I swear I didn't do it. Please hurry." A chill slid like an ice cube down his spine. "Didn't do what?" He heard another sob and then a silence that went on a beat too long. This was bad. "I didn't kill him."
***
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It took Luis exactly forty-three minutes to get to Garland, Texas, from his rental house in Justice. He'd spent about twenty of those minutes on his cell with Shannon, forcing her to concentrate on mundane things like telling him the directions to her house, and trying to understand why she refused to call the police. He tried not to think about how much trouble he was going to be in by the time the sun came up. He'd walked out on Sheriff Matheson in the middle of a murder investigation. And he'd done it by leaving a voice mail message, rather than talking with her in person. She and Texas Ranger Sloan McKinney were well on their way to solving the murder of Sarah Wallace. He told himself they wouldn't need him, knowing that was just a lame excuse, knowing that anybody who put personal issues above the job should look for a new career. And for him, Shannon St. John definitely qualified as a personal issue. What would Zane McKinney think if he saw him now? The Ranger Lieutenant had written him a commendation based on his performance in the initial phase of the Sarah Wallace murder investigation. As he whipped into the entrance of Shannon's apartment complex, he couldn't miss the touches that screamed money. The twin fountains at the front gate. The impeccable landscaping. She'd come a long way from the modest house next door to his folks where she and her brother Dave had grown up. Luis had always thought he'd done very well for himself. The son of an illegal immigrant had become deputy sheriff in Justice, Texas, a town that put a lot of value on ancestry and family. But judging by where she lived, Shannon gave a new definition to the words "done well." He shook his head and uttered a sharp little laugh as he pulled his Mustang Cobra into the turnaround in front of her apartment building. Her parents had known what they were doing when they'd talked her out of marrying him. The last time he'd seen her was two years ago, at a benefit concert to raise money for women's shelters in Garland. She'd been dressed to the nines and on the arm of an arrogant prick who hadn't even bothered to shake Luis's hand. Enough with the trip down memory lane. He studied the layout of the apartments. How should he approach the crime scene? The building had three floors. Each floor had a breezeway that divided four apartments, two on each side. Judging by the layout and Shannon's apartment number, hers was at the rear, on the ground floor. He didn't want to be seen entering her apartment, and for all he knew she had someone with her. So he turned around and left. A few minutes later he'd parked his car in a wooded area behind the complex and had approached Shannon's apartment from the back. He checked his weapon and secured it in his paddle holster, then he slipped along the outer wall of her apartment to a small window, presumably the bathroom. It was unlocked. He raised the window silently. Then he grabbed the inside top frame and slipped through feet first. As soon as his boots landed on the floor he froze, listening. Nada. Good. A deep breath filled his head with the scent of gardenias. Shannon's favorite scent. A kaleidoscope of memories fluttered through his brain like butterflies. Some good—some not. The bathroom was dark and so was the hall. Dim light filtered out from the kitchen. He drew his weapon and slid along the wall, alert for anything that looked or sounded unusual.
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As he approached the kitchen, he stayed in the shadows as much as he could. If Shannon had been forced to call him, to lure him here, he wanted to be ready. Even after twelve years, there might still be a few guys in Garland who'd just as soon shoot him as wave at him. He'd held his own against the gang element in his old neighborhood back then, which labeled him as a "coconut"—a slur that meant Mexican (brown) on the outside and white on the inside. And the timing was right. His name had been mentioned in the press as one of the deputy sheriffs involved in the Sarah Wallace murder investigation in Justice. A sudden noise and his reflexes flattened him against the wall. Cautiously, he sidled a little closer. Someone was in the kitchen. Was it Shannon, and was she alone? He drew his weapon.
*** Shannon stood in the kitchen, waiting for Riqué, forcing herself to stay still. She wanted more than anything to run—to just keep running and never look back. She looked down at her hands. The stains were black in the dim glow of the light over the stove. She held them out in front of her and shivered. So much blood. The panic crawled up her throat again. She swallowed and lowered her hands to her sides. She didn't want to look at her discolored hands or blouse. So she stared out the kitchen window and prayed that Riqué would hurry. She heard a soft rustling behind her. She stiffened, but before she could react, strong hands grabbed her and pinned her against a rock-hard body. Her panicked brain could only think of one thing. The dead man in her bed had come to life.
Chapter Two Shannon tried to scream, tried to throw herself to one side, away from the man's punishing grip, but a leather glove clamped over her mouth. Terror overtook her brain. She fought for her life—kicking, wriggling, until her attacker jerked her up and sandwiched her between his granite-hard body and the refrigerator door. "Shannon," a familiar voice growled. "Stop it. It's me." Riqué. All the adrenaline that had surged through her veins drained out of her. Riqué was here. Everything would be all right now. She collapsed against him, trusting him to hold her. His arms tightened and she smelled the familiar, comforting scent of leather. His old leather jacket, the one he'd always worn back in college. She hadn't cried yet, but the feel of him, the knowledge that he'd come to her without question, brought stinging tears to her eyes. "Oh, Riqué," she whispered.
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Then he pushed her away. She had to catch herself to keep from falling. His face was set, his black eyes narrowed as he looked her over. In his right hand was a big, menacing gun. This wasn't the Riqué she remembered. This man was big, authoritative, all business. He filled up the room. "Riqué—?" He lifted a hand. "Shh." "How did you get in?" "Through the bathroom window." "Through— Why?" "I didn't want anybody to see me," he said. His tone was irritated. "Where is it?" She felt like she was in a fog. Where was it? Then she realized he meant the dead body. "In the—in the bedroom." His narrow gaze grew darker. He glanced around. "You have a room without windows?" She gestured behind her. "The living room curtains are drawn." He grabbed her elbow and led her out of the kitchen. "Where are the lights?" he growled. She turned on a lamp, then met his gaze. "My God, Shannon!" He stared at her, his eyes wide, his dark slashes of brows raised. His gaze swept over her, from the top of her head down her bloodstained blouse. He grabbed her wrists and turned her hands over. "Are you hurt?" Her head felt like a balloon, her vision went black around the edges. "It's not my blood," she muttered as the room began to tilt. She grasped at his forearms. Luis sat her down in a chair. "Stay there." "Riqué, I didn't—" "Stop talking." He shot her a narrow glance, and then turned on his heel. Shannon clasped her hands together in her lap, idly noticing that streaks of blood were rubbing off on her new silk skirt. It didn't matter. The blood was everywhere else. Why should her skirt be spared? She looked up as Riqué's broad back disappeared through the door into the short hallway. She stood, clinging to the back of the chair until her vision cleared, and then followed him. She steeled herself against his reaction. She knew what he was about to see. She'd already seen it. Seen it, hah! She'd woken up next to it, with the knife—her knife—clutched in her hands. Riqué would believe her. He had to. Because if he didn't, she would go to prison for murder. The sight that greeted Luis when he stepped through the door to Shannon's bedroom nearly caused him to gag.
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The man sprawled on the bed was dressed in a custom-fitted tuxedo with the bowtie askew and the shirt partially unbuttoned. And he was dead. His eyes stared sightlessly upward. His mouth was open in a silent scream. A second bloody mouth yawed under the first where his throat had been slit from ear to ear. Blood was everywhere, its metallic scent filling the air. "¡Madre de Dios!" he whispered, absently crossing himself. "Oh Azulita, what did you do?" A small moan behind him told him she'd heard him. He immediately drew upon his law enforcement training. No emotion. Just the facts. He held up a hand without looking at her. He didn't want her anywhere close until he'd examined the scene. "Go back into the living room and wait for me." She didn't move. He dragged his gaze away from the man's distorted face and rounded on her. "Why didn't you call the police?" He heard the unchecked anger in his voice and saw her recoil, but he couldn't afford to care about hurting her feelings right now. Right now she had a dead man in her bed, and to his everlasting regret, she'd involved him. Even after all these years, he still hadn't grown the cojones to stop running each time she called? "Well?" he prodded. "I couldn't. Look at me. Look at him. Who would believe that I didn't kill him?" She was right. She was covered with his blood. Her blouse was unbuttoned almost to the waist, and her breasts were spilling out of the little bra she had on. Her curly hair was wild. "Right now I can't think of a soul," he said. "But that doesn't answer my question. Whether you killed him or not isn't the issue. The issue is how you're going to explain waiting—" he glanced at his watch "—over an hour before calling the police." "Riqué, you don't understand—" "You bet your life I don't." "Look." She started toward the bed but he grabbed her arm. "Don't go near that bed. You've already contaminated the crime scene. I don't want more of your prints all over it." Her blue eyes glinted and she jerked her arm out of his grip. "This is important, Riqué." He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Fine. Be my guest. Frankly, I'm not sure how much more damage you can do." He watched with a mixture of anger and curiosity as she picked up the corner of a blood-smeared sheet and flung it back. Then she turned and looked at him, her face pale, her mouth tight. Lying on the sheet next to the dead man was a blood-covered knife. Crap! How much worse could this get? "Is it yours?" She nodded. Luis's heart felt like it hit the floor. His last hope that this could somehow be explained faded. He had no doubt that he was looking at the knife that had killed—
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"Shannon, who is he?" She hadn't taken her eyes off him. Even when he gestured toward the dead man, she didn't look back at her bed. "You've met him. He was with me at that benefit concert, remember?" Anger ratcheted up inside him. "I didn't get his name," he said shortly. "It's Brendan Lockhart." "Lockhart? Not campaign-manager-for-Senator-Mosby Lockhart?" She nodded miserably. He cursed. "What was he doing here?" "Riqué, I swear—" "Save it Shannon. Just answer the question. And do me a favor. Don't call me Riqué. I'm Deputy Sheriff Luis Spinoza—at least until Sheriff Matheson gets my voice mail message and fires me. Riqué doesn't exist—not anymore. I grew up." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I don't know how he got here." He studied her. He'd always been able to tell when she was lying. Like when she'd told him that it was her parents who didn't think they should get married. It was in her eyes. Her azul eyes.
Chapter Three Shannon clasped her hands together and held Riqué's gaze. Okay, so she wasn't lying about this. "What happened?" "I just…he just…" "Come on, Azulita. I watch you on the news. You have no trouble talking when it's propaganda about your candidate. Pretend I'm the news." She glared at him, but her lower lip trembled. She took a deep breath. "I went to a campaign dinner this evening—last night. I didn't want to go, but as Brendan's assistant and a paid staffer for Senator Mosby's campaign, I had no choice." She caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. It was all Luis could do to stop himself from pulling her close and promising her everything would be all right. But he knew as well as she did that nothing about this was going to be all right for a long time, maybe never. He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the dresser. She swallowed, then continued. "I had a couple of drinks during Mosby's speech. Maybe three, counting the champagne. But they hit me hard. The bartender must have been mixing them really strong. I got drowsy and queasy. The last thing I remember I was walking down the hall toward the ladies' room. I felt like I was going to throw up." "You woke up in your bed?"
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"In Brendan's car." "Brendan. So Brendan drove you home?" She nodded. "I guess. I don't remember much." "You two were dating?" Shannon's face turned pink. "No!" she snapped. "I mean, we'd go to official events together. It looks good for the campaign." "Right," Luis said tightly. He shook his head. What Shannon did or who she dated was none of his business. "So you woke up in your bed, fully clothed, and found Lockhart like this?" "You don't believe me." "Oh, I believe you believe what you're saying. I'd think it would be hard to forget who brought you home and put you to bed, not to mention who slit your boyfriend's throat." "He's not my boyfriend." He felt like time was getting away from him. He looked at his watch. Had he only been here five minutes? "Who did you call before you called me?" "Nobody." "Nobody? You didn't call your brother?" "They're expecting a baby any day now. Anyhow, you were the first person I thought of." The first person she thought of/ Luis wished that was the reason Shannon had called him. But he knew better. It was a lot more likely that she figured that he'd be her best bet to help her out of this predicament. He wished to God she was wrong. "Okay. Let's assume you didn't kill Lockhart--" "Assume? Assume?" Her voice rose nearly an octave. "Come on, Shannon. I'm just trying to understand what happened here. Where is your car? You said Lockhart drove you home?" Her eyes widened. "I think it's outside. I think he was driving my car." Just as she spoke, a loud banging thundered through the apartment. Someone was at the door. Shannon grabbed his arm. "Riqué," she whispered desperately. He looked at her, gauging the terror in her eyes. Then he looked toward the front door. In a split-second he made up his mind. His career was toast the moment he'd answered the phone. He should have insisted she call 911. He should have called them instead of rushing over here like a knight to her rescue. He should have, but he hadn't. "I'll go to prison," she said. "That's my knife. When I woke up I was holding it."
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The banging got louder. "Police! Open the door now!" Luis grabbed Shannon's hand. "Come on." He pushed her ahead of him into the bathroom and locked the door behind them. After a quick glance out the window, he gestured to her. "Grab the window sill," he commanded. "I'll lift you out." "What about you?" "Right behind you." He heard a thud echo through the apartment. The police were breaking down the front door. "Move it!" he growled, putting his hands around her waist and lifting her out the window. As she gained purchase, he shifted his hands and pushed on her bottom, telling himself how dumb he was to notice her firm butt and thighs when they could be stopped by the police at any second. A crash and the sound of wood splintering sent his flight-or-fight response into high gear. He shoved her through the window and propelled himself up and out. He landed on the hard-packed ground and rolled to his feet just inches from her as she huffed and scooted out of the way. "Run!" He grabbed her hand and yanked her up. "That way." He sprinted for the copse of trees where he'd parked his car. Behind them he heard shouts. A glance back revealed flashlight beams cutting through the pre-dawn, scanning the empty lot they'd just sprinted across. The back of his neck prickled, as if he could feel the circles of light. He heard someone shout "went out the window" just as he and Shannon crashed through the trees. Throwing open his car door he dove in, sinking the key into the starter and turning it in one smooth motion. The engine rumbled quietly. Shannon opened the passenger door and dove inside. As he backed out and peeled off, sirens broke through the early morning quiet. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his hands cramped. Shannon fastened her seat belt, then turned to look through the rear window. "Do you think they saw us?" Luis didn't answer. He was too busy checking the rear view mirror as he pulled out onto the highway, driving north. He had no idea where he was going. He just knew he had to get them as far away from Shannon's apartment as possible. There was something weirdly wrong about this whole situation. He glanced over at Shannon, whose face was white as a sheet and whose blood-stained right hand was clenched around the safety bar. "Who the hell called the cops?" "I don't know. I don't know anything." Shannon put her hands to her chilled, clammy cheeks. "I feel like I'm in a nightmare." "Welcome to my world," Luis said wryly. "Maybe someone saw you climb in the bathroom window?" He shook his head. "There would have been an officer waiting for us when we climbed out." He paused to make a turn. "Nope. Somebody called them about Lockhart. Somebody wanted the police to find you there with the body."
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For an instant, his words didn't make any sense. Then finally it sunk in. "Someone's trying to frame me?" "Question is who? Who wanted you and Lockhart out of the way?" "Nobody." "It's got to be someone. You didn't call anyone but me, right?" "Oh my God Riqué. I forced you to run from the police. You'll lose your job won't you?" He shook his head. "You didn't force me." She noticed he didn't answer her question about his job. "Riqué, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you." "Quiet. I need to think." Chastised by his tone, Shannon sat quietly, watching him. Riqué. Luis. No. He could never be Luis to her. He'd been Riqué ever since she could remember. He and Dave had complained about her hanging around them when they were kids. Two years younger than her brother, she'd been afflicted with hero worship for him and Riqué. But Riqué had never noticed her, except as Dave's annoying little sister. Until the day he'd swept in from college and escorted her to her senior prom. He'd saved her life that night and made her the envy of all the senior girls. It wasn't until later that she found out her brother Dave had arranged it. But by then it was too late. She was smitten. A high-pitched wail rang in her ears. Sirens. Riqué's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel and he kept glancing in the rear view mirror. "Are they after us?" He shrugged. "Who knows…?" He yanked the steering wheel to the right, so hard she'd have been in his lap if not for her seat belt. Straightening, he sped through several lights. The last one was red when they passed under it. After another turn, he pulled up to the office of a seedy motel. He jumped out of the car and rounded the front of it without looking at her. In no time he was back, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and dangling a key from his index finger. Shannon didn't say a word as he drove around to the rear of the motel and parked. He got out and unlocked the door to a ground floor room. Then he opened the passenger door for her. "Come on. Quick. I don't want anybody to see the bloodstains on your clothes." He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, leaning down as if whispering to her or kissing her ear while he guided her into the room. He threw the night latch and the deadbolt, and made sure the light-blocking curtains didn't even let in a glow. Then he turned those dark eyes on her. "Time to spill it, Shannon. I need to know everything." She swallowed. "I need to wash up—" "Everything. Now."
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Chapter Four Riqué wanted to know everything, and he deserved to. But Shannon didn't dare tell him everything. He'd be furious. Worse, he'd find out what a pathetic wimp she still was. She glanced around the motel room. The feeble light from the lamp drew eerie shadows on the walls. The corners were dark as pitch, yet at the same time they seemed alive and teeming. There was a smell of stale cigarettes and whisky in the air. She turned and met Riqué's dark gaze. "I don't know where to start…what to say." "Start at the beginning. What's your relationship with Lockhart?" Riqué crossed his arms. He propped a shoulder against the wall. His leather jacket, white T-shirt and faded jeans made him look dangerous and sexy, reminding her of the boy she'd known ten years ago. Only now his face held character and his eyes glinted with a worldly knowledge he hadn't had back then. "I met Brendan when I went to work for Senator Mosby three years ago." She looked at her hands, rubbing at the streaks of Brendan's blood, trying to flake it off. "We went out a couple of times, but…" She shrugged. "Were you sleeping with him?" His voice was harsh, clipped. Did it bother him that she might have slept with Brendan? She shook her head without looking up. "He wanted to. He got very insistent—scary—the last time. I had to tell him to leave. He was pissed. He called me a…you know…a tease." "When did that happen?" She looked up and met his lethal gaze, but she couldn't hold it. His eyes bored into her, burning like a black laser. "Tonight," she whispered. "What?" "Tonight. It happened tonight." "So now you remember?" Riqué straightened and shrugged out of his jacket. He tossed it across the foot of the bed. "Riqué, I'm not lying to you. I just now remembered our argument. I woke up in the passenger seat of my car and he was driving. He helped me inside and tried—" She paused, not daring to look at him as she went on. "He pushed me down on my bed and tried to undress me." Anger, hot and immediate, flashed through him. The SOB had attacked her. If he weren't already dead, Luis could kill him himself. "I was so sleepy, I almost felt like I was drugged. It was so hard to stop him. He just kept pushing my hands away." She clutched at the gaping front of her blouse. Drugged. "God, Azulita, did he hurt you?" She held up her hands in a defensive gesture. "I finally pushed him off me. I think I told him to get his clammy doughy hands off me."
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"Good for you." "The last thing I remember was the front door slamming." So Lockhart slammed out of her apartment, or did someone else force their way in? The idea of her being left there, helpless, maybe even drugged, sent icy fear and hot fury through his veins. "You're telling me you went to sleep and left your front door unlocked?" Shannon's body trembled. In the past couple of minutes her face had drained of color. She continued to rub at her fingers and palms as if the most important thing in her world was getting rid of the last specks of blood that clung to them. "I was just so relieved that he was gone. The door slamming was the last thing I remember." "That's an improvement," Luis drawled, feeling mean. "Earlier the last thing you remembered was heading toward the bathroom at the convention center." "I'm sorry. It's coming back to me in pieces." "Think, Shannon. Did you hear anything that might suggest a third person in the room?" "I heard something—he said something—" She pressed her lips together until they were white at the corners. "Riqué, I think I'm going to—" She jumped up, her hand over her mouth. He stepped out of her way as she made a beeline for the bathroom. He heard her retching and coughing. Once the worst of it was over, he peeked in. She was on her knees in front of the toilet, her head bent, her forehead resting against the rim. He grabbed a washcloth and wet it in the sink. "Hey," he said softly. "Azulita, let me help you up. You shouldn't be down there." She coughed as she took the cloth. She pressed it against her face as he caught her under the arms and lifted her. His fingers pressed against the firm softness of the sides of her breasts. His whole body tightened and an unexpected heat in his groin told him that in about five seconds he was going to have a hard-on. He clenched his teeth and reminded himself that she'd just puked. Unfortunately, his body didn't care. "You okay?" He heard the tight control in his voice. She nodded. "Give me a minute," she rasped. He got out of the bathroom, lecturing himself. She's a murder suspect who's covered with blood and just puked her guts out. And she didn't care enough ten years ago to defy her parents and marry you. For all you know she killed Lockhart and is setting you up to give her an alibi or take the fall for murder. This is not sexy. His body pointed out that no matter what she'd done, she'd always been and would always be sexy to him. "Riqué?" Her voice was hoarse. "Yeah?" He wished to hell she wouldn't call him that. And he wished he could stop thinking of her as his azulita. "Little Blue" might have been appropriate years ago, when she was eighteen and he was twenty and they were in the oblivious blush of young love. But now she was a member of Senator Mosby's campaign,
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assistant to the campaign manager, with her own staff and the promise of a prestigious position after the election—if she didn't get convicted of her boss's murder. Speaking of murder… He looked at the ancient television on the dresser. He didn't see a remote, so he pressed the On switch. A light flashed, then the screen went black. Riqué cursed in Spanish. He wanted to see what the local news was saying about the Lockhart's murder. He was sure someone was providing sound bites and condolences for the Lockhart family. He clicked the TV again, but nothing happened. Shannon stepped out of the bathroom, showing him her hands. "I have to take a shower. I've got Brendan's blood all over me." He frowned. There was no way to preserve the evidence on her hands. He pulled his T-shirt off over his head and tossed it to her. "Here. Wear this and leave your clothes outside the door. Evidence. I'm going out. I'll find you something to wear." Shannon clutched the washcloth in one hand and Riqué's T-shirt in the other. Her stomach turned upside down. "You're leaving me here? Alone? Can't I go with you?" Riqué shook his head. "I won't be gone long. The TV doesn't work. I want to listen to the police scanner, see what they're saying about Lockhart and you. And we need something to eat. We're probably going to have to stay here all day." He reached for his jacket and shrugged it on over his naked shoulders. Shoulders she'd touched and kissed years ago, in another lifetime. His skin gleamed like old gold against the scarred leather. She squeezed his T-shirt as he grabbed his keys. "Lock the deadbolt and throw the night latch. If anything happens—anything—call my cell. I'll be back in an hour. Take a nap." He sent her a half-smile as he slipped out the door. "Lock it, Azulita." His soft voice carried through the door. "I'll be back soon." Shannon took a shaky breath as she threw the deadbolt and the night latch. She heard his car start up. Then she sank onto the bed and brought his T-shirt to her nose. The scent of soap and bleach and a hint of leather made her pulse race. Riqué's T-shirts had always smelled warm and clean. To her, it smelled like love.
*** Luis turned up the volume on the police scanner. Most of the chatter was banter, with a call here and there for a domestic dispute or a drive-off at a gas station. He glanced at his watch. After six. Not even two hours since Shannon had called him. He cruised down Main Street, looking for a fast food place that didn't specialize in grease or stale taco shells, while keeping an eye out for a police vehicle. There wasn't much chance of finding designer clothes in this part of Garland. Newsstands, bodegas and old buildings with boarded up windows. He pulled into a drug store parking lot. Hadn't he seen T-shirts in drug stores? With any luck, he could find something for Shannon to wear and something they could eat. A quick trek down the aisles yielded a rack of T-shirts with rude sayings on them in Spanish. He passed up ones that read Mí No Puta, Pero Mí Fácil, and Tráteme Labios. Finally he found a little hot-pink one that read Chica Muy Caliente!
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He figured "Very Hot Chick!" would go over better than "I'm No Slut, But I Am Easy" or "Try These Lips." That took care of her top, but what was he going to do about her bott—the rest of her. He forced himself not to acknowledge the image that popped into his head. He'd thought he'd banished it forever. It wasn't cool for a thirty-year-old guy to still have dreams about his first love. On the way to the checkout stand, he grabbed some drinks and some chips and cookies. When he asked the girl at the counter if the store carried any clothes, she pointed to a table piled high with flowery fabric. "Those are beach shorts." She shrugged. "I told him they wouldn't sell. Not around here." Luis dug through until he found a pair of pink and orange shorts he thought would fit Shannon. Hoping to hell that she didn't need underwear, he paid the clerk and hurried back to his car. He'd been gone too long. She'd be scared. When he started the car and turned on the scanner, the first thing he heard was a broadcast about Lockhart's murder. "Be on the lookout for a red Mustang—" Crap. Somebody'd spotted his car. "—seen leaving the area of the building where Lockhart's body was found. No info on model or license plate. Unknown whether the suspect is in the car. Units 3 and 9, widen the area of roadblocks. All units, stop any red Ford Mustang. Use necessary force." Luis slammed his palm on the steering wheel and cursed. He glanced up and down the street. In a few minutes, the streets would be teeming with black-and-whites. He didn't have a prayer of making it back to the motel without being stopped. His red Cobra was like a big red flashing sign saying Here we are. Arrest us.
Chapter Five Luis had to ditch the car before the police caught up to him. Keeping an eye on the street and an ear tuned to the police scanner, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed a preset number. After two rings, his sister picked up. "Mariçel. Que pasa?" Her condo was only minutes from the drug store. "Riqué. It's not even seven in the morning. What are you doing up so early? Is something wrong?" "No. Well, yeah. I need a favor." "What kind of favor?" His little sister sounded a little cautious. "If you want to stay here, remember that the baby is in her poopy stage." She chuckled. "That's not it. Chica, I don't have time to explain, but I need to hide the Mustang. Can I put it in your garage and use your car?" "You want me to drive the Mustang? I've never driven a stick." "No! You can't drive it." Luis rubbed his forehead. "The police are looking for it." "Luis Enriqué Spinoza! ¿Qué ha hecho usted? What kind of trouble are you in?"
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"It's better if you don't know. What do you say? ¿Por favor?" She sighed. "Riqué, my brother, please tell me you're not bringing trouble down on my home. "
*** Shannon tugged at the bottom of Riqué's T-shirt, but it still only came to mid-thigh. At least she had on underwear. She'd rinsed out her panties and dried them with the ancient hair dryer that was bolted to the wall. Riqué had told her to take a nap, but there was no chance in hell she could close her eyes. She was too keyed up—too scared. Still, she couldn't just stand in the middle of the room and wring her hands. So she turned down the covers and climbed in between the sheets. They felt crisp and clean, thank goodness. She could use a little rest. She turned off the lamp, throwing the room into dusky shadows. Then she eased her head back onto the pillows and closed her eyes. Immediately, Lockhart's slack face flashed like a giant movie screen before her eyes, his neck split open and blood covering his shirt. Her eyes flew open. Blood? His shirt? Her pulse thundered in her ears. She looked at her hands, trying to remember where the blood had been. Scrambling up, she hurried over to where she'd tossed her skirt and blouse. Just as she picked up the blouse, she heard metal scraping against metal. Riqué! She ran to the door and reached for the night latch. At the last second, she stopped. What if it wasn't him? "Riqué?" she said softly. "Azulita, open up. It's me." Letting out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, she threw the latch and unlocked the deadbolt. He slipped in and closed the door behind him. He tossed a big shopping bag onto the dresser. Then he unzipped his jacket and tossed it on top of the bag. "It's hot," he said. Then he looked at her and grinned. "I see you had your shower." He nodded toward the bed. "Did you get a nap?" His black eyes twinkled and his white teeth shone brightly against his golden skin. Shannon looked up at him and to her chagrin, her throat closed up and her eyes stung with tears. "Hey, what's the matter? We're okay for now." "That's not—" She interrupted herself with a sob. "Come on, Azulita, you're exhausted. I want you to sleep for a couple of hours, and then we'll figure out how we're going to go to the police." She nodded miserably, and didn't protest when he led her to the bed and pulled the sheet back. She climbed in, aware that his T-shirt had ridden up her thighs.
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He'd noticed it, too, because he quickly pulled the sheet up. "There you go. You want something to drink or eat?" She shook her head. "Riqué, I'm so sorry—" "Don't worry about it. We'll figure out how to explain it all to the police." He leaned down and kissed her forehead, sliding his hand around the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, wanting to cry at the soft touch of his lips and the hot pressure of his hand. Then his thumb slid across her ear lobe and a sweet, sharp yearning speared through her. She lifted her head. He pulled back. She opened her eyes and met his gaze, knowing she was treading dangerous waters, but it had been so long and she'd missed him so much. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against hers. "Azulita, don't do this. I don't want to have to forget you again." His words sliced through her heart like a razor blade. "You forgot me?" Riqu shook his head and lowered his mouth to hers. She wrapped both hands around his neck and lifted herself, arching toward him as his lips moved over hers in the exquisitely erotic way she remembered. He gripped her shoulders and growled deep in his throat. "Azulita, you're just upset." He set her back against the pillows and sat down at her feet. She drew her knees up. "Trust me. This is a bad idea." He pushed shaky fingers through his hair. He was wrong. Letting her parents convince her that she didn't want to marry a Mexican-American had been a bad idea. She'd loved Riqué since she was six years old and he was eight. He raised his dark gaze to hers. His mouth was compressed in a flat line, but his cheeks were pink. He spread his fingers on his thighs as he visibly tried to control his breathing. His chest and ridged belly rose and sank rapidly. And even the thick denim of his pants couldn't disguise how much he was turned on by their kiss. Shannon pushed the sheet away from her legs and sat up on her heels. She ran a hand up his arm to his shoulder. His golden skin was so smooth, so warm. She loved everything about him. His classic Castilian features, with the high cheekbones, lean cheeks and strong jaw. His lean yet muscular body. The dark hair that grew sparsely on his chest and into a vee at the top of his low-slung jeans. She kissed him again. "Azulita—" It was a plea and an admission of defeat. With a groan, he turned and wrapped his arms around her and pushed her down onto the bed, following her, molding his body against hers. Luis felt himself grow painfully hard against the front seam of his jeans. He kissed Shannon's sexy lips, ran his mouth and tongue down her jaw line and the delicate skin under her chin. He slid his hands up under the T-shirt to cup her firm, soft breasts. They fit perfectly in his hands. Just like they always had. She gasped as the points of her breasts tightened and distended. His mouth watered to taste them. It was a taste he'd missed. A taste that haunted his dreams. The taste of the only woman he'd every truly loved.
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He pushed the T-shirt up and over her head, exposing her perfect, creamy breasts with their distended nipples. He bent his head until his mouth was only millimeters from the tip of one breast. He sighed and she moaned and arched her back. "Riqué—" Just before he took the beaded peak into his mouth, he whispered, "This is a very bad idea."
*** Shannon woke up slowly, and snuggled closer to Riqué's side. She felt the relaxation and contentment that only comes after total sexual satisfaction. Nobody had ever told her how achingly sexy a man's body felt. Much less how special it felt to be in love, to have a guy who'd rather be with her than with anyone else in the whole world. Riqué slid his arm from under her and turned over. Shannon opened her eyes. His back was as sexy as his front. But something was different. He seemed bigger, harder. She reached up to run her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and froze. Where was the long hair her parents were always complaining about? She frowned and looked around the shadowy room, her heart racing. This was not her dorm room. Suddenly, the memories flooded her brain. Lockhart. The blood. The terrified confusion. "Oh, God," she muttered, sitting up. Riqué sprang up like a cat, and whirled, a gun appearing in his hand. "No! Wait-—Riqué!" "Shannon! What the hell?" His face was pale and his gun hand shook. "When I woke up I thought we were…you know…back in college." His jaw muscle twitched and hot anger burned in his eyes in the instant before he turned his back and set the gun down on the dresser. He was naked. In the midst of all the panic and fear, her brain registered the differences she'd felt earlier. The differences ten years had made in his body—in his lovemaking. He wasn't the skinny teenager she'd fallen in love with. The curve of his back, the lean hips and that sexy backside were familiar, but he was bulkier, more muscled. Her cheeks burned. His hands and mouth were more practiced, more confident. And he knew a lot more about pleasing a woman than he had back then. A whole lot more.
Chapter Six Shannon knew more about love and sex than she had back when they were in college, too—a little more. But the spark—the undeniable magical thread that bound them was still there. Riqué still loved her like no one else ever had or ever could. He pulled his jeans up over the swell of his buttocks, his back muscles undulating as he zipped and buttoned them.
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When he turned back around and his gaze raked her, Shannon remembered that she was naked, too. She uttered a little cry of embarrassment and fled to the bathroom. While she was washing up, Riqué knocked on the door. "Here are the clothes I got you. They're all I could find." She held a towel in front of her as she opened the door a crack. "Th-thanks," she stammered. The little T-shirt fit snugly and barely came to her waist. The beach shorts had a drawstring waist and reached below the middle of her thighs. He'd even bought her flip-flops. She assessed herself in the dingy mirror. She looked like the first five minutes of a Girls Gone Wild video, but anything was better than the bloody clothes she'd woken up in. When she came out of the bathroom, Riqué was downing an energy drink and working on a bag of chips. His eyebrows rose when he first saw her, but she glared at him, so he didn't comment on her appearance. "You'd better eat something." He pushed the bag of chips across the dresser toward her, along with a second drink. At the sight of the food her stomach growled. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. She popped open the drink and grabbed a handful of chips. A cell phone rang. Riqué's. He dug it out of the pocket of his leather jacket and looked at the display. He muttered something in Spanish as he pressed the talk button. "¿Hola? Chiquita?" His voice was cautious. "What's the matter?" His voice and the look on his face told Shannon that the answer was not good. As Riqué listened to his sister, fear grew and began crawling up his spine. "Riqué. They banged on the door and pushed it open. They had papers—" "A warrant? Was it the police?" "I don't know. They were in regular clothes." "Mariçel, what did they do?" "They searched everywhere. They didn't tell me why." "The garage?" "Yes." He cursed. "They saw my car. What did they say?" "Nothing. They made me show them identification, then they left." Riqué stomach clenched. "Chica, this is very important. Get the papers they gave you. What do they say at the top?"
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"I don't have the papers. The man in charge just showed them to me then put them in his pocket. I didn't get a chance to see them." "Call Papa to come get you and the girls. Now! Stay with them until I contact you." "Riqué, what have you done?" "Not now. Call Papa! Love you." He hit the End button. When he turned, Shannon's face was as white as a sheet, her green eyes wide and filled with terror. But Riqué didn't feel like comforting her right now. The people who'd forced their way into his sister's house weren't the police. "That was Mariçel," he said coldly. "Apparently whoever killed your boyfriend traced me to my sister's house. I left the Mustang there and drove her car." Shannon pressed her lips together and wrapped her arms around herself. The bright red printing on the pink T-shirt she wore stood out. Chica Muy Caliente! He gritted his teeth. "How would anyone know that I'm involved with your little problem?" She dropped her gaze to her folded arms. "Come on, Shannon. They're looking for Mariçel's car." He crossed the room in two strides and gripped her upper arms, barely restraining himself from shaking her. "You haven't told me everything, have you?" A grimace of pain crossed her face and he let go of her and took a step back, holding his hands palm up. "That door is going to be kicked in any minute. Talk to me!" Without moving, without looking up, she spoke. "Brendan is my boss—was—my boss. He was always hounding me to go out with him. Always making suggestive jokes, always hanging around when I worked late." She took a shaky breath. "I didn't dare go to Senator Mosby. He has a reputation for harassing the female campaign workers, too. And I knew he'd rather get rid of me than Brendan. So I told everyone I was engaged. I hoped Brendan wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of everyone by hounding a woman about to be married." She squeezed her arms so tightly her knuckles turned white. Riqué stared at her as her words sank in. "Engaged? To who?" Then it dawned on him. "To me?" He laughed bitterly. "You told him you were going to marry me? Why in hell would you do that?" Her slender shoulders rose in a tiny shrug. "You were the first person I thought of." There it was again. "Well, I'm flattered that you always think of me in times of crisis, but Lockhart harassed you and now he's dead. Who killed him and why did they try to frame you for it?" Shannon did her best to blink away the tears she felt forming in her eyes. Her throat was tight with regret and fear. "I never meant to involve you. I didn't think it would hurt to give people your name." "Obviously. I need answers, Shannon." "Brendan got really drunk last night. He started telling me things—things he shouldn't have, things I didn't want to know. He said he was going to be a multi-millionaire by the time Senator Mosby got re-elected. He said he knew things nobody knew about the high-and-mighty Mosby."
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"He was blackmailing him?" She nodded. "He said he could ruin him. He wanted Mosby's Chief of Staff position. And I think he wanted Mosby to groom him to take over when Mosby retired." "He told you this at a campaign dinner?" "And he wasn't trying to whisper, either. I wanted to get away from him, but we were seated together. Then, Senator Mosby sent over a bottle of champagne." "You said you felt drugged." She looked up and met Riqué's gaze. His black eyes snapped with interest. "The champagne?" "I'm guessing the bottle was already open by the time it got to your table." "It was. You think Senator Mosby was behind this? He's one of the most prominent legislators in Washington. Do you really think he drugged me?" He nodded. "Mosby or one of his handlers heard Lockhart spilling the whole story to you. That's why whoever did this tried to frame you for it. If you told what Lockhart told you, you wouldn't be believed. Everyone would think you were trying to beat a murder rap. " "But why would anyone think I wanted to kill Lockhart?" Riqué shrugged his broad shoulders. "It's a perfect setup. Think about it. Both of you were seen at the campaign dinner. Both of you appeared drunk. If Lockhart drove you home then forced himself on you, you could have been defending yourself with the knife. I'm sure by the time Lockhart was killed, Mosby himself was nowhere near your apartment, and he'd set himself up with a solid alibi." He grabbed her arm. "Now come on. We've got to get out of here. And we can't take Mariçel's car. Whoever tried to frame you is looking for it right now."
Chapter Seven Twenty minutes after they'd left the motel, Shannon scrambled out of the cab behind Riqué. "Where are we? This street looks deserted." "That's the point. This used to be a produce warehouse where my Papa worked. Dave and I would come here and hide and smoke cigarettes and look at girly magazines." Shannon had to laugh. "When? How old were you?" He shot a sheepish glance her way. "Maybe twelve." "And to think I worshiped you." As soon as the words left her mouth she wished she could take them back. His eyebrows raised as his eyes searched her face. Then he turned back to the building. "Come on, I'll show you how we got in. It's around back, through this alley." Shannon followed him, winding her way past crumpled paper bags, discarded Styrofoam containers and liquor bottles. Each step ramped up the unmistakable smell of garbage.
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"It's right here, under this fire escape ladder." Shannon looked at the narrow space that must have once been a door. "I hate to point out the obvious, but there's a window by the front door. Why didn't you brave adventurers just climb in through it?" "Then we wouldn't have been brave adventurers, would we?" She laughed. "Okay. There's one other problem. I might be able to squeeze through this opening, but you're a long way from twelve years old. How're you going to get in?" "I'm going to use my manly strength to rip the plywood off the window." He took hold of the edge of the board and yanked. A good-sized chunk of plywood came off in his hands. He tossed it aside and dusted his hands together. "There. Now let's—" The sound of a car's engine drowned out the rest of his words. The noise was magnified by the wind-tunnel effect of the alley. Riqué pushed Shannon behind him and whipped out his gun. It could be a local using a shortcut home, or the Garland P.D. on their regular rounds, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Get inside," he whispered. "Now!" The car's engine rumbled through the alley. Riqué wished they were cops. He'd prefer not to risk Shannon's safety by going head to head with whoever was trying to frame her for murder. He eased away from the building's wall to try to get a glimpse of the vehicle as it moved slowly past. It was a domestic car, maybe a Ford. But it definitely wasn't the cops. He glanced behind him, making sure the entire alley was deserted, then he took hold of the plywood that still surrounded the opening into the building. Just as he was about to step inside, he heard the car again. This time it turned into the alley and gunned its engine. Riqué dove through the opening into the dim interior of the warehouse. "Riqué are you—?" "Hush!" He pressed his back against the wall beside the hole and pulled her close. He couldn't see anything except the noonday sun filtering through the hole. Couldn't hear anything except the car's engine bouncing off the buildings. The driver gunned the engine again, then a spray of bullets peppered the side of the building, several of them whizzing past his head through the hole in the wall. Shannon cried out softly and clutched at his arm. "Get back, Shannon. There are rows of metal shelves back there. Get behind them. They'll protect you." He risked a glance sideways at her. She stood rigid, her arms folded across her stomach, her eyes wide and glimmering in the dim light cast by the holes in the walls and roof. He wrapped his fingers around the nape of her neck and pulled her close for an instant. "Go! I don't want to have to worry about you." He watched her until he saw her honey-brown hair disappear behind a row of industrial shelves. Then he angled around the jagged opening, weapon-first, and took a look out into the alley. The car was at the other end. Its reverse lights were on. He dodged back inside, listening.
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He needed to see that license plate. So he stuck his head out again, leading with his gun. As the car began backing up to turn around, he caught a glimpse of the plate. Ducking inside, he repeated the letters and numbers to himself. He'd gotten lucky. It was a vanity plate. "Shannon," he called quietly, peeling away from the wall and moving toward her. "You know whose license reads GO2GUY-4?" "Go-to guy?" Her voice had a shrill edge to it. "That's Mosby's campaign slogan. 'Elect Mosby. The Go-To Guy. You Can Count On Him.'" Riqué took another step toward her. "Your go-to guy has got folks shooting at us. We've got to get out of here. They must have traced Mariçel's car, then followed us in the cab." Now he had something to tell the police. He dug his phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed 911. When the operator answered he gave her the information. "Deputy Sheriff Luis Spinoza requesting backup. Shots fired at 12233 Canal, off—" "Riqué—" He looked up. What he saw sent shock waves along his nerves. A big man had Shannon's arm twisted behind her. His bandaged right hand held a long serrated kitchen knife against her neck. In the dim light, her face was bluish-white, and taut with pain. "Toss that phone over here," the man said. Behind him, Riqué heard the car rev its engine again. He met Shannon's terrified gaze, but kept his expression blank. He slid the phone across the dirty concrete floor. It stopped several feet in front of Shannon. Her attacker glanced down. Riqué raised his weapon. "Let her go," he growled. The other man's head snapped up, and Shannon grimaced as the knife sank more deeply into the soft flesh under her jawbone. Riqué couldn't take his eyes off the knife. "I said, let her go." "Like hell. You two have to die. It'll be sad. But after she murdered her boyfriend, who'd be surprised if she took her own life?" He grinned. "This is another knife from her kitchen." Riqué filed that information away. The guy was practically confessing to Lockhart's murder. "Let her go or I'll shoot your ugly face off." The man laughed. "No you won't. You might hit her." Riqué knew he was right. But what else could he do? Behind him, silence told him the driver was out of the car. That meant at least one other assailant was about to join this Mexican standoff. A grim smile twisted his lips at the appropriateness of the slang term. He lifted his weapon higher and steadied his right hand with his left. "You keep thinking that. Meanwhile I'll shoot you in the head before your brain can make your fingers work." "You want to see my fingers work, watch this." The brute's hand tightened. Shannon moaned and wrapped her fingers around the man's thick forearm as the serrated blade sunk into her flesh. Dark beads of blood appeared like rubies along the knife's edge.
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God help him. Riqué didn't want to test his aim this way. A noise from behind propelled him into action. He backed away until he could see them and the door at the same time. The faint wail of sirens in the distance gave him hope. Maybe it was the police, headed here. Riqué turned his full attention back to the man holding Shannon. Her wide azure eyes were on him. He glanced to her left then back at her, wanting her to drop sideways. She hiccuped and a tear slipped from her eye to roll down her cheek. His heart sank. She was too terrified to understand what he needed her to do. The sirens were getting louder. The brute tightened his hold on her again and stepped backward. Riqué moved forward, his finger tightening on the trigger. If the bastard retreated another three feet, he and Shannon would be in the darkness—and Shannon would be dead. Riqué took aim at the man's head. "Last chance," he grated. "Let her go. You're doomed." The brute laughed. "Look behind you." There was no way Riqué would take his eyes off the man holding Shannon. His brain raced, considering his options. There was no way the goon was bluffing. He let the barrel of his gun tilt downward slightly. But as Shannon's eyes grew wider and her throat moved against the sharp blade of the knife, Riqué sent up a silent prayer and did the only thing he could think of to stop the brute from killing Shannon. He took the tough shot—in the guy's knife-arm. The guy shrieked. The knife clattered to the floor. Shannon fell sideways, clutching her throat. From behind him Riqué heard the click of a semi-automatic pistol. He dove, firing toward the door, and hit hard on his right shoulder. Something cracked. "Get back!" he shouted to Shannon as he rolled and tried to fire. But his hand wouldn't work. He grabbed the gun with his left hand as a dark figure filled the doorway. Riqué shot one-handed, working to brace his left wrist on his non-functioning right forearm. Bullets whizzed by his head. He ducked. A movement on his left caught his attention. It was the attacker, slithering toward the knife he'd dropped. Riqué shot at the floor in front of the man, who grunted, then started forward again. That knife was the biggest piece of evidence they had. Riqué couldn't destroy it by kicking it out of the way with a bullet, and he couldn't let the guy get his hands on it. Riqué vaulted up, diving for the knife. From the doorway, shots zinged all around him. One came too close. He felt the thud when it hit his jacket. The shriek of sirens filled his ears and blue lights pulsed through the broken doorway. The gunshots stopped. Riqué turned and pinned Shannon's attacker's face to the concrete floor with his boot. His right arm tingled, his shoulder hurt like hell and something felt funny around his ribs. He tried to grab the knife, but was too weak and toppled to the ground instead. He heard the scuffling of boots against concrete. He hoped like hell it was the cops, because he didn't think he could lift his gun again.
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"Azu…lita?" he croaked, pushing himself up with his left hand. The movement sent pain shrieking through his shoulder, and a sky full of stars splashed before his eyes. He heard a faint movement in the darkness. "Azulita? Are you all right?" But she didn't answer.
Chapter Eight The smell of alcohol and disinfectant burned Riqué's nose. He opened his eyes to a narrow slit. He was in a hospital cubicle. The sounds and the smells were unmistakable. He'd been in the same situation a few times before. Sometimes he was the one on the gurney—more often it was a buddy or a fellow officer. He tried to sit up, but he was tied down. "Hey!" A sharp pain stabbed his shoulder. He looked down. His right arm was strapped to his side, and a lot of tape and gauze surrounded his midsection. Memory came flooding back. "Azulita—" What had happened? Where was she? How'd he ended up here? "Nurse! Hey! Somebody!" He craned his neck, looking for a call button, but his stomach and head protested all the movement, so he lay back and closed his eyes. Where was Shannon? Had the bastard managed to slit her throat? Within a few seconds, the curtain around his bed was pushed back and a middle-aged woman with softly waved hair came in. "Deputy Luis Spinoza. So you're awake." "My name's Riqué." He licked dry lips. Where had that come from? When had he started thinking of himself as Riqué rather than Luis? It was Shannon's fault. Shannon. "Where's—the woman who was with me?" "She went to get some coffee. She's been here all night, waiting for you to get out of surgery." His relief was tempered by the woman's words. "Surgery?" He tried to flex his bandaged arm and winced. "Damn." The nurse smiled and adjusted the IV pump. "Your shoulder was dislocated and fractured. This is morphine. Push this button if you're in pain. We'll probably discontinue this as soon as you're fully awake." "I'm awake now. Get me out of here." She shook her head. "Not until the doctors say it's okay. Now just call out if you need me. You're in the recovery room." She smiled again and disappeared. Before Riqué could process all that had happened, Shannon appeared. Her neck was bandaged and she had a bruise on her wrist, but she looked beautiful. She was still dressed in her silly T-shirt and the loud beach shorts, and she held a paper cup of coffee. Her face was pale and drawn. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. The honey-brown curls he loved so much were tangled around her face. "Hi, Riqué," she said softly. "How're you feeling?" She didn't meet his gaze. "Good. I'm good. Are you okay?" What the hell? They were acting like casual acquaintances. He felt groggy and his damn shoulder hurt, but even though he'd forgotten what happened after he'd collapsed, he hadn't forgotten that they'd made love.
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He pushed himself upright. "Have you talked to the police?" She nodded, playing with the tear-off tab on the coffee lid. "They got the car, although the driver got away. They caught my attacker, and took the knife as evidence." Riqué nodded. "Good. They'll match it with your knives. With any luck, they can link both knives to your attacker. Did you notice his hand was bandaged? He must've cut himself when he slit Lockhart's throat." She shuddered. "So was it Mosby who ordered Lockhart killed?" he asked. "The detective didn't think so. He 's looking at the senator's PR person. It was her car. And my attacker was one of her personal assistants. In any case the senator's political career is probably done for." Shannon saw the pain etched in Riqué's face. His face was pale. His shoulder was obviously killing him. She set her coffee cup down and stepped over to the side of the bed. "Here's the button for the morphine. Why don't you give yourself an extra dose, and then take a nap?" "I don't want to take a nap. I want to get out of here, see if I still have a job." "Oh, that reminds me. A Lieutenant Zane McKinney called to check on you. Apparently the media didn't waste any time getting the story out." "McKinney?" Riqué tried to push himself up with his good arm. "What did he say." "He told me not to bother you, but he wants you to call him once you're up and about. He said something about a job." Riqué's dark eyes widened and a smile lit his weary face for an instant. "No kidding." She smiled and reached out to touch his hand, but he pulled it away. "Tell the nurse I'm ready to go." His rebuff hurt her, even though she knew better. She'd treated him badly years ago. She'd broken his heart. She knew because he'd told her, and because she'd known him too well, she'd seen then how badly she'd hurt him. And she saw his caution now. What he didn't know was that she'd broken her own heart, too. She had never and would never forgive herself for caving in to her parent's wishes. They'd loved Riqué—as Dave's friend. But not as a husband for their daughter. Her face burned as she recalled how easily she'd let them convince her that they were right. Among certain people, it was frowned upon to marry a Mexican-American. To her shame, she hadn't trusted their love for each other to be stronger than prejudice. Riqué kicked at the tangled bedclothes, and pushed himself up awkwardly. "Riqué, stop it. You can't go anywhere. You're on an IV, you've been sedated. You have to wait until they release you." He sent her a dark glare. "Get me my clothes." He tried to gesture toward the closet, but the pain in his shoulder stopped him. He groaned under his breath.
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She angled her head to one side. "No." "Why the hell not?" "Because you're being irrational. If you don't calm down, I'm going to press that button for you." "You wouldn't dare." His jaw worked. His eyes turned black as deep space. "Try me." "Shannon, why don't you go home? Get out of here. I'm tired." His sudden switch from injured hero to irascible grouch made her heart ache. "Press the button, Riqué. I won't leave until you do." "Call Mariçel. She'll come." Shannon looked at the stubborn, handsome idiot she'd fallen in love with ten years ago. Then she stalked over to the morphine IV pump. She reached for the cord with the button at the end of it. Riqué covered the device with his hand before Shannon could grab it. So she went and sat down in the small chair next to his bed and crossed her arms. He closed his eyes. "Okay, I pressed the button. You said you'd leave." "I lied. I'll wait until you go to sleep." He took a deep breath as if to argue, but instead he laid his head back against the pillow. It took all Shannon's strength to stay still, to stop herself from reaching over and finger-combing the black hair back from his forehead. Her eyes stung with tears. He'd saved her life. He'd come the instant she'd called him. But he would never open himself up to her—to hurt—again. She'd blown the best thing that ever could have happened to her. She sat watching him for a long time. His face was drawn, his shoulders drooped. She couldn't tell if he was asleep or not. "You were the first—" Her gaze darted to his face. "What? Riqué? Are you hurting?" He shook his head. His eyes were heavy-lidded from the effects of the morphine. He looked over at her and lifted his left hand a fraction of an inch. Shannon's heart was full to bursting—with love, with apprehension, with hope. She stood and slipped her hand under his. He grasped it with surprising strength. "A while ago, when I woke up," he said, licking his lips, "you were the first person I thought of." His eyes drifted shut. Shannon's pulse sped up. Her breath grew short. "Riqué? Riqué, please tell me you're not asleep." He opened his eyes slowly. "I'm not asleep. Kiss me and I'll show you."
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She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. "When you told me I was the first person you thought of…" he whispered against her mouth, "…does that happen a lot, or was that the only time?". She shook her head and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then brushed his hair off his forehead. "It happens all the time." "What do you think it means?" She shrugged. "What do you think it means?" A flash of apprehension glinted in his sleepy eyes. Using his left hand he pushed her away, just enough so that he could look directly into her eyes. "The thing I was afraid of has happened." "What's that?" she asked, her heart pounding. "I told you I didn't want to have to forget you again. That wasn't exactly true, because I never forgot you the first time." "Riqué— I was such an idiot—" "Shh. I swore I'd never put myself in this position again, but here I am." He clenched his jaw and pushed himself up in bed and raised his sleepy gaze to hers. "Azulita, I will ask you one last time. Will you be my wife until death do we part?" Shannon swallowed. She felt her heart soar and sink at the same time. "What if I'm indicted for Brendan Lockhart's murder?" His mouth quirked up. "Then we can have conjugal visits." He reached out with his thumb and caught a tear that was slipping down her cheek. "I'm serious." "Me, too. Because if you say yes, I am never letting you out of my sight again. No matter what I have to do. But it does sound like the sheriff is on the right track with Mosby's PR manager." Shannon nodded. He lay back against the pillows with a grimace. "So?" His mouth was white and pinched. She could tell he was hurting. But the morphine was working. His eyelids were drooping more and more. But she could still see the uncertainty in their black depths. Was he really afraid she'd say no? She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You might not believe it, but I'm not the timid little girl I was back then. And I sure as heck don't need help in deciding what I want to do with the rest of my life." "Oh yeah?" he whispered. "What's that?" She put her hand on his cheek and kissed his mouth. "Spend it loving you." He smiled and drifted off to sleep.
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Promises Kept by Kristi Gold Delia Hayes Cooper knows something is wrong when she wakes up to a silk lily on her pillow—instead of the real one her husband Bryce usually leaves her. Her feelings of trepidation grow stronger when she finds a letter from him on the kitchen counter. Has something changed between them after almost forty years of marriage? A marriage that has endured through both joy and heartache?
Chapter One Dallas, August 1999 Almost without fail, Delia Hayes Cooper awakened every Monday to a lily resting on her pillow, a precious gift delivered by her husband of almost forty years. Yet this morning, something had changed —the lily was silk, not fresh. Although she didn't quite understand the reason for Bryce's sudden break in tradition, Delia suspected he might be conveying the message she no longer warranted the real thing. Since Bryce had already left for the hospital, she could only speculate until he joined her for lunch. Then again, maybe not, she decided as she strolled into the kitchen to find an envelope set out on the granite counter, her name scrawled across the face in surprisingly legible script for a physician. She poured a cup of coffee from the pot Bryce had made, leaned a hip against the cabinet and studied the envelope as an inexplicable fear took hold. Fear of what the letter might reveal. Some would claim she was being absurd, but very few understood her uncanny knack at divining bad news. Nor would they understand that for the past two days, she'd sensed her beloved husband emotionally slipping away from her, and she didn't know why. Opting not to read the letter quite yet, Delia retreated into the bedroom to call Anne, her human sounding board and only child, in the hope of regaining some much-needed perspective. She sat on the edge of the bed, and after Anne answered the phone with a harried "Hello," Delia immediately launched into her concerns. "Your father gave me a fake flower this morning." "And my feet are fat, Mother." Delia chuckled. "That's what happens when you're pregnant. Fat feet, railroad tracks down your breasts and thighs. Protruding navel. Shall I continue?" "Please don't. You're not telling me anything I don't already know." Of course Delia wasn't. Anne spent her days as a labor and delivery nurse and no doubt had seen every problem that could plague a woman during pregnancy. "What do you think this whole silk flower thing means?" "I have no idea, Mom. Maybe a band of vicious locusts attacked the lily crop. Maybe the florist ran out of fresh because of a drought. It could be a number of reasons. Besides, most women don't get any kind of flower on special occasions from their spouses, much less every week. Me included." "You're right, honey. But it's so unlike your father, going back on a promise. He told me he'd always make certain the lily was real." As real as their love, he'd claimed. "I'm worried something's seriously wrong." "Such as?" Anne asked. "Well, we both know that men his age often trade in their old models for someone with less mileage." And Delia's odometer was nearing the sixty-year mark.
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Anne released an impatient sigh. "Dad isn't going to throw you over for another woman. He adores you." "He did until two days ago." He also had reason for retribution, thanks to a mistake she'd made many years earlier. "You had a fight?" Anne's query sounded as though that concept was totally foreign. For the most part, it was. "We had a disagreement," Delia said. "I've tried to convince him to retire when he turned sixty-two, and he's always insisted he wouldn't stop practicing medicine for at least another three years, if then. Just when I'd given up, night before last he announced he planned to throw in the scalpel after the first of the year—a month before his sixty-second birthday, mind you. And then he said he wanted to move away from the Texas heat. I could have strangled him with his stethoscope." "You're not making any sense, Mom. You should be happy." Apparently pregnancy hormones had clouded her daughter's thinking. "You're expecting our first grandchild. I can't consider moving away now and missing all the baby's milestones." "And I would hate the thought of you not being here, but that's why they invented planes." "You do have a point." And Delia still had a something's-not-quite-right feeling. "Your father also left me a note." "What does it say?" "I haven't read it yet." "Good grief, Mother. He could be telling you that he's sorry or he's changed his mind about moving. I'm sure there's a logical explanation for everything." "I'm sure there is. He's having an affair with a younger woman." "I'm not going to justify that with a response, Mother, nor do I have time to argue with you, since I have to leave for work in five minutes." Delia's maternal concern momentarily kicked her other worries aside. "You're seven months pregnant, Anne, and high risk because of your age. You should be taking it easy." "Now you sound like Jack. I would never, ever do anything to compromise the baby's health." Considering all the years Anne and Jack had tried to have a child, Delia recognized the truth in her daughter's words. "I suppose you know what's best. I'll call you later when I find out who's sleeping with your father." And she would find out through whatever means necessary—be it crying or coercion. Or by reading the letter. "And I'll be waiting for you to tell me you're totally wrong, Mom." Anne hung up without allowing her mother a proper goodbye or an adequate rebuttal, leaving Delia alone with her troublesome thoughts. Perhaps her daughter was right. The letter could hold nothing more than an apology, or possibly a list of reasons they should pull up roots and move hundreds of miles away from Dallas and the only family they had left. Seeking answers, Delia returned to the kitchen, yet she couldn't quite bring herself to read the letter. Instead, she retired to the bedroom to exchange her housecoat for lightweight blue slacks and a white blouse. She went back to the kitchen to boil water in preparation for the potato salad she would make for the
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planned picnic in the nearby park. She chopped vegetables and fried chicken, all the while staring at the envelope. Whatever information the mysterious missive held, Delia's well-honed instincts still told her it wasn't favorable, and her sixth sense rarely failed her. She prayed it was failing her now. Bolstering her courage, Delia set out to put an end to her concerns, only to be interrupted by the doorbell before she could slit the envelope's seal. She took a quick check of the kitchen clock. Eleven a.m. was much too soon for Bryce's arrival, unless he'd decided to come home early to make amends or make a face-toface confession. And it certainly wouldn't be unusual for him to leave his house keys—which he insisted on keeping separate from the car keys—at the office. After tossing the unopened letter back onto the countertop, Delia strode through the hallway and into the foyer, a scolding on her lips reserved for her spouse, as well as many questions. But when she opened the door, she found the other surgeon in her life—her son-in-law, Jack—standing on the porch, dressed in dark blue scrubs and sporting a somber expression. She sent him a sunny smile that faded when he didn't return the gesture. "What brings you here on a Monday morning, dear heart?" "We have to go to the hospital." The grim-reaper look on Jack's face and his grave tone, sent a surge of panic through Delia as the memory of another messenger bearing bad news assaulted her. A black car rolling up the drive, men in dark uniforms walking up the path. A grim-faced chaplain saying, "We regret to inform you…" Delia recalled the slight sag of her mother's body as she hid behind her skirts, the absolute fear when she realized her daddy was never coming home…. Delia swayed. "Is something wrong with Anne?" Jack caught her elbow to steady her. "Let's go inside so you can sit down." "I don't want to go inside," she said, her voice laced with hysteria. "I don't want to sit. I want to know what's wrong." "It's Bryce."
Chapter Two Virginia, August 1959 "Hi, I'm Bryce Cooper." From her perch on the bar stool at the S & R Drugstore's soda fountain, Delia glanced at the stranger standing next to her at the counter. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall, well dressed and very handsome. Very Cary Grant, and probably a college boy. Normally, Delia preferred someone more James Dean, but for the sake of civility, she gave his offered hand a shake. "Delia Hayes." "Nice to meet you, Delia." He took a seat next to her, as if he wasn't about to get lost anytime soon. "Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Sandra Dee?" Only once a week, she almost said, but instead chose a little white lie. "You're the first." "Do you live around here?"
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"On a farm north of town." He flashed a wide grin. "Cows or pigs?" If he wasn't so darn cute, she might've been insulted. "Thoroughbred horses. The farm has been passed down through three generations in my mother's family. My father taught me to ride. He used to train the twoyear-old colts." "Used to?" "He died in Korea when I was nine." And she'd never gotten over that loss. "I'm sorry to hear that, Delia." "It's okay," she said. "My mother says that he left this world serving his country, and that's all that matters." He pulled a plastic menu form the metal holder and studied it for a few moments before sliding it back into place. "So what do you do in your spare time, when you're not riding horses?" If Harriet didn't hurry up with the ice cream, she might have to admit her life was boring. "Are you writing a book?" "Nope. I'm just curious." So was Delia. Curious about this older man who seemed genuinely interested in her. "Right now I'm helping out with the farm, but I plan to attend Ralph-Macon College in the next year or two." If she could convince her mother to let her move out of town. "Now it's your turn to tell me about you." "I'm the youngest and the only boy in the family. I have five sisters—" "Five?" Heavens to Betsy. "I only have one sister and Naomi drives me bananas." She rested her bent elbow on the counter and supported her cheek with her palm. "You have a strange accent. Where are you from?" "Pennsylvania. My dad's a coal miner and I'm the first in the family to go to college. I start medical school next month here at the university." Delia had been right on the college theory, but she wouldn't have pegged him as a coal miner's son or a doctor type. A salesman, maybe, because he was definitely selling himself with his charm. "Shouldn't you be in the library studying all that fascinating anatomy stuff?" "Are you interested in medicine?" "I almost faint when I cut myself." He laughed. "Okay. Do you like movies? There's a good one playing at the drive-in. It happens to star Sandra Dee, and I think it has summer in the title." "A Summer Place," she said. A movie that her mother had claimed was much too scandalous for Delia or her sister. "Do you want to see it with me tonight?"
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She straightened and faked surprise. "Why, Mr. Cooper. We've just met. I don't think going to a drive-in together would be proper." Her mother would be so proud of that answer—an answer Delia normally wouldn't give, since she wasn't one to turn down an adventure. He suddenly looked shy and maybe even a little embarrassed. "We could get something to eat, instead. I don't know all that many people in town, and I haven't met one girl as pretty as you." And she hadn't met a boy quite as pretty as him. "I'll have to ask my mother." Now he looked worried. "How old are you?" She tightened the scarf around her ponytail and lifted her chin. "I turned nineteen last month. That means I'm old enough to make my own decisions." He held her hands in his and smiled. "Then, Miss Hayes, if you decide to go out with me tonight, I would be honored." The answer "yes" hovered behind her lips and almost spilled out right before, "Here you go, sugar," came from behind the counter. "Two root beer floats." As if she were doing something indecent, Delia wrested from his grasp, slid off the stool and grabbed the crystal glasses. "Put it on the account, Harriet." "Sure thing, Dee." Bryce narrowed his eyes. "Dee?" She knew exactly what he was thinking. "All my friends call me Dee, but that started when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Long before anyone knew Sandra." "Then I'll call you Dee, too." "We're not exactly friends." "We will be." His voice was so deep, and to Delia, it sounded a little dangerous. He might look a little like Cary Grant, but she sensed that beneath Bryce Cooper's sophisticated surface, James Dean was itching to come out. And that little voice that often got her into hot water, told her to take a chance, until her mother's voice began to speak much louder. Older boys have only one thing on their mind, Delia…. Ignoring the warning, as she often did, Delia found herself saying, "I'd like to see the movie." She glanced at the corner booth where her best friend, Lizzie, sat with a curious expression. "I'll meet you here around eight, since it's kind of hard to find the farm." And since she would have to sneak out to avoid her mother's questions. "Eight it is," he said. "I'm looking forward to it." Then he headed for the door while Delia strolled to the booth. She'd barely set down the drinks and taken her seat before Lizzie blurted, "Jeez Louise, Dee. Who was that gorgeous guy?" "His name is Bryce Cooper." Delia took a sip of the float and smiled. "He's a medical student, and he asked me out. We're going to the drive-in tonight."
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Lizzie's green eyes went as wide as hubcaps. "Are you crazy? He'll have you playing backseat bingo before the movie starts." She rolled her eyes. "Don't pop your pin curls, Lizzie. He's not Billy Marsh. Not every boy over the age of eighteen is the devil himself." Lizzie leaned forward and frowned. "People are going to start talking about you the way they talk about Alice Sue Alford." Delia hated being compared with a girl who was faster than a souped-up Chevy. "I'm not like Alice Sue. I didn't do anything with Billy that you haven't done with Rusty." Lizzie blushed from the top of her throat to the bottom of her brown bangs. "Rusty and I haven't done anything except kiss and we won't until we get married. Besides, I've known him since grade school." As far as Delia was concerned, Rusty was as exciting as dry cornbread. "I'm not like you, Lizzie. I don't want to settle down with a boy I've known since grade school. I want to get out of Virginia and see the world." "And you want to go to the drive-in with a boy you hardly know." "He's a man," Delia said. "Not a boy." "And that's reason enough for you not to go." "I'm going, Lizzie. Now, you can either come back to the farm and help me decide what to wear, or you can go home to Rusty so you can plan your dull life." When Delia noticed the hurt on her friend's face, she felt awful. "I'm sorry, Lizzie. I didn't mean that." "Yes, you did. You've never liked Rusty." "I like him for you, but not for me." Lizzie laughed. "That's good since he's my boyfriend. And you should wear your blue pedal pushers and a long-sleeve sweater over your blouse." Delia's spirits rose in spite of Lizzie's silly sweater suggestion. "Then you're okay with me going?" She shrugged. "You're going to do what you want anyway, so I might as well make sure you look good, even if I think you're making a mistake." Going out with a boy she'd just met could prove to be a mistake, but Delia was more than willing to risk it.
Chapter Three There had to be some mistake. That thought ran through Delia's mind over and over as she stood in the Coronary Care Unit—a place she'd volunteered at countless times, manning the visitors' waiting room, delivering updates when necessary and, on occasion, consoling families when all had been lost. But she'd never imagined she would be standing on the wrong side of the double doors while her husband fought for his life. Alone. "I need to be with him, Jack."
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"As soon as his vital signs are stable, you can go in," he said. "Right now, they're working to make sure that happens." "And after that?" "It depends on what they find during the angiogram. If it's coronary blockage that caused the heart attack, Fannin will do a bypass." Of all the physicians to be charged with Bryce's care. "Joe Fannin? He and Bryce have always been competitors. They barely tolerate each other." "And aside from Bryce, he's the best cardiovascular surgeon on staff." "But he's not as good as you, dear heart." "I can't do the surgery, Delia. Bryce is family. But I'll scrub in during the procedure." When a nurse pushed through the door and nodded, Jack released Delia and took her hand. "Let's go." Delia's chest tightened as if she, too, might suffer a cardiac episode. "What should I tell him?" "He knows what's happening. In fact, my guess is he's been having symptoms for a while, even though he'd never admit it. It's a miracle he didn't have the attack while he was performing the mitral valve surgery." Definitely a miracle, and Delia hoped he had several more in reserve. "Is he in pain now?" "He's on morphine, so he's not feeling much of anything. He's also going to be groggy, so don't expect too much from him in the way of conversation." When her feet still failed to move, Delia recognized that although she wanted to be by Bryce's side, she couldn't shake the anxiety. But shake it she would. Bryce needed her consolation. He needed her to stay tough. He needed to know she was there for him, as he had always been there for her. She followed Jack into the room to find Bryce lying motionless in the hospital bed, looking frailer than she'd ever seen him. Last night he'd argued with her for over an hour, held his own, stood his ground. And now an oxygen mask covered his mouth, IV lines flooded his veins with life-sustaining medicine, the drone of a cardiac monitor counted every beat of his heart. Delia remained near the door while Jack pulled up a chair at Bryce's bedside and then gestured her over. Once she was seated, he rested his hands on her shoulders and said, "Delia's here, Bryce." Her husband's eyes drifted open, those dark, serious eyes that had captivated her from the moment she'd met him. She took his hand and feigned a stern demeanor. "If you didn't want to go on the picnic, Bryce, you only had to tell me. You didn't have to resort to these extremes." He lowered the mask from his mouth. "I want to go home." "You can't right now, honey." Delia slid the mask back into place and smiled. "Don't try to speak. Just rest." "I'll be back in a while," Jack said. "I need to find Annie and tell her before someone else does." A strong blanket of guilt settled over Delia. She hadn't given her daughter a passing thought since her arrival at the hospital. "Tell her I'll see her in a bit." "I will."
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She reached back and laid a palm on Jack's forearm. "Make certain she's all right. I worry so much about her and the baby." "You worry about Bryce. I'll take care of Annie." Delia could trust that he would see to her daughter, as he always had. When Bryce murmured her name, she scooted closer to the bed and held his hand against her cheek. "I'm here, honey." "Have you seen Liz yet?" he asked. Delia surmised the drugs were causing hallucinations, or dislodging a memory of the conversation they'd had about her friend only a few days before. "Lizzie's in Vancouver, sweetheart. She's been there since the seventies, right after Rusty left her for the woman who worked at the dry cleaners." He closed his eyes and appeared to drift off, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and content to have Delia close. The concerns she'd entertained that morning now appeared insignificant and somewhat foolish. In her heart, she knew he still loved her, as she loved him. She had no reason to believe that had changed over an argument that meant nothing in light of what they now faced. While Bryce continued to waft in and out of consciousness, Delia watched him, worried that his heart might fail him again. Worried that she might lose him to the same condition that he'd worked his entire career to cure in others. A while later, a nurse pushed through the door to check his vital signs. Fortunately, she was a nurse Delia recognized. "Is he okay, Kara?" "He's stable," she said. "We're about to get him ready for surgery." Delia experienced a return of the apprehension that had plagued her for the past few hours. "I thought the surgery wouldn't happen until tomorrow." "Dr. Fannin is finishing up a case now and he's scheduled Dr. Cooper's bypass after that. He wants to move quickly in order to avoid another incident." "Incident" as in another heart attack, Delia realized. "I'd like to speak to my son-in-law first. He should be back soon." "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cooper, but there's not much time." Delia felt as if she were running out of time, with too much left unsaid. She remained as close to Bryce as possible while Kara readied him for the operation. She'd never had a drop of official medical training, yet she knew much of the routine after helping Bryce study during medical school, through the countless hours she'd spent discussing his surgical experiences and from her own volunteer experiences. Still, seeing him undergo the procedure was almost too much to bear. When it appeared the preparation was complete, the nurse took Bryce's hand and started to slip the wedding band from his finger. Only then did he come fully awake. "Leave it on." His voice sounded hoarse and threatening. While Delia wanted to praise Bryce for his insistence, the nurse looked highly frustrated. "Come on, Dr. Cooper. You know I can't do that." Bryce raked the mask from his face. "It stays."
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"He never takes it off, even during surgery," Delia said. "He puts tape around it. Would that be possible in this instance?" "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cooper. All jewelry must be removed. Hospital policy." "Screw hospital policy," Bryce demanded. Worried over Bryce's distress and the possible repercussions, Delia repositioned the mask and feathered her thumb along his jaw. "I'll keep it with me, honey. And I'll personally put it back on as soon as you're in recovery." He mulled that over a minute before saying, "It's the last time I take it off." Delia almost surrendered to a bout of tears, but instead, she worked the ring from his finger. "I won't let it out of my sight." "Dr. Fannin will speak to you before he begins," Kara said as she backed toward the door. "I'll give you a few more minutes alone." Delia wanted more than a few minutes. She wanted another forty years with this man who had been her fortress during several storms. She had to believe that was possible. "Just think. After this is over, you'll be good as new. But I do plan to forgo the fried chicken from now on. And we'll have to monitor your cholesterol more closely, though I could swear you told me it was fine after your last check-up. We both need to walk more, too, get a bit more exercise—" "I love you, Dee." A sob caught in her throat. "Oh, honey, I love you, too." "I'm sorry for…everything." She wasn't certain what he meant by that. Sorry for getting sick on her? Or sorry for whatever he'd told her in the letter that still remained unopened? "You don't have to apologize, Bryce. You could never do anything that wouldn't earn my forgiveness…."
Chapter Four January, 1960 "I'm late, Lizzie." When her friend failed to look up from her reading, Delia yanked the book from Lizzie's clutches and tossed it on the end of the bed. "Did you hear me?" Lizzie shrugged. "My mama always says it's good form to keep a man waiting." If only Delia had followed that advice over the past five months. "I don't mean that kind of late. I mean late as I could be…you know. Pregnant." She said the last word in a whisper. "You did the deed?" Lizzie's expression turned from shock to dismay. "I can't believe you didn't tell me before now. When did it happen? Where did it happen?" "Keep your voice down, Lizzie. The walls have ears." And mouths attached to those ears, namely her sister's mouth.
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"I want details, Dee." "In his car down by the river, right before he left for the holidays." Lizzie draped her legs over the side of the bed and pointed an accusing finger. "I bet he got you liquored up and had his way with you. Those college boys are no good." "Bryce isn't like that at all. We started kissing, and it just happened. We didn't plan it." "You should've never seen A Summer Place." Elizabeth Anne McIntosh, always the prim and proper Southern lady. Delia gestured at the discarded book. "Look who's talking. You're reading your mother's copy of Peyton Place." Lizzie wrung her hands several times before Delia almost screamed for her to stop. "Exactly how late are you, Dee?" Too late to turn back time. "I missed my second period two days ago." "Not good." Delia couldn't argue with that. "I can't be pregnant, Lizzie. Mother's never been the same since Daddy died. The scandal would kill her. And on top of that, I'm not old enough to have a baby." "You're old enough to lift your skirts in the back of a Buick." The comment stung Delia so badly she could barely speak. "I thought you would understand, Lizzie. Guess I was wrong." Lizzie appeared genuinely remorseful. "I'm sorry, Dee. I'm just surprised by everything. That's all." Not any more surprised than Delia had been over her own behavior. But from that first night at the drive-in, they hadn't missed one opportunity to be together. They hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other, either. A rap came at the door, followed by Nosy Naomi's high-pitched voice announcing, "Your lover boy's getting impatient, Dee-Dee." Delia sent Lizzie a pleading look. "Tell him I'm not feeling well and I can't go out with him tonight. Tell him I have a cold." "You can't put off telling him, Dee. You might as well get it over with." Lizzie was right, as always. Ignoring the situation could only make matters worse. Of course, she could wait until she knew for sure she was pregnant. In the meantime, she could pretend nothing was wrong. She could march into the foyer and tell him that she couldn't be with him tonight. But oh, how she wanted to be with him, even knowing that what she needed to say could send him out of her life. After smoothing a shaky hand down her skirt, Delia came to her feet and grabbed her coat from the chair in the corner. "Wish me luck, Lizzie." "Good luck. I'll call my mother, tell her I'm spending the night and wait up until you get home. I'd say stay out of the backseat, but it's too late for that." Delia gave her a quick hug. "Thanks, Lizzie. I owe you."
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"I know, and you'll pay up the next time I sneak out with Rusty." Before her courage disappeared, Delia rushed down the stairs, feeling a little braver after talking with Lizzie. But when she met Bryce's gaze, her courage began to fail her. She crossed the room and managed a soft "Hi." He responded with "I've missed you," clasped her hand and then led her through the double front doors. He paused on the porch and picked up a white box from the swing. "This is for you." While Bryce looked on expectantly, Delia opened the lid to find a lily nestled in green paper. "It's beautiful, Bryce," she said as she lifted the flower and held it against her cheek. He leaned back against one of the porch's white columns and shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets. "Read the card." She returned the box to the bench and opened the small envelope to find a note that simply said, "For my lily of the Shenandoah Valley. Love, Bryce." While Delia continued to stare at the words, Bryce cleared his throat, drawing her attention. "I'm better at writing down my thoughts than saying them, but I always mean what I say." "I realized that when you sent me the letters." She'd received one every day they were apart. Personal letters containing his private thoughts, and she'd answered every one. Bryce studied the wooden flooring beneath his feet. "We should continue our conversation inside the house before we freeze to death." She couldn't risk being overheard by Naomi or their mother. "We could do it in your car." When Bryce sent her a half-smile, Delia's face heated. "I meant we can talk in your car. We could have some privacy there." "If that's what you want. At least it's warmer." After they had settled into the Buick, Bryce turned on the radio to the mellow sounds of I Only Have Eyes for You. They sat in silence for a few moments until Delia said, "I have something I need to tell you, Bryce." "I have something to say to you, too." Delia saw her chance to put off the announcement a while longer, even though Bryce's serious tone worried her. "You go first." "Okay." He leaned back in the seat and released a long breath. "When I was home, I couldn't think of anything but getting back to you. And I know we come from different backgrounds. I'm from a family of simple, hard-working people who don't have a lot of money—" "But Bryce—" He held up a hand to quiet her. "Just let me get this out, Dee." He shifted and draped an arm around her shoulder. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm going to finish medical school and become a surgeon. It's going to be rough at first, and I might not be able to give you a lot in the beginning, but someday I'll be able to give you everything. A nice house. Kids. Flowers every week for the rest of our lives. So what do you say?" "What exactly are YOU saying, Bryce?"
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"I'm saying I love you, Dee, and I want you to be my wife. We don't have to rush it. We can be engaged for as long as you want." He swiped a hand over his jaw. "I'm getting ahead of myself. I haven't even asked how you feel about me." He had no idea how deeply she felt for him. Debonair Bryce Cooper, who'd overcome his humble beginnings and poverty to become a doctor. Strong, silent Bryce Cooper, who'd delivered the sweetest words Delia had ever heard. The man of her dreams, Bryce Cooper, who had the most wonderful timing. She leaned across the seat and kissed him softly. "I love you, too, Bryce." He smiled. "Then your answer is yes?" "As long as we get married in the next few weeks." "Why the hurry?" "Because I think we're going to have a baby…."
Chapter Five "Mom?" Delia shifted in the waiting room chair to find Anne hurrying toward her with Jack following close behind. She immediately stood and opened her arms to receive her daughter's embrace. "I'm so glad you're here, sweetheart." After a quick squeeze, Anne pulled back. "I'm sorry I didn't get here before Dad went into surgery. I was scrubbed in on a C-section when Jack came by. He waited until we were done." "Speaking of scrubbing in, I've got to do that so I can see what's happening with Bryce." Jack leaned over to kiss Delia's cheek. "Hang in there." Delia felt as if she was hanging by a precarious thread in some other dimension. "Just make sure Fannin does a good job." "You bet." He circled his arm around Anne's waist. "Walk with me." Although she wanted to pace, Delia reclaimed her seat and watched while Anne and Jack, arms around waists, strode toward the double doors leading to the surgical suites. Once there, they faced each other and spoke quietly before embracing for a long moment. Even though their marriage had had its ups and downs, it was very apparent to Delia they were meant to be together. Following a kiss, Jack and Anne parted, with Jack pushing through the doors and Anne returning to the waiting room to take the chair next to Delia's. "Jack says everything will be okay, Mom." If only she could believe that. "I know. Bypass surgery is practically routine these days. But that doesn't mean something won't go wrong." "You've always been the optimist, Mother. Now is not the time to change old habits." Anne hooked her arm through Delia's. "You could use a pick-me-up." Delia forced a teasing smile. "I didn't pack my flask, honey."
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Anne rolled her eyes. "I'm talking about babies, not booze. We could go up to the nursery, like we used to when you brought me to the hospital to visit Dad." Delia remembered those times fondly, but still… "I can't leave with your father in surgery." "Jack will page me if anything happens, which it won't." "I'm sorry, Anne. I just wouldn't feel right wandering around the hospital. Besides, most of the babies room with the mothers these days." "That's true. I plan to have this little one in the room with me." As Anne placed her palm on her swollen belly, a sweet, sweet memory filtered into Delia's mind. "Things have certainly changed since you were born. Back then, they gave us something called 'twilight sleep,' so of course I don't remember your birth. But your father insisted on being in the delivery room, even though that was unheard of at the time. And since he was a medical student, they let him." She draped an arm over Anne's shoulder. "He talked to anyone who would listen about you. He was so proud of his baby girl." "That's news to me, Mom." The slight resentment resonating from Anne's tone told Delia that her daughter still had father issues to deal with. "You may still believe his work has always been more important than you, but that's not the case. He's just never been all that good at verbally expressing his feelings." "I know. Jack's the same way." "And Jack loves you more than anything, Anne. Never forget that." Anne smiled. "Speaking of Jack, he agreed to name the baby Katherine." "Oh, Anne, your grandmother would have loved that. I just wish she were around to see her greatgrandchild." And what if Bryce wasn't able to… No, she refused to go there. Feeling restless, Delia rummaged in her purse and withdrew a pad and pencil, earning Anne's frown. "What are you doing, Mother?" "Compiling a grocery list," she said as she scribbled down a few items. "I'm going to make certain Bryce Cooper eats right from now on." "Good luck with that, Dee." Startled, Delia looked up from the paper, certain she'd imagined the familiar voice. No, she hadn't imagined it at all. There Lizzie stood, her previous pin curls relaxed in soft, silver waves, and glasses covering her green eyes. Older, yes, but still very much Elizabeth Anne McIntosh. Delia's hand immediately went to her mouth as she rose from the chair. "What are you doing here, Liz?" "I'm here to see you, you big ninny," she said. She hugged Delia long and hard before regarding Anne. "I also wanted to see my godchild and my grand-godchild-to-be. How are you feeling, Anne?" Anne embraced Lizzie. "I'm feeling great, Liz. At least as far as the baby's concerned. It's so wonderful to see you." "Why didn't you call me to say you were coming, Liz?" Delia asked around her lingering shock.
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"Let's sit." Lizzie gestured at the bank of waiting room chairs and took the seat next to Delia, Anne claiming her place on the other side. "Actually, Bryce called me a few days ago and invited me," she said. "He told me you'd been in a funk lately and he thought surprising you with a visit from me might help." Delia had mistakenly believed Bryce had been talking out of his head when he'd mentioned Lizzie a while ago. "How did you know I was here?" Lizzie laughed. "Where else would you be? When I went by the house and didn't get an answer, I figured you'd be doing your volunteer thing. I ran down one of your friends and she said I'd probably find you in the CCU. And here you are. Now tell the powers that be you need the afternoon off." "I'm not here to work, Liz. I'm here because Bryce is having surgery." "Oh heavens, Dee. What's wrong?" Delia recounted the events of the morning—events all too real. "They're performing a bypass right now." Lizzie took Delia's hands into hers. "What can I do to help?" "Distract me. Tell me what's been going on with your life since the divorce." A soft blush colored Liz's cheeks. "I've met a man. A very nice man who's asked me to accompany him to Malaysia after the first of the year." "Malaysia?" Anne and Delia said simultaneously. "He's accepted a job there. And since I don't have any real family left and I've closed the antique shop, I consider it the adventure of a lifetime." Delia smiled. "This is so ironic. When we were young, I was the one who swore I'd never settle down and you were the one who wanted to settle down." "I settled when I married Rusty," Lizzie said. "But you didn't when you married Bryce. He's a one-in-a-million man." "Yes, he is." And the thought of losing him brought tears to Delia's eyes. Lizzie hugged her again. "It's going to be okay, Dee. He's not going to let a few clogged arteries keep him down for long." Anne reached into her pocket, withdrew a tissue and handed it to Delia. "Lizzie's right, Mom. He'll be ready to perform surgery two-weeks post-op." Delia swiped at her cheeks. "I'll have to sit on him to make him behave." "From what you've told me about Bryce, Dee, he might enjoy that." While Delia and Lizzie shared a laugh, Anne stood and faced the pair. "I'm going to find something to drink while you two discuss things a daughter has no business hearing. Can I get you anything?" "Something with caffeine," Delia said. "It's going to be a long afternoon." After Anne departed, Delia turned to Lizzie. "I'm so worried about Bryce, and it's not only about the surgery." Liz gave her a puzzled look. "What else could there be?"
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Delia told her about the flower and the discarded letter. "Anyway, he's been acting strangely the past month or so. He's scheduled surgery well into the evening and when he does come home, he goes straight to bed. That's why I'm afraid he's found someone else." Lizzie had the nerve to laugh. "Good God, Delia. Has it occurred to you that he wasn't himself because of the heart thing? He certainly isn't cheating on you." "How do you know that for sure?" "Because of what you've already been through." "If you mean Chicago, he could be paying me back." "That's ridiculous, Dee. If he didn't leave you then, he's not going to leave you now…."
Chapter Six Chicago, 1965 "Please say something, Bryce. Yell, scream." Delia could tolerate anything but silence. He kept his back to her, his arms outstretched as he gripped the edge of the bureau. "You just told me you're having an affair, Dee. What do you expect me to say? Everything's okay?" She pushed off the bed, crossed the room and touched his shoulder. "I know everything's not okay. I also know I've taken a huge risk by telling you about it, but I can't keep living this lie." He shook off her hand. "How long has this been going on?" "Two months." Bryce released a caustic laugh. "Two months? I've been playing the fool for two months?" "You've been too busy to notice. Too caught up in work. I turned to Johnny because I had no one else to turn to." He spun around and held up his hands, palms forward. "Wait a minute. You mean Johnny our neighbor? The car mechanic?" "Yes." "You disappoint me, Delia. I would've thought you'd screw around with someone who has more class--or at least, more money." Delia couldn't deny her anger any longer. "It has nothing to do with money. I needed the attention you couldn't, or wouldn't, give me." "Then you're saying this is my fault?" "No, I'm not saying that. I am saying that you're more concerned with your job than you are with me and Anne. I'm telling you I was lonely." "You knew when we married how it was going to be. The long hours. The years of training. You told me the day we married that you'd be there every step of the way."
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"I have been here, Bryce. Fixing your meals, helping you study. Raising your daughter. I have no life aside from you and Anne. Johnny understood that. He became my friend before anything else happened." He grasped her shoulders. "How many times did you have sex with him?" His tone resonated bitterness and loathing. "I don't want to—" He gave her a slight shake. "How many times?" "I don't remember because it wasn't worth remembering." "Because he wasn't good in the sack?" "Because he wasn't you." Bryce dropped his arms, his hands fisted at his sides. "Damn you for doing this to us." Seeing her world on the verge of slipping away, Delia was overcome with desperation. "I love you, Bryce. Only you. And I'll prove it, if you'll give me another chance." "Give me one good reason I should." "Mommy, I'm home!" Delia stiffened at the sound of her daughter's voice. She struggled to regain some composure before calling, "I'm in the bedroom, honey." Anne bounded through the door, but pulled up short when she caught sight of Bryce. "Daddy! You're home!" When Anne sprinted across the room, Bryce grabbed her up and popped a kiss on her cheek. "Did my darlin' Clementine have a good day at school?" She twisted one dark, braided pigtail around her finger. "I'm not Clementine, Daddy. I'm Elizabeth Anne Cooper." "That you are." Bryce set her down on her feet. "Why don't you go watch cartoons while I talk with your mom." Anne frowned. "You come watch with me in a minute, okay?" He glanced at Delia before saying, "Okay." After their daughter left the room, Delia closed the door and leaned back against it for support. "You wanted a good reason, Bryce, and now you have it. We have to do what's best for her. If we split up now, she might never get over it." He wrapped both hands around his nape and studied the ceiling. "I'm not sure I'll ever get over this, Dee. Not enough to give her a happy life with two loving parents." "Are we giving her that now?" He leveled his gaze on her in a menacing stare. "What do you mean?"
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"You're rarely home, and you've missed so many moments. Precious moments you can't get back. One day you're going to wake up and realize that you don't even know your daughter." "I don't know you anymore, Dee." She barely knew herself, but she did know that she couldn't go down without a fight. "We can get reacquainted by spending more time together, but that means we both have to make the effort. I need more than an hour a day with you, Bryce. More than a passing hello on your way to the hospital or the library. I also need your forgiveness." "I don't know if I can forgive you." Delia saw only one option at the moment, though it could be the hardest thing she'd ever done. "If that's the way you feel, then I'll leave tomorrow and take Anne home with me for the Thanksgiving holiday. That will allow you time to decide." She pointed behind her. "I'll pack her things while you tell her goodbye." Before she could open the door, his arms came around her and he braced his palms on the facing, trapping her. "I hate the thought of another man touching you. But I swear to God, even after what you've done, I love you too much to watch you walk away." She turned into his arms to find tears welling in his eyes, only then realizing the full extent of her horrible mistake. "I never meant to hurt you, Bryce," she said as she lowered her gaze to keep from witnessing the pain in his eyes. "I wish I could take it all back." He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Maybe you really did mean to hurt me, at least on a subconscious level. And maybe I deserved it in some ways. I'm willing to try again, but it's going to take time, Dee." "I know we can make it through this, Bryce, I don't care how much time it takes, because I can't stand the thought of losing you…."
*** "We almost lost him, Delia." Only a few moments before, Delia had been chatting with Anne and Liz about their youthful antics. And now, she attempted to comprehend what Jack had told her, without success. "I don't understand." "Bryce arrested on the table," he said. "We had to close before Joe completed the surgery." Delia sagged against Lizzie's side. "Then he's still alive?" "Yeah." Jack rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "But he was down for over forty-five minutes. He's respirator dependent." "He's on life support?" Anne's voice reflected the shock Delia was still experiencing. "He suffered cerebral hypoxia. We won't know how bad it is until we get the results of the EEG." The words bounded around Delia's head, searing her confidence, shattering her faith. "I want to see him." She had to see him. To know if Jack had told her the truth—that Bryce wasn't going to pull through. "I'll find out if they're ready." He kissed Anne's cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
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Delia allowed Anne and Liz to guide her back to the waiting room chairs, her mind foggy with disbelief. "How did this happen?" Anne draped her arm around her shoulder. "It's a risk, Mom. His heart might not have been strong enough— " "His heart is strong, Anne. Stronger than any heart I've ever known." Liz laid a palm on Delia's arm. "Dee, you need to consider all the possibilities." Fury sent her out of the seat. "The only thing I'm going to do right now is see my husband. No one is going to stop me." And no one would ever convince her to give up on the man she'd loved for a lifetime.
Chapter Seven "You haven't had a break in hours, Dee. I'll stay with him while you at least grab some coffee." Delia kept her gaze centered on Bryce, firmly gripping his hand, as she had throughout the night. "I'm not leaving, Liz. When he wakes up, I want to be here." Lizzie pulled up a chair next to Delia's. "You heard what Jack told you, Dee. Bryce has no brain activity. The machines are keeping him alive." Her mind rejected that notion completely. "I don't give a damn what anyone says. I won't accept that there's nothing else to be done." That she and Bryce had run out of miracles. Lizzie rested a hand on her shoulder. "I know this is terrible, and I know you can't imagine life without him, but—" "No, you can't imagine it." Delia refused to believe that her pre-surgery conversation with her husband was her last. She couldn't accept that she would never greet him at the door to inquire over his day, scold him over forgetting his house keys—or awake to find a lily on her pillow. "Eventually, you're going to have to decide, Dee." Her gaze snapped to Liz. "Decide what? That I'm going to let him die?" "He's already gone, sweetie. He's not coming back." Delia turned her attention back to Bryce, who looked so peaceful, as if he were simply sleeping. "He's right here." Right there looking as if he could get up and argue with her. She wished he would. She prayed that this nightmare would end with Bryce awakening and disproving them all. "You have to ask yourself what Bryce would want, Dee. Would he want you to keep him alive artificially, or would he expect you to let him go?" She couldn't let him go. She wasn't ready to let him go. But then she recalled another place, another time, another loss….
*** Virginia, January 1985
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"When are you going to give up and come back to bed, Dee?" Delia glanced up from her perch on the antique settee, where she'd been sitting for a time, taking to memory all the details of her childhood home. She discovered Bryce standing in the opening to the parlor dressed in his favorite blue flannel robe, looking exhausted and somewhat agitated "I couldn't sleep," she said. "Too much on my mind." He strolled to the sofa, dropped down next to her and draped her legs across his thighs. "I can't sleep if you're not in bed with me." She playfully elbowed his side. "You were snoring when I left an hour ago." "Sorry. Great sex makes me real relaxed." She felt the warmth of a school-girl blush, ridiculous considering all the times they'd made love. "It was great, wasn't it?" He tucked her hair behind her ears and grinned. "Yeah. Being in your old bed reminded me of that time you invited me into your room when your mother was away visiting her brother." "I'll never forget that night. Naomi almost caught us." She laid her head against his shoulder. "It's hard to believe I won't be visiting this place again after tomorrow." He brushed a kiss across her forehead. "We could always keep it in the family. It could be our retirement home." She appreciated his suggestion, and loved him for understanding. "That's not practical. Besides, we'd have to figure out what to do with it for the next twenty years or so, until we retire. I'll just have to rely on the mementoes I've packed to keep the good memories alive." They fell silent for a time until Bryce asked, "What are you thinking, babe?" "About the past two weeks, and how much I appreciate what you've done for me. Taking off work, being right there when I needed you." "That's what I'm supposed to do, Dee. Be there for you. I know how tough it's been with Naomi's death and having to sell the farm. But you're tough, too, and I know you're going to be fine." Right then she wasn't so sure. "Don't forget Anne and Jack's break-up. I can't believe that after two years it's over between them, when I was so certain they'd eventually marry. After we're home, I plan to talk some sense into our daughter before it's too late." "You can't fix everything, Dee. You have to let them make their own decisions. Jack's got a lot going on with residency and Anne can't accept that, just like she's never accepted my absence from her life." How well Delia knew. "She has to learn that loving someone entails compromise and a willingness to make a few sacrifices." "Maybe she will in time. We certainly didn't figure it all out overnight." No, they hadn't. Years had passed before they'd mastered the ins and outs of their relationship. Before all had been forgiven.
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Feeling melancholy, Delia lifted her legs from his lap, left the sofa and moved to the window to find a cast of blue light illuminating the white-blanketed ground. "It's still snowing." The hardwood floor creaked with the weight of Bryce's footsteps. He came up behind her and enfolded her in his arms. "Hope it lets up before we leave." The thought of leaving—and never returning—still weighed heavily on her soul. "I feel as if I'll be closing the book on an important part of my life the minute I walk out the door." "Remember, you'll still have the memories." She did have memories—both good and bad. Summers spent learning to ride with her beloved father before his death. Bryce's heartfelt proposal. Her mother wasting away for years from grief. Her sister's last few moments on earth. "Naomi was a saint," she said. "She spent her adulthood caring for Mother while keeping this place going all by herself. I should have helped her more." "You spent a month out of every summer with her, sweetheart. You also tried to convince her to move to Texas. She made the choice to stay." Delia faced him again. "But she was still young Bryce. Barely forty. She never had any children or a husband. I can't help but feel she was lonely, and I wasn't supportive enough. I should have insisted she have more chemo." "She was sick, Dee. The cancer was going to take her sooner or later and she chose sooner. You were only respecting her wishes. I'd like to think you'd do the same for me if I ended up in that situation." She pressed her fingertips against his lips. "Don't say that. In fact, don't even think it. It's bad luck." He caught her hand and held it against his chest. "I see it every day. People who aren't prepared for the worst-case scenario. I want you to promise me that if I'm ever too sick to have a quality life, then you'll do the right thing." She shuddered at the thought of making such a dreadful decision. "I'm not sure I can promise that." "You'll have to, Dee. Otherwise, I'll be back to haunt you. I'd listen to your phone conversations, hide your moisturizer, rearrange your underwear drawer so it looks like mine. I'll still leave the empty milk carton in the refrigerator." His grin alone lifted her spirits. "You wouldn't dare." "Yeah, I would, so promise me you won't force me to do such vile things." She raised her hand in oath. "I promise that I will do the right thing, as long as you promise to keep your ghostly self out of my underwear drawer." Despite the ensuing laughter, despite his attempt at levity, Delia's gray mood remained unchanged. "I suppose we should get back to the bedroom so we won't oversleep and miss our plane in the morning." "I'm wide-awake now." He winked. "Care to engage in a little more slap and tickle with a geezer?" "Sure. Do you happen to know one?" "You're a real comedian, Delia Hayes Cooper. Now, let's go so you can entertain me in bed."
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Hand in hand, they started toward the bedroom, yet Delia felt the need to pause and take one more look around. Take everything to memory, from the grandfather clock in the corner, to the baby grand piano at the far end of the room. "I'm really going to miss this place," she said as they climbed the stairs. "I'm going to miss my sister most of all." Bryce paused at the landing and faced her again. "It's hard to give up the things we love most, Dee. But there comes a time when you have to let go…."
Chapter Eight The decision had been made, the documents had been signed. Only one thing remained—saying goodbye to the man who had meant everything to Delia. She reclaimed her place at her husband's bedside, silently praying for strength. Lizzie stood behind her while Jack and Anne stayed on the opposite side of the bed, the whoosh of the respirator the only thing disturbing the heavy silence. But before Joe Fannin could turn off the machine that would end Bryce's life, Jack raised a hand to stop him. "Not yet." After shutting off the cardiac monitor, Jack moved to the head of the hospital bed and positioned a nasal cannula on Bryce to deliver the final breath of oxygen after the ventilator ceased. A gesture designed solely for the comfort of the family, Bryce had told her years earlier. Something he had taught Jack, the man who'd been the next best thing to a son. The man whose grief reflected from his eyes as Anne leaned over the railing to kiss her father's cheek. "I love you, Daddy." Delia couldn't recall the last time Anne had called him "Daddy." But she did remember those nights he would tuck his "baby girl" into bed, before their relationship traveled down the road of resentment. I love you, Daddy… I love you, too, my darlin' Clementine… Jack centered his gaze on Delia, seeking her permission to proceed without saying a word. She wanted to tell him she couldn't do it. She wanted to go on believing that hope still existed. Believe that her beloved Bryce could still be saved. I want you to promise me…you'll do the right thing… Delia inhaled deeply and answered with a nod, knowing she couldn't go back on a promise made years ago. And in accordance with another promise made a day ago, she slipped the wedding ring on Bryce's finger, as she'd done the day they'd exchanged their first vows. While the room grew still, devoid of noise, she laid her head on his chest to hear the last beat of his heart.
*** October 30, 1999 If absence made the heart grow fonder, Delia decided to see if it could help a heart mend. Unfortunately, her theory had proved wrong. She'd spent the past several weeks with Lizzie and her new love in Canada, taking in the sights and reminiscing about their teenage follies, until she'd felt she'd worn out her welcome. Before she'd returned to Texas, she'd visited other old friends in Virginia in an effort to connect with her past. She'd even made a trip to the farm and had been welcomed by a young couple and their three small children, finding a measure of peace in knowing she had seen her childhood home again, just as she hoped she would see Bryce someday. But the sorrow, the soul-deep yearning for her husband, had yet to abate. She doubted it ever would.
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As of two weeks ago, she'd been back in Dallas, preparing for her grandchild's birth, only to be kept waiting by a little girl who apparently was avoiding entering the world until she was darn good and ready. Delia definitely had her own problems with avoidance. So far she'd evaded two things since her return to the house—sleeping in the room she'd once shared with Bryce, and reading the letter he'd left her their final morning together. Tonight, Delia vowed to put an end to her reticence, even as she sat on the edge of the bed, her courage going the way of the rabbit hole every time she started to unfold the page. Maybe she would be better off not knowing the content. Yet the note contained his last words, and that alone moved her to finally read. Dear Dee, You know I've never been good at saying what I feel, so I decided to write my thoughts down. Lately it seems like time's slipping away too fast, and that, along with my love for you, prompted my decision to retire early. I also realize I've been selfish, expecting you to move away before the baby's born. I understand now that it doesn't matter where we are, as long as we're together. I've also thought a lot about us and what we've been through. I hope that I've given you everything you've ever wanted, but I know that's probably not the case. I realize you had dreams that you never fulfilled, and places that you've never seen. See them, Dee, whether I'm with you or not. Don't waste a moment on regrets, and don't live in the past. You've always had so much life in you, much more than I have, and I hope you hold on to that, even after I'm gone. I wish I could promise you another forty years, sweetheart, but in case that's not possible, I've decided to give you a silk lily, something to remind you that I'll always be with you, not only on Monday, but every day of the rest of your life. I love you still, and I always will. Bryce He'd realized all along he was dying. Through a haze of tears, Delia read the letter again, wondering if perhaps he had absorbed some of her intuition throughout their years of marriage. Or perhaps, as Jack had said, he'd begun to have symptoms. Maybe the old medical adage had proved to be true—he'd felt the angel wings beating at his ears. Regardless, he had sensed his time was growing short, and he'd wanted her to know that she had his permission to embrace life without him. Yet at the moment, she wasn't certain how she would continue to do that. The shrill sound of the phone startled her and she questioned who would be calling at quarter till midnight, although she had her suspicions. She received confirmation when Jack said, "It's show time, Delia." "The baby?" "Not yet, but Annie's in labor. Just thought you might want to know." Her spirits lifted. "Are you at the hospital?" "We're still at home. She insists on waiting until her contractions are closer together and I told her to lie down and rest. It could be a while, so I suggest you get some sleep, too. I'll call you as soon as we head out."
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"I'm not sure how much sleep I'll get tonight. But I'll be over first thing in the morning if I don't hear from you before then. And Jack, do me a favor. Tell her I read the letter, and everything's okay. I was wrong. She'll understand." "You bet. We'll see you soon, Grandma." After Jack hung up, Delia automatically glanced at Bryce's side of the bed to deliver the news, only to realize he wasn't there, at least not physically. But she somehow sensed his presence, and she didn't question how her decision to finally read the letter coincided with the baby's impending birth. Divine intervention, she supposed. After all, Bryce Cooper had always possessed impeccable timing, only one of the many, many things she'd loved about him. Delia removed the precious pages from her lap, slid them back in the envelope and tucked it in the bottom drawer of her dresser, the place that housed all things of true value, including every letter he'd ever written to her. After returning to the bed, she took the lily from the nightstand and placed it on Bryce's pillow, where she would leave it until Monday, and all the Mondays to come. Before she drifted off to sleep, Delia recalled the way he'd ended each and every letter, and repeated the words as a tribute, as a promise she would continue to keep. "I love you still, and I always will."
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Never Too Late by Brenda Jackson Twelve days and counting… In less than two weeks, Sienna Bradford will be Sienna Davis once again. On the verge of divorce, Sienna has been ordered to remove her belongings from the Smoky Mountain cabin she once shared with her soonto-be-ex, Dane. Unbeknownst to Sienna, Dane has also made the trip up to the cabin to collect something he left behind. And that major blizzard the weather reports say is still three days away? Well, it just made its own unexpected appearance.…
Chapter One Twelve days and counting… Pushing a lock of twisted hair that had fallen in her face behind her ear, Sienna Bradford, soon to become Sienna Davis once again, straightened her shoulders as she walked into the cabin she'd once shared with her husband — soon-to-be ex-husband. She glanced around. Had it been just three years ago when Dane had brought her here for the first time? Three years ago when the two of them had sat there in front of the fireplace after making love, and planned their wedding? Promising that no matter what, their marriage would last forever? She took a deep breath knowing for them, forever would end in twelve days in Judge Ratcliff's chambers. Just thinking about it made her heart ache, but she decided it wouldn't help matters to have a pity-party. What was done was done and things just hadn't worked out between her and Dane liked they'd hoped. There was nothing to do now but move on with her life. But first, according to a letter her attorney had received from Dane's attorney a few days ago, she had ten days to clear out any and all of her belongings from the cabin, and the sooner she got the task done the better. Dane had agreed to let her keep the condo if she returned full ownership of the cabin to him. She'd had no problem with that since he had owned it before they married. Sienna crossed the room, shaking off the March chill. According to forecasters, a snowstorm was headed toward the Smoky Mountains within the next seventy-two hours, which meant she had to hurry and pack up her stuff and take the two-hour drive back to Charlotte. Once she got home she intended to stay inside and curl up in bed with a good book. Sienna smiled, thinking that a "do nothing" weekend was just what she needed in her too-frantic life. Her smile faded when she considered that since starting her own interior decorating business a year and a half ago, she'd been extremely busy — and she had to admit that was when her marital problems with Dane had begun. Sienna took a couple of steps toward the bedroom to begin packing her belongings when she heard the sound of the door opening. Turning quickly, she suddenly remembered she had forgotten to lock the door. Not smart when she was alone in a secluded cabin high up in the mountains, and a long way from civilization. A scream quickly died in her throat when the person who walked in — standing a little over six feet with dark eyes, close-cropped black hair, chestnut coloring and a medium build — was none other than her soon-tobe-ex. From the glare on his face, she could tell he wasn't happy to see her. But so what? She wasn't happy to see him, either, and couldn't help wondering why he was there. Before she could swallow the lump in her throat to ask, he crossed his arms over his broad chest, intensified his glare and said in that too-sexy voice she knew so well, "I thought that was your car parked outside, Sienna. What are you doing here?"
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Chapter Two Dane wet his suddenly dry lips and immediately decided he needed a beer. Lucky for him there was a sixpack in the refrigerator from the last time he'd come to the cabin. But he didn't intend on moving an inch until Sienna told him what she was doing here. She was nervous, he could tell. Well, that was too friggin bad. She was the one who'd filed for the divorce, he hadn't. But since she had made it clear that she wanted him out of her life, he had no problem giving her what she wanted even if the pain was practically killing him. But she'd never know that. "What do you think I'm doing here?" she asked smartly, reclaiming his absolute attention. "If I knew, I wouldn't have asked," he said, giving her the same unblinking stare. And to think that at one time he actually thought she was his whole world. At some point during their marriage she had changed and transitioned into quite a character — someone he was certain he didn't know anymore. She met his gaze for a long, level moment before placing her hands on her hips. Doing so drew his attention to her body; a body he'd seen naked countless times, a body he knew as well as his own; a body he used to ease into during the heat of passion to receive pleasure so keen and satisfying, just thinking about it made him hard. "The reason I'm here, Dane Bradford, is because your attorney sent mine this nasty little letter demanding that I remove my stuff within ten days, and this weekend was better than next weekend. However, no thanks to you, I still had to close the shop early to beat traffic and the bad weather." He actually smiled at the thought of her having to do that. "And I bet it almost killed you to close your shop early. Heaven forbid. You probably had to cancel a couple of appointments. Something I could never get you to do for me." Sienna rolled her eyes. They'd had this same argument over and over again and it all boiled down to the same thing. He thought her job meant more to her than he did because of all the time she'd put into it. But what really irked her with that accusation was that before she'd even entertained the idea of quitting her job and embarking on her own business, they had talked about it and what it would mean. She would have to work her butt off and network to build a new clientele; and then there would be time spent working on decorating proposals, spending long hours in many beautiful homes of the rich and famous. And he had understood and had been supportive…at least in the beginning. But then he began complaining that she was spending too much time away from home, away from him. Things only got worse from there, and now she was a woman who had gotten married at twenty-four and was getting divorced at twenty-seven. "Look, Dane, it's too late to look back, reflect and complain. In twelve days you'll be free of me and I'll be free of you. I'm sure there's a woman out there who has the time and patience to —" "Now that's a word you don't know the meaning of, Sienna," Dane interrupted. "Patience. You were always in a rush, and your tolerance level for the least little thing was zero. Yeah, I know I probably annoyed the hell out of you at times. But then there were times you annoyed me, as well. Neither of us is perfect." Sienna let out a deep breath. "I never said I was perfect, Dane." "No, but you sure as hell acted like you thought you were, didn't you?"
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Chapter Three Dane's question struck a nerve. Considering her background, how could he assume Sienna thought she was perfect? She had come from a dysfunctional family if ever there was one. Her mother hadn't loved her father; her father loved all women except her mother; and neither seemed to love their only child. Sienna had always combated lack of love with doing the right thing, thinking that if she did, her parents would eventually love her. It didn't work. But still, she had gone through high school and college being the good girl, thinking being good would eventually pay off and earn her the love she'd always craved. In her mind, it had when she'd met Dane, the man least likely to fall in love with her. He was the son of the millionaire Bradfords who'd made money in land development. She hadn't been his family's choice and they made sure she knew it every chance they got. Whenever she was around them they made her feel inadequate, like she didn't measure up to their society friends, and since she didn't come from a family with a prestigious background, she wasn't good enough for their son. She bet they wished they'd never hired the company she'd been working for to decorate their home. That's how she and Dane had met. She'd been going over fabric swatches with his mother and he'd walked in after playing a game of tennis. The rest was history. But the question of the hour was, had she been so busy trying to succeed the past year and a half, trying to be the perfect business owner, that she had eventually alienated the one person who'd mattered most to her? "Can't answer that, can you?" Dane said, breaking into her thoughts. "Maybe that will give you something to think about twelve days from now when you put your John Hancock on the divorce papers. Now if you'll excuse me, I have something to do," he said, walking around her toward the bedroom. "Wait. You never said why you're here?" He stopped. The intensity of his gaze sent shivers of heat through her entire body. And it didn't help matters that he was wearing jeans and a dark brown bomber leather jacket that made him look sexy as hell…as usual. "I was here a couple of weekends ago and left something behind. I came to get it." "Were you alone?" The words had rushed out before she could hold them back and immediately she wanted to smack herself. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she cared…even if she did. He hooked his thumbs in his jeans and continued to hold her gaze. "Would it matter to you if I weren't?" She couldn't look at him, certain he would see her lie when she replied, "No, it wouldn't matter. What you do is none of my business." "That's what I thought." And then he walked off toward the bedroom and closed the door. Sienna frowned. That was another thing she didn't like about Dane. He never stayed around to finish one of their arguments. Thanks to her parents she was a pro at it, but Dane would always walk away after giving some smart parting remark that only made her that much more angry. He didn't know how to fight fair. He didn't know how to fight at all. He'd come from a family too dignified for such nonsense. Moving toward the kitchen to see if there was anything of hers in there, Sienna happened to glance out of the window. "Oh my God," she said, rushing over to the window. It was snowing already. No, it wasn't just snowing, there was a full-scale blizzard going on outside. What happened to the seventy-two hours warning? She heard Dane when he came out of the bedroom. He looked beyond her and out the window, uttering one hell of a curse word before quickly walking to the door, slinging it open and stepping outside.
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In just that short period of time, everything was beginning to turn white. The last time they'd had a sudden snowstorm such as this had been a few years ago. It had been so bad the media had nicknamed it the "Beast from the East." It seemed the beast was back and it had turned downright spiteful. Not only was it acting ugly outside, it had placed Sienna in one hell of a predicament. She was stranded in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains with her soon-to-be-ex. Things couldn't get any more bizarre than that.
Chapter Four Moments later when Dane stepped back into the cabin, slamming the door behind him, Sienna could tell he was so mad he could barely breathe. "What's wrong, Dane? You're being forced to cancel a date tonight?" she asked snidely. A part of her was still upset at the thought that he might have brought someone here a couple of weekends ago when they weren't officially divorced yet. The mere fact they had been separated for six months didn't count. She hadn't gone out with anyone. Indulging in a relationship with another man hadn't even crossed her mind. He took a step toward her and she refused to back up. She was determined to maintain her ground and her composure, although the intense look in his eyes was causing crazy things to happen to her body, like it normally did whenever they were alone for any period of time. There may have been a number of things wrong with their marriage, but lack of sexual chemistry had never been one of them. "Do you know what this means?" he asked, his voice shaking in anger. She tilted her head to one side. "Other than I'm being forced to remain here with you for a couple of hours, no, I don't know what it means." She saw his hands ball into fists at his side and knew he was probably fighting the urge to strangle her. "We're not talking about hours, Sienna. Try days. Haven't you been listening to the weather reports?" She glared at him. "Haven't you? I'm not here by myself." "Yes, but I thought I could come up here and in ten minutes max get what I came for and leave before the bad weather kicked in." Sienna regretted that she hadn't been listening to the weather reports, at least not in detail. She'd known that a snowstorm was headed toward the mountains within seventy-two hours, which was why she'd thought like Dane that she had time to rush and get in and out before the nasty weather hit. Anything other than that, she was clueless. And what was he saying about them being up here for days instead of hours? "Yes, I did listen to the weather reports, but evidently I missed something." He shook his head. "Evidently you missed a lot if you think this storm is going to blow over in a couple of hours. According to forecasters, what you see isn't the worst of it, and because of that unusual cold front hovering about in the east, it may last for days." She swallowed deeply. The thought of spending days alone in a cabin with Dane didn't sit well with her. "How many days are we talking about?" "Try three or four." She didn't want to try any at all, and as she continued to gaze into his eyes she saw a look of worry replace the anger in their dark depths. Then she knew what had him upset.
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"Do we have enough food and supplies up here to hold us for three or four days?" she asked, as she began to nervously gnaw on her lower lip. The magnitude of the situation they were in was slowly dawning on her, and when he didn't answer immediately she knew they were in trouble.
Chapter Five Dane saw the panic that suddenly lined Sienna's face. He wished he could say he didn't give a damn, but there was no way that he could. This woman would always matter to him whether she was married to him or not. From the moment he had walked into his father's study that day and their gazes had connected, he had known then, as miraculous at it had seemed, and without a word spoken between them, that he was meant to love her. And for a while he had convinced her of that, but not anymore. Evidently, at some point during their marriage she began believing otherwise. "Dane?" He rubbed his hand down his face, trying to get his thoughts together. Given the situation they were in, he knew honesty was foremost. But then he'd always been honest with her, however, he doubted she could say the same for herself. "To answer your question, Sienna, I'm not sure. Usually I keep the place well stocked of everything, but like I said earlier, I was here a couple of weekends ago, and I used a lot of the supplies then." He refused to tell her that in a way it had been her fault. Receiving those divorce papers had driven him here, to wallow in self-pity, vent out his anger and drink his pain away with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. "I guess we need to go check things out," he said, trying not to get as worried as she was beginning to look. He followed her into the kitchen, trying not to watch the sway of her hips as she walked in front of him. The hot, familiar sight of her in a pair of jeans and pullover sweater had him cursing under his breath and summoning up a quick remedy for the situation he found himself in. The thought of being stranded for any amount of time with Sienna wasn't good. He stopped walking when she flung open the refrigerator. His six-pack of beer was still there, but little else. But then he wasn't studying the contents of the refrigerator as much as he was studying her. She was bent over, looking inside, but all he could think of was another time he had walked into this kitchen and found her in that same position, and wearing nothing more than his T-shirt that had barely covered her bottom. It hadn't taken much for him to go into a crazed fit of lust and quickly remove his pajama bottoms and take her right then and there, against the refrigerator, giving them both the orgasm of a lifetime. "Thank goodness there are some eggs in here," she said, intruding on his heated thoughts down memory lane. "About half a dozen. And there's a loaf of bread that looks edible. There's some kind of meat in the freezer, but I'm not sure what it is, though. Looks like chicken." She turned around and her pouty mouth tempted him to kiss it, devour it, and make her moan. He watched her sigh deeply and then she gave him a not-so-hopeful gaze and said, "Our rations don't look good, Dane. What are we going to do?"
Chapter Six Sienna's breath caught when the corners of Dane's mouth tilted in an irresistible smile. She'd seen the look before. She knew that smile and she also recognized that bulge pressing against his zipper. She frowned. "Don't even think it, Dane." He leaned back against the kitchen counter. Hell, he wanted to do more than think it, he wanted to do it. But, of course, he would pretend he hadn't a clue as to what she was talking about. "What?" Her frown deepened. "And don't act all innocent with me. I know what you were thinking."
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A smile tugged deeper at Dane's lips knowing she probably did. There were some things a man couldn't hide and a rock solid hard-on was one of them. He decided not to waste his time and hers pretending the chemistry between them was dead when they both knew it was still very much alive. "Don't ask me to apologize. It's not my fault you have so much sex appeal and my desire for you is automatic, even when we're headed for divorce court." Dane saying the word "divorce" was a stark reminder that their life together, as they once knew it, would be over in twelve days. "Let's get back to important matters, Dane, like our survival. On a positive note, we might be able to make do if we cut back on meals; which may be hard for you with your ferocious appetite." A wicked-sounding chuckle poured from his throat. "Which one?" Sienna swallowed as her pulse pounded in response to Dane's question. She was quickly reminded, although she wished there was some way she could forget, that her husband…or soon-to-be-ex…did have two appetites. One was of a gastric nature and the other purely sexual. Thoughts of the purely sexual one had intense heat radiating all through her. Dane had devoured every inch of her body in ways she didn't even want to think about. Especially not now. She placed her hands on her hips knowing he was baiting her; really doing a hell of a lot more than that. He was stirring up feelings inside of her that were making it hard for her to think straight. "Get serious, Dane." "I am." He then came to stand in front of her. "Did you bring anything with you?" She lifted a brow. "Anything like what?" "Stuff to snack on. You're good for that. How you do it without gaining a pound is beyond me." She shrugged, refusing to tell him that she used to work it off with all those in-bed, out-of-bed exercises they used to do. If he hadn't noticed then she wouldn't tell him that in six months without him in her bed she had gained five pounds. "I might have a candy bar or two in the car." He smiled. "That's all?" She rolled her eyes upward. "Okay, okay, I might have a couple of bags of chips, too." She decided not to mention the three boxes of Girl Scouts cookies that had been purchased that morning from a little girl standing in front of a grocery store. "I hadn't planned to spend the night here, Dane. I had merely thought I could quickly pack things and leave." He nodded. "Okay, I'll get the snacks from your car while I'm outside checking on some wood we'll need for the fire. The power is still on, but I can't see that lasting too much longer. I wished I would have gotten that generator fixed." Her eyes widened in alarm. "You didn't?" "No. So you might want to go around and gather up all the candles you can. And there should be a box of matches in one of these drawers." "Okay." Dane turned to leave. He then turned back around. She was nibbling on her bottom lip as he assumed she would be. "And stop worrying. We're going to make it." When he walked out the room, Sienna leaned back against the closed refrigerator thinking those were the exact words he'd said to her three years ago when he had asked her to marry him. Now she was worried because they didn't have a proven track record.
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Chapter Seven After putting on the snow boots he kept at the cabin, Dane made his way out the doors, grateful for the time he wouldn't be in Sienna's presence. Being around her and still loving her like he did was hard. Even now he didn't know the reason for the divorce, other than what was noted in the papers he'd been served that day a few weeks ago. Irreconcilable differences; whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Sienna hadn't come to him so they could talk about any problems they were having. He had come home one day and she had moved out. He still was at a loss as to what could have been so wrong with their marriage that she could no longer see a future for them. He would always recall that time as being the lowest point in his life. For days it was as if a part of him was missing. It had taken a while to finally pull himself together and realize she wasn't coming back no matter how many times he'd asked her to. And all it took was the receipt of that divorce petition to make him realize that Sienna wanted him out of her life, and actually believed that whatever issues keeping them apart couldn't be resolved. A little while later Dane had gathered more wood to put with the huge stack already on the back porch, glad that at least if nothing else they wouldn't freeze to death. The cabin was equipped with enough toiletries to hold them for at least a week, which was a good thing. And he hadn't wanted to break the news to Sienna that the meat in the freezer wasn't chicken, but deer meat that one of his clients had given him a couple of weeks ago after a hunting trip. It was good to eat, but he knew Sienna well enough to know she would have to be starving before she would consume any of it. After rubbing his icy hands on his jeans, he stuck them into his pockets to keep them from freezing. Walking around the house, he strolled over to her car, opened the door and found the candy bars, chips and…Girl Scouts cookies, he noted, lifting a brow. She hadn't mentioned them, and he saw they were her favorite kind, as well as his. He quickly recalled the first year they were married and how they shared the cookies as a midnight snack after making love. He couldn't help but smile as he remembered that night and others where they had spent time together, not just in bed but cooking in the kitchen, going to movies, concerts, parties, having picnics and just plain sitting around and talking for hours. He suddenly realized that one of the things that had been missing from their marriage for a while was communication. When had they stopped talking? The first thought that grudgingly came to mind was when she'd begun bringing work home, letting it intrude on what had always been their time together. That's when they had begun living in separate worlds. Dane breathed in deeply. He wanted to get back into Sienna's world and he definitely wanted her back in his. He didn't want a divorce. He wanted to keep his wife but he refused to resort to any type of manipulating, dominating or controlling tactics to do it. What he and Sienna needed was to use this weekend to keep it honest and talk openly about what had gone wrong with their marriage. They would go further by finding ways to resolve things. He still loved her and wanted to believe that deep down she still loved him. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter Eight Sienna glanced around the room seeing all the lit candles and thinking just how romantic they made the cabin look. Taking a deep breath, she frowned in irritation, thinking that romance should be the last thing on her mind. Dane was her soon-to-be ex-husband. Whatever they once shared was over, done with, had come to a screeching end. If only the memories weren't so strong… She glanced out the window and saw him piling wood on the back porch. Never in her wildest dreams would she have thought her day would end up this way, with her and Dane being stranded together at the cabin — a place they always considered as their favorite getaway spot. During the first two years of their marriage,
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they would come here every chance they got, but in the past year she could recall them coming only once. Somewhere along the way she had stopped allowing them time even for this. She sighed deeply recalling how important it had been to her at the beginning of their marriage for them to make time to talk about matters of interest, whether trivial or important. They had always been attuned to each other and Dane had always been a good listener, which to her conveyed a sign of caring and respect. But the last couple of times they had tried to talk ended up with them snapping at each other, which only built bitterness and resentment. The lights blinked and she knew they were about to go out. She was glad that she had taken the initiative to go into the kitchen and scramble up some eggs earlier. And she was inwardly grateful that if she had to get stranded in the cabin during a snowstorm that Dane was here with her. Heavens knows she would have been a basket case had she found herself up here alone. The lights blinked again before finally going out, but the candles provided the cabin with plenty of light. Not sure if the temperatures outside would cause the pipes to freeze, she had run plenty of water in the bathtub and kitchen sink, and filled every empty jug with water for them to drink. She'd also found batteries to put in the radio so they could keep up with any reports on the weather. "I saw the lights go out. Are you okay?" Sienna turned around. Dane was leaning in the doorway with his hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans. The pose made him look incredibly sexy. "Yes, I'm okay. I was able to get the candles all lit and there are plenty more." "That's good." "Just in case the pipe freezes and we can't use the shower, I filled the bathtub up with water so we can take a bath that way." At his raised brow she quickly added, "Separately, of course. And I made sure I filled plenty of bottles of drinking water, too." He nodded. "Sounds like you've been busy." "So have you. I saw through the window when you put all that wood on the porch. It will probably come in handy." He moved away from the door. "Yes, and with the electricity out I need to go ahead and get the fire started." Sienna swallowed as she watched him walk toward her on his way to the fireplace, and not for the first time she thought about how remarkably handsome he was. He had that certain charisma that made women get hot all over just looking at him. It suddenly occurred to her that he'd already got a fire started, and the way it was spreading through her was about to make her burst into flames.
Chapter Nine "You okay?" Dane asked Sienna as he walked toward her with a smile. She nodded and cleared her throat. "Yes, why do you ask?" "Because you're looking at me funny." "Oh." She was vaguely aware of him walking past her to kneel in front of the fireplace. She turned and watched him, saw him move the wood around before taking a match and lighting it to start a fire. He was so good at kindling things, whether wood or the human body.
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"If you like, I can make something for dinner," she decided to say, otherwise she would continue to stand there and say nothing while staring at him. It was hard trying to be normal in a rather awkward situation. "What are our options?" he asked without looking around. She chuckled. "An egg sandwich and tea. I made both earlier before the power went off." He turned at that and his gaze caught hers. A smile crinkled his eyes. "Do I have a choice?" "Not if you want to eat." "What about those Girl Scouts cookies I found in your car?" Her eyes narrowed. "They're off-limits. You can have one of the candy bars, but the cookies are mine." His mouth broke into a wide grin. "You have enough cookies to share so stop being selfish." He turned back around and she made a face at him behind his back. He was back to stoking the fire and her gaze went to his hands. Those hands used to be the giver of so much pleasure and almost ran neck to neck with his mouth…but not quite. His mouth was in a class by itself. But still, she could recall those same hands, gentle, provoking, moving all over her body; touching her everywhere and doing things to her that mere hands weren't suppose to do. However, she never had any complaints. "Did you have any plans for tonight, Sienna?" His words intruded into her heated thoughts. "No, why?" "Just wondering. You thought I had a date tonight. What about you?" She shrugged. "No. As far as I'm concerned, until we sign those final papers I'm still legally married and wouldn't feel right going out with someone." He turned around and locked his eyes with hers. "I know what you mean," he said. "I wouldn't feel right going out with someone else." Heat seeped through her every pore with his words. "So you haven't been dating, either?" "No." There were a number of questions she wanted to ask him — how he spent his days, his nights, what his family thought of their pending divorce, what he thought of it, was he ready for it to be over for them to go their separate ways — but there was no way she could ask him any of those things. "I guess I'll go put dinner on the table." He chuckled. "An egg sandwich and tea?" "Yes." She turned to leave. "Sienna?" She turned back around. "Yes?" "I don't like being stranded, but since I am, I'm glad it's with you."
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For a moment she couldn't say anything, then she cleared her throat while backing up a couple of steps. "Ah, yeah right, same here." She backed up some more then said, "I'll go set out the food now." And then she turned and quickly left the room.
Chapter Ten Sienna glanced up when she heard Dane walk into the kitchen and smiled. "Your feast awaits you." "Whoopee." She laughed. "Hey, I know the feeling. I'm glad I had a nice lunch today in celebration. I took on a new client." Dane came and joined her at the table. "Congratulations." "Thank you." She took a bite of her scrambled egg sandwich and a sip of her tea and then said, "It's been a long time since you seemed genuinely pleased with my accomplishments." He glanced up after taking a sip of his own tea and stared at her for a moment. "I know and I'm sorry about that. It was hard being replaced by your work, Sienna." She lifted her head and stared at him, met his gaze. She saw the tightness of his jaw and the firm set of his mouth. He actually believed that something could replace him with her and knowing that hit a raw and sensitive nerve. "My work never replaced you, Dane. Why did you begin feeling that way?" Dane leaned back in his chair, tilted his head slightly. He was more than mildly surprised with her question. It was then he realized that she really didn't know. Hadn't a clue. This was the opportunity that he wanted; what he was hoping they would have. Now was the time to put aside anger, bitterness, foolish pride and whatever else was working at destroying their marriage. Now was the time for complete honesty. "You started missing dinner. Not once but twice, sometimes three times a week. Eventually, you stopped making excuses and didn't show up." What he'd said was the truth. "But I was working and taking on new clients," she defended. "You said you would understand." "And I did for a while and up to a point. But there is a thing as common courtesy and mutual respect, Sienna. In the end I felt like I'd been thrown by the wayside; that you didn't care anymore about us, our love or our marriage." She narrowed her eyes. "And why didn't you say something?" "When? I was usually asleep when you got home and when I got up in the morning you were too sleepy to discuss anything. I invited you to lunch several times, but you couldn't fit me into your schedule." "I had appointments." "Yes, and I always felt because of it that your clients were more important." "Still, I wished you would have let me know how you felt," she said, after taking another sip of tea. "I did, several times. But you weren't listening." She sighed deeply. "We used to know how to communicate."
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"Yes, at one time we did, didn't we?" Dane said quietly. "But I'm also to blame for the failure of our marriage, our lack of communication. And then there were the problems you were having with my parents. When it came to you, I never hesitated letting my parents know when they were out of line and that I wouldn't put up with their treatment of you. But then I felt that at some point you needed to start believing that what they thought didn't matter and stand up to them. "I honestly thought I was doing the right thing when I decided to just stay out of it and give you the chance to deal with them; to finally put them in their place. Instead, you let them erode away at your security and confidence to the point where you felt you had to prove you were worthy of them…and of me. That's what drove you to be so successful, wasn't it, Sienna? Feeling the need to prove something is what working all those long hours was all about, wasn't it?"
Chapter Eleven Sienna quickly got up from the table and walked to the window. It was turning dark but she could clearly see that things hadn't let up. It was still snowing outside, worse than an hour before. She tried to concentrate on what was beyond that window and not on the question Dane had asked her. "Sienna?" Moments later she turned back around to face Dane, knowing he was waiting on her response. "What do you want me to say, Dane? Trust me, you don't want to get me started since you've always known how your family felt about me." His brow furrowed sharply as he moved from the table to join her at the window, coming to stand directly in front of her. "And you've known it didn't matter one damn iota. Why would you let it continue to matter to you?" She shook her head, tempted to bare her soul but fighting not to. "But you don't understand how important it was for your family to accept me, to love me." Dane stepped closer, looked into eyes that were fighting to keep tears at bay. "Wasn't my love enough, Sienna? I'd told you countless times that you didn't marry my family, you married me. I'm not proud of the fact that my parents think too high of themselves and our family name at times, but I've constantly told you it didn't matter. Why can't you believe me?" When she didn't say anything, he sighed deeply. "You've been around people with money before. Do all of them act like my parents?" She thought of her best friend's family. The Steeles. "No." "Then what should that tell you? They're my parents. I know that they aren't close to being perfect but I love them." "And I never wanted to do anything to make you stop loving them." He reached up and touched her chin. "And that's what this is about, isn't it? Why you filed for a divorce. You thought that you could." Sienna angrily wiped at a tear she couldn't contain any longer. "I didn't ever want you to have to choose." Dane's heart ached. Evidently she didn't know just how much he loved her. "There wouldn't have been a choice to make. You're my wife. I love you. I will always love you. When we married, we became one." He leaned down and brushed a kiss on her cheek, then several. He wanted to devour her mouth, deepen the kiss and escalate it to a level he needed it to be, but he couldn't. He wouldn't. What they needed was to
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talk, to communicate, to try and fix whatever was wrong with their marriage. He pulled back. It was hard when he heard her soft sigh, her heated moan. He gave briefly in to temptation and tipped her chin up and placed a kiss on her lips. "There's plenty of hot water still left in the tank," he said softly, stroking her chin. "Go ahead and take a shower before it gets completely dark, and then I'll take one." He continued to stroke her chin when he added, "Then what I want is for us to do something we should have done months ago, Sienna. I want us to sit down and talk. And I mean to really talk; regain that level of communication we once had. And what I need to know more than anything is whether my love will ever be just enough for you."
Chapter Twelve "You're my wife. I love you. I will always love you. When we married, we became one." Dane's words flowed through Sienna's mind as she stepped into the shower, causing a warm, fuzzy, glowing feeling to seep through her pores. Hope flared within her although she didn't want it to. She hadn't wanted to end her marriage, but when things had begun to get worse between her and Dane, she'd finally decided to take her in-laws' suggestion and get out of their son's life. Even after three years of seeing how happy she and Dane were together, they still couldn't look beyond her past. They saw her as a nobody; a person who had married their son for his money. She had offered to sign a prenuptial before the wedding and Dane had scoffed at the suggestion, refusing to even draw one up. But still, his parents had made it known each time they saw her just how much they resented the marriage. And no matter how many times Dane had stood up to them and had put them in their place regarding her, it would only be a matter of time before they resorted to their old ways again, though never in the presence of their son. Maybe Dane was right, and all she'd had to do was tell his parents off once and for all and that would be the end of it, but she never could find the courage to do it. And what was so hilarious with the entire situation was that she had basically become a workaholic to become successful in her own right so they could see her as their son's equal in every way; and in trying to impress them she had alienated Dane to the point that eventually he would have gotten fed up and asked her for a divorce if she hadn't done so first. After spending time under the spray of water, she stepped out of the shower, intent on making sure there was enough hot water left for Dane. She tried to put out of her mind the last time she had taken a shower in this stall, and how Dane had joined her in it. Toweling off, she was grateful she still had some of her belongings at the cabin to sleep in. The last thing she needed was to parade around Dane half naked. Then they would never get any talking done. She slipped into a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants she found in one of the drawers. Dane wanted to talk. How could they have honest communication without getting into a discussion about his parents again? She crossed her arms trying to ignore the chill she was beginning to feel in the air. In order to stay warm they would both probably have to sleep in front of the fireplace tonight. She didn't want to think about what the possibility of doing something like that meant. While her cell phone still had life, she decided to let her best friend, Vanessa Steele, know that she wouldn't be returning to Charlotte tonight. Dane was right. Not everyone with money acted like his parents. The Steeles, owners of a huge manufacturing company in Charlotte, were just as wealthy as the Bradfords. But they were as down-to-earth as people could get, which proved that not everyone with a lot of money are snobs. "Hello?"
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"Van, it's Sienna." "Sienna, I was just thinking about you. Did you make it back before that snowstorm hit?" "No, I'm in the mountains stranded." "What! Do you want me to send my cousins to rescue you?" Sienna smiled. Vanessa was talking about her four single male cousins, Chance, Sebastian, Morgan and Donovan Steele. Sienna had to admit that besides being handsome as sin, they were dependable to a fault. And of all people, she, Vanessa and Vanessa's two younger sisters, Taylor and Cheyenne, should know more than anyone since they had been notorious for getting into trouble while growing up and the four brothers had always been there to bail them out. "No, I don't need your cousins to come and rescue me." "What about Dane? You know how I feel about you divorcing him, Sienna. He's still legally your husband and I think I should let him know where you are and let him decide if he should — " "Vanessa," Sienna interrupted. "You don't have to let Dane know anything. He's here, stranded with me."
Chapter Thirteen "How was your shower?" Dane asked Sienna when she returned to the living room a short while later. "Great. Now it's your turn to indulge." "Okay." Dane tried not to notice how the candlelight was flickering over Sienna's features, giving them an ethereal glow. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and for a long moment he stood there staring at her. She lifted a brow. "What's wrong?" "I was just thinking how incredibly beautiful you are." Sienna breathed in deeply, trying to ignore the rush of sensations she felt from his words. "Thank you." Dane had always been a man who'd been free with his compliments. Being apart from him made her realize that was one of the things she missed, among many others. "I'll be back in a little while," he said before leaving the room. When he was gone, Sienna remembered the conversation she'd had with Vanessa earlier. Her best friend saw her and Dane being stranded together on the mountain as a twist of fate that Sienna should use to her advantage. Vanessa further thought that for once, Sienna should stand up to the elder Bradfords and not struggle to prove herself to them. Dane had accepted her as she was and now it was time for her to be satisfied and happy with that; after all, she wasn't married to his parents. A part of Sienna knew that Vanessa was right, but she had been seeking love from others for so long that she hadn't been able to accept that Dane's love was all the love she needed. Before her shower he had asked if his love was enough and now she knew that it was. It was past time for her to acknowledge that fact and to let him know it.
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Dane stepped out the shower and began toweling off. The bathroom carried Sienna's scent and the honeysuckle fragrance of the shower gel she enjoyed using. Given their situation, he really should be worried what they would be faced with if the weather didn't let up in a couple of days with the little bit of food they had. But for now the thought of being stranded here with Sienna overrode all his concerns about that. In his heart he truly believed they would manage to get through any given situation. Now he had the task of convincing her of that. He glanced down at his left hand and studied his wedding band. Two weeks ago when he had come here for his pity-party, he had taken it off in anger and thrown it in a drawer. It was only when he had returned to Charlotte that he realized he'd left it here in the cabin. At first he had shrugged it off as having no significant meaning since he would be a divorced man in a month's time anyway, but every day he'd felt that a part of him was missing. In addition to reminding him of Sienna's absence from his life, to Dane, his ring signified their love and the vows that they had made, and a part of him refused to give that up. That's what had driven him back here this weekend — to reclaim the one element of his marriage that he refused to part with yet. Something he felt was rightfully his. It seemed his ring wasn't the only thing that was rightfully his that he would get the chance to reclaim. More than anything he wanted his wife back.
Chapter Fourteen Dane walked into the living room and stopped in his tracks. Sienna sat in front of the fireplace, cross-legged, with a tray of cookies and two glasses of wine. He knew where the cookies had come from, but where the heck had she gotten the wine? She must have heard him because she glanced over his way and smiled. At that moment he thought she was even more breathtaking than a rose in winter. She licked her lips and immediately he thought she was even more tempting than any decadent dessert. He cleared his throat. "Where did the wine come from?" She licked her lips again and his body responded in an unquestionable way. He hoped the candlelight was hiding the physical effect she was having on him. "I found it in one of the kitchen cabinets. I think it's the bottle that was left when we came here to celebrate our first anniversary." His thoughts immediately remembered that weekend. She had packed a selection of sexy lingerie and he had enjoyed removing each and every piece. She had also given him, among other things, a beautiful gold watch with the inscription engraved, The Great Dane. He, in turn, had given her a lover's bracelet, which was similar to a diamond tennis bracelet except that each letter of her name was etched in six of the stones. He could still remember the single tear that had fallen from her eye when he had placed it on her wrist. That had been a special time for them, memories he would always cherish. That knowledge tightened the love that surrounded his heart. More than anything he was determined that they settle things this weekend. He needed to make her see that he was hers and she was his. For always. His lips creased into a smile. "I see you've decided to share the cookies, after all," he said, crossing the room to her. She chuckled as he dropped down on the floor beside her. "Either that or run the risk of you getting up during the night and eating them all." The firelight danced through the twists on her head, highlighting the medium brown coiled strands with golden flecks. He absolutely loved the natural looking hairstyle on her.
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He lifted a dark brow. "Eating them all? Three boxes?" Her smile grew soft. "Hey, you've been known to overindulge a few times." He paused as heated memories consumed him, reminding him of those times he had overindulged, especially when it came to making love to her. He recalled one weekend they had gone at it almost nonstop. If she hadn't been on the pill there was no doubt in his mind that that single weekend would have made him a daddy. A very proud one at that. She handed him a glass of wine. "May I propose a toast?" His smile widened. "To what?" "The return of the beast from the east." He switched his gaze from her to glance out the window. Even in the dark he could see the white flecks coming down in droves. He looked back at her and cocked a brow. "We have a reason to celebrate this bad weather?" She stared at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "Yes. The beast is the reason we're stranded here together, and even with our low rations of food, I can't think of any other place I'd rather be…than here alone with you."
Chapter Fifteen Dane stared at Sienna and the intensity of that gaze made her entire body tingle, her nerve endings steam. It was pretty much like the day they'd met, when he'd walked into his father's study. She had looked up, their gazes had connected and the seriousness in the dark irises that had locked with hers had changed her life forever. She had fallen in love with him then and there. Dane didn't say anything for a long moment as he continued to look at her, and then he lifted his wineglass and said huskily, "To the beast…who brought me Beauty." His words were like a sensuous stroke down her spine, and the void feeling she'd had during the past few months was slowly fading away. After the toast was made and they had both taken sips of their wine, Dane placed his glass aside and then relieved her of hers. He then slowly leaned forward and captured her mouth, tasting the wine, relishing her delectable flavor. How had she gone without this for six months? How had she survived? She wondered as his tongue devoured hers, battering deep in the heat of her mouth, licking and sucking as he wove his tongue in and out between teeth, gum and whatever wanted to serve as a barrier. He suddenly pulled back and stared at her. A smile touched the corners of his lips. "I could keep going and going, but before we go any further we need to talk, determine what brought us to this point so it won't ever be allowed to happen again. I don't want us to ever let anything or anyone have power, more control over the vows we made three years ago." Sienna nodded, thinking the way the firelight was dancing over his dark skin was sending an erotic frisson up her spine. "All right." He stood. "I'll be right back." Sienna lifted a brow, wondering where he was going and watched as he crossed the room to open the desk drawer. Like her, he had changed into a T-shirt and a pair of sweats, and as she watched him she found it difficult to breathe. He moved in such a manly way, each movement a display of fine muscles and limbs and how they worked together in graceful coordination, perfect precision. Watching him only knocked her hormones out of whack.
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He returned moments later with pens and paper in hand. There was a serious expression on his face when he handed her a sheet of paper and a pen and kept the same for himself. "I want us to write down all the things we feel went wrong with our marriage, being honest to include everything. And then we'll discuss them." She looked down at the pen and paper and then back at him. "You want me to write them down?" "Yes, and I'll do the same." Sienna nodded and watched as he began writing on his paper, wondering what he was jotting down. She leaned back and sighed, wondering if she could air their dirty laundry on paper, but it seemed he had no such qualms. Most couples sought the helpful guidance of marriage counselors when they found themselves in similar situations, but she hadn't given them that chance. But at this point, she would do anything to save her marriage. So she began writing, being honest with herself and with him.
Chapter Sixteen Dane finished writing and glanced over at Sienna. She was still at it and had a serious expression on her features. He studied the contours of her face and his gaze dropped to her neck, and he noticed the thin gold chain. She was still wearing the heart pendant he'd given her as a wedding gift. Deep down, Dane believed this little assignment was what they needed as the first step in repairing what had gone wrong in their marriage. Having things written down would make it easier to stay focused and not go off on a tangent. And it made one less likely to give in to the power of the mind, the wills and emotions. He wanted them to concentrate on those destructive elements and forces that had eroded away at what should have been a strong relationship. She glanced up and met his gaze as she put the pen aside. She gave him a wry smile. "Okay, that's it." He reached out and took her hand in his, tightening his hold on it when he saw a look of uncertainty on her face. "All right, what do you have?" She gave him a sheepish grimace. "How about you going first." He gently squeezed her hand. "How about if we go together? I'll start off and then we'll alternate." She nodded. "What if we have the same ones?" "That will be okay. We'll talk about all of them." He picked up his piece of paper. "First on my list is communication." Sienna smiled ruefully. "It's first on mine, too. And I agree that we need to talk more, without arguing, not that you argued. I think you would hold stuff in when I made you upset instead of getting it out and speaking your mind." Dane stared at her for a moment, then a smile touched his lips. "You're right, you know. I always had to plug in the last word and I did it because I knew it would piss you off." "Well, stop doing it." He grinned. "Okay. The next time I'll hang around for us to talk through things. But then you're going to have to make sure that you're available when we need to talk. You can't let anything, not even your job, get in the way of us communicating."
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"Okay, I agree." "Now what's next on your list?" he asked. She looked up at him and smiled. "Patience. I know you said that I don't have patience, but neither do you. But you used to." Dane shook his head. "Yeah, I lost my patience when you did. I thought to myself, why should I be patient with you when you weren't doing the same with me? Sometimes I think you thought I enjoyed knowing you had a bad day or didn't make a sale, and that wasn't it at all. At some point what was suddenly important to you wasn't important to me, anymore." "And because of it, we both became detached," Sienna said softly. "Yes, we did." He reached out and lifted her chin. "I promise to do a better job of being patient, Sienna." "So will I, Dane." They alternated, going down the list. They had a number of the same things on both lists and they discussed everything in detail, acknowledging their faults and what they could have done to make things better. The also discussed what they would do in the future to strengthen their marriage. "That's all I have on my list," Dane said a while later. "Do you have anything else?" Sienna's finger glided over her list. For a short while she thought about pretending she didn't have anything else, but they had agreed to be completely honest. They had definitely done so when they had discussed her spending more time at work than at home. "So what's the last thing on your list, Sienna? What do you see as one of the things that went wrong with our marriage?" She lifted her chin and met his gaze and said, "My inability to stand up to your parents." He looked at her with deep dark eyes. "Okay, then. Let's talk about that."
Chapter Seventeen Dane waited patiently for Sienna to begin talking and gently rubbed the backside of her hand while doing so. He'd known the issue of his parents had always been a challenge to her. Over the years he had tried to make her see that how the elder Bradfords felt didn't matter. What he failed to realize, accept and understand was that it did matter…to her. She had grown up in a family without love for so long that when they married, she not only sought his love, but that of his family. Being accepted meant a lot to her, and her expectations of the Bradfords, given how they operated and their family history, were too high. They weren't a close-knit bunch, never had been and never would be. His parents had allowed their own parents to decide their future, including who they married. When they had come of age, arranged marriages were the norm within the Bradfords' circle. His father had once confided to him one night after indulging in too many drinks that his mother had not been his choice for a wife. That hadn't surprised Dane, nor had it bothered him since he would bet that his father probably hadn't been his mother's choice of a husband, either. "I don't want to rehash the past, Dane," Sienna finally said softly, looking at the blaze in the fireplace instead of at him. "But something you said earlier tonight has made me think about a lot of things. You love your
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parents, but you've never hesitated in letting them know when you felt they were wrong; nor have you put up with their crap when it came to me." She switched her gaze from the fire to him. "The problem is that I put up with their crap when it came to me. And you were right. I thought I had to actually prove something to them, show them I was worthy of you and your love, and I've spent the better part of a year and a half doing that, and all it did was bring me closer and closer to losing you. I'm sure they've been walking around with big smiles on their faces since you got the divorce petition. But I refuse to let them be happy at my expense and my own heartbreak." She scooted closer to Dane and splayed her hands against his chest. "It's time I become more assertive with your parents, Dane. Because it's not about them — it's about us. I refuse to let them make me feel unworthy any longer, because I am worthy to be loved by you. I don't have anything to prove. They either accept me as I am or not at all. The only person who matters anymore is you." With his gaze holding hers, Dane lifted one of her hands off his chest and brought it to his lips and placed a kiss in the palm. "I'm glad you've finally come to realize that, Sienna. And I wholeheartedly understand and agree. I was made to love you, and if my parents never accept that then it's their loss, not ours." Tears constricted Sienna's throat and she swallowed deeply before she could find her voice to say, "I love you, Dane. I don't want the divorce. I never did. I want to belong to you and I want you to belong to me. I just want to make you happy." "And I love you, too, Sienna, and I don't want the divorce, either. My life will be nothing without you being a part of it. I love you so much and I've missed you." And with his heart pounding hard in his chest, he leaned over and captured her lips, intent on showing her just what he meant.
Chapter Eighteen This is homecoming, Sienna thought as she was quickly consumed by the hungry onslaught of Dane's kiss. All the hurt and anger she'd felt for six months was being replaced by passion of the most heated kind. All she could think about was the desire she was feeling being back in the arms of the man she loved and who loved her. This was the type of communication she'd always loved, where she could share her thoughts, feelings and desires with Dane without uttering a single word. It was where their deepest emotions and what was in their inner hearts spoke for them, expressing things so eloquently and not leaving any room for misunderstandings. He pulled back slightly, his lips hovering within inches of hers. He reached out and caressed her cheek, and as if she needed his taste again, her lips automatically parted. A slow, sensual acknowledgement of understanding tilted the corners of his mouth into a smile. Then he leaned closer and kissed her again, longer and harder, and the only thing she could do was to wrap her arms around him and silently thank God for reuniting her with this very special man.
*** Dane was hungry for the taste of his wife and at that moment, as his heart continued to pound relentlessly in his chest, he knew he had to make love to her, to show her in every way what she meant to him, had always meant to him and would always mean to him. He pulled back slightly and the moisture that was left on her lips made his stomach clench. He leaned forward and licked them dry, or tried to, but her scent was driving him to do more. "Please let me make love to you, Sienna," he whispered, leaning down and resting his forehead against hers.
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She leaned back and cupped his chin with her hand. "Oh, yes. I want you to make love to me, Dane. I've missed being with you so much I ache." "Oh, baby, I love you." He pulled her closer, murmured the words in her twisted locks, kissed her cheek, her temple, her lips, and he cupped her buttocks, practically lifting her off the floor in the process. His breath came out harsh, ragged as the chemistry between them sizzled. There was only one way to drench their fire. He stretched out with her in front of the fireplace, as he began removing her clothes and then his. Moments later, the blaze from the fire was a flickering light across their naked skin. And then he began kissing her all over, leaving no part of her untouched, determined to quench his hunger and his desire. He had missed the taste of her and was determined to be reacquainted in every way he could think of. "Dane…" Her tortured moan ignited the passion within him and he leaned forward to position his body over hers, letting his throbbing erection come to rest between her thighs, gently touching the entrance of her moist heat. He lifted his head to look down at her, wanting to see her expression the exact moment their bodies joined again.
Chapter Nineteen Sienna stared into Dane's eyes, the heat and passion she saw in them making her shiver. The love she recognized made her heart pound, and the desire she felt for him sent surges and surges of sensations through every part of her body, especially the area between her legs, making her thighs quiver. "You're my everything, Sienna," he whispered as he began easing inside of her. His gaze was locked with hers as his voice came out in a husky tone. "I need you like I need air to breathe, water for thirst and food for nourishment. Oh, baby, my life has been so empty since you've been gone. I love and need you." His words touched her and when he was embedded inside of her to the hilt, she arched her back, needing and wanting even more of him. She gripped his shoulders with her fingers as liquid fire seemed to flow to all parts of her body. And at that moment she forgot everything — the beast from the east, their limited supply of food and the fact they were stranded together in a cabin with barely enough heat. The only thing that registered in her mind was that they were together and expressing their love in a way that literally touched her soul. He continued to stroke her, in and out, and with each powerful thrust into her body she moaned out his name and told him of her love. She was like a bow whose strings were being stretched to the limit each and every time he drove into her, and she met his thrusts with her own eager ones. And then she felt it, the strength like a volcano erupting as he continued to stroke her to oblivion. Her body splintered into a thousand pieces as an orgasm ripped through her, almost snatching her breath away. And when she felt him buck, tighten his hold on her hips and thrust into her deeper, she knew that same powerful sensation had taken hold of him, as well. "Sienna!" He screamed her name and growled a couple of words that were incoherent to her ears. She tightened her arms around his neck, needing to be as close to him as she could get. She knew in her heart at that moment that things were going to be fine. She and Dane had proven that when it came to the power of love, it was never too late.
*** Sienna awoke the following morning naked, in front of the fireplace and cuddled in her husband's arms with a blanket covering them. After yawning, she raised her chin and glanced over at him and met his gaze head-
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on. The intensity in the dark eyes staring back at her shot heat through all parts of her body. She couldn't help but recall last night and how they had tried making up for all the time they had been apart. "It's gone," Dane said softly, pulling her closer into his arms. She lifted a brow. "What's gone?" "The beast." She tilted her head to glance out the window and he was right. Although snow was still falling, it wasn't the violent blizzard that had been unleashed the day before. It was as if the weather had served the purpose it had come for and had made its exit. She smiled. Evidently, someone up there knew her and Dane's relationship was meant to be saved and had stepped in to salvage it. She was about to say something when suddenly there was a loud pounding at the door. She and Dane looked at each other, wondering who would be paying them a visit to the cabin at this hour and in this weather.
Chapter Twenty Sienna, like Dane, had quickly gotten dressed and was now staring at the four men who were standing in the doorway…those handsome Steele brothers. She smiled, shaking her head. Vanessa had evidently called her cousins to come rescue her, anyway. "Vanessa called us," Chance Steele, the oldest of the pack, said in way of explanation. "It just so happened that we were only a couple of miles down the road at our own cabin." A smile touched his lips. "She was concerned that the two of you were here starving to death and asked us to share some of our rations." "Thanks, guys," Dane said, gladly accepting the box Sebastian Steele was handing him. "Come on in. And although we've had plenty of heat to keep us warm, I have to admit our food supply was kind of low." As soon as the four entered, all eyes went to Sienna. Although the brothers knew Dane because their families sometimes ran in the same social circles, as well as the fact that Dane and Donovan Steele had graduated from high school the same year, she knew their main concern was for her. She had been their cousin Vanessa's best friend for years, and as a result they had sort of adopted her as their little cousin, as well. "You okay?" Morgan Steele asked her, although Sienna knew she had to look fine; probably like a woman who'd been made love to all night, and she wasn't ashamed of that fact. After all, Dane was her husband. But the Steeles knew about her pending divorce, so she decided to end their worries. She smiled and moved closer to Dane. He automatically wrapped his arms around her shoulders and brought her closer to his side. "Yes, I'm wonderful," she said, breaking the subtle tension she felt in the room. "Dane and I have decided we don't want a divorce and intend to stay together and make our marriage work." The relieved smiles on the faces of the four men were priceless. "That's wonderful. We're happy for you," Donovan Steele said, grinning. "We apologize if we interrupted anything, but you know Vanessa," Chance said, smiling. "She wouldn't let up. We would have come sooner but the bad weather kept us away." "Your timing was perfect," Dane said, grinning. "We appreciate you even coming out now. I'm sure the roads weren't their best."
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"No, but my new truck managed just fine," Sebastian said proudly. "Besides, we're going fishing later. We would invite you to join us, Dane, but I'm sure you can think of other ways you'd prefer to spend your time." Dane smiled as he glanced down and met Sienna's gaze. "Oh yeah, I can definitely think of a few."
*** The power had been restored and a couple of hours later, after eating a hefty breakfast of pancakes, sausage, grits and eggs, and drinking what Dane had to admit was the best coffee he'd had in a long time, Dane and Sienna were wrapped in each other's arms in the king-size bed. Sensations flowed through her just thinking about how they had ached and hungered for each other, and the fierceness of their lovemaking to fulfill that need and greed. "Now will you tell me what brought you to the cabin?" Sienna asked, turning in Dane's arms and meeting his gaze. "My wedding band." He then told her why he'd come to the cabin two weeks ago and how he'd left the ring behind. "It was as if without that ring on my finger, my connection to you was gone. I had to have it back so I came here for it." Sienna nodded, understanding completely. That was one of the reasons she hadn't removed hers. Reaching out she cupped his stubble jaw in her hand and then leaned over and kissed him softly. "Together forever, Mr. Bradford." Dane smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Bradford, together forever. We've proven that when it comes to true love, it's never too late."
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