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Praise for Auld Lang Syne:
"Five Flames! It’s amazing how much Ms. Wilde packs into this short story. Enough background information is given to show the reader what makes the characters tick, both in the present and the past. Ms. Wilde also includes quite a bit of sex that’s not only hot, but tender and caring as well. I highly recommend this to anyone who enjoys an engaging plot and lots of heated romance in what they read." Sizzling Romances
"Four Stars! The Tempting Fate series is brilliant. Auld Lang Syne is fast paced with accurate clear-cut characters that are well written. When I read a book, I like the heroine to grow as a person and Ms. Wilde never fails to make her main character intelligent, charming, and sexy all at the same time. I would recommend this story for any one who loves a great romance. Just Erotic Romance Reviews
Praise for Second Chances:
"Blue Ribbon Rating: FIVE! Hold on to your hearts romance lovers because this one is sure to touch it like it’s never been touched before TEMPTING FATE: HOLIDAY FANTASIES – SECOND CHANCES is sure to give you the romance fix you need this month. I’m looking forward to more of Kay Wilde’s TEMPTING FATE series." Romance Junkies
"Five Flames! This passionate, tender short story had me in tears. Jillian and Brandon’s romance was so heartwarming. Ms. Wilde did an outstanding job of making them real and believable characters. It’s a well-written, satisfying romance that I highly recommend." Sizzling Romances
Praise for Journey's End:
"Five Angels! Kay Wilde is without a doubt one of the best authors I have ever read. Tempting Fate: Journey's End is a short story that compels and grips readers from the very beginning. Kay Wilde is an excellent storyteller; even her short stories have an abundance of love and passion. I have read all of Kay Wilde's Tempting Fate series and I have enjoyed each and every one of them. Each story is unique on it's own, but every book consistently portrays believable characters within the context of a very well written, awesome story!" Fallen Angel Reviews
"Five Flames! Kay Wilde's HOLIDAY FANTASIES short stories just keep getting better and better. The writing is excellent and the story flows smoothly. Colleen and Ronan are wonderful, lovable characters. Their sizzling lovemaking is really magical. JOURNEY'S END is a terrific St. Patrick's Day romance." Sizzling Romances
Praise for Sold To The Lowest Bidder:
"FIVE Angels! In the latest offering from New Concepts Publishing's Tempting Fate series, Tempting Fate: Holiday Fantasies: Sold to the Lowest Bidder Kay Wilde more than lives up to the high standard set by this series I finished this book with a smile on my face and an extra spring in my step." Fallen Angel Reviews
"Kay Wilde’s Tempting Fate: Holiday Fantasies, Sold to the Lowest Bidder is no less romantic or emotional than any of the others. A consistently wonderful storyteller, Ms. Wilde brings us a modern day Cinderella story with a charming little girl, a hard working mother, two fairy godmothers, and one frog prince. Sweet, heart wrenching and romantic, I definitely recommend this story, as well as the others in this series, as a must-read!" A Romance Review
Praise for Independence Day:
"Ms. Wilde takes the tragedy and sadness of a shattered woman’s faith and heart and creates a story of tenderness, self-discovery and love. It is this sort of ability that makes Kay Wilde an amazing author. She always gets to the heart of the matter, grasps it and makes it her own, which leaves a reader with a rekindled feeling of love and hope when the story ends. Independence Day hits close to home for this reader, hits a homerun for Kay Wilde and is her best Tempting Fate: Holiday Fantasies story yet." The Road to Romance
"FIVE Angels! Although Independence Day is slightly darker in subject matter than the rest of the Tempting Fate series, it is no less fantastic than the others. In fact, it just might be the best of the series because Kay Wilde expertly depicts such a sensitive subject. I applaud Kay Wilde for this story! She tells an excellent love story while staying true to the seriousness of abused women. No one writes them quite like Kay Wilde does. Wonderful story! Fallen Angel Reviews
Praise for The Phantom Lover:
"Five Angels! TEMPTING FATE: The Phantom Lover is a fast paced sensual tale of ardor and choice. Kay Wilde seizes the reader from the first page with this breathtaking, exhilarating, and fervent saga of confinement and free will. A must read for every romantic who has ever felt guilty or anxious of their sexuality. Sensuality, passion, eroticism, and spine tingling zeal will engulf the reader throughout Kay Wilde's The Phantom Lover. The exquisiteness of a life lived fully explodes throughout TEMPTING FATE: The Phantom Lover." Fallen Angel Reviews
"TEMPTING FATE: THE PHANTOM LOVER is a quickie. It will leave you wanting more. Kay Wilde sure knows how to capture the interest with her ability to lead the reader to the point of wanting a Phantom Lover of their own. Tempting Fate is not to be missed." Road to Romance
Praise for Detour:
"Five Flames! Tempting Fate was so intense of a love story that this reviewer was unable to put it down. You will be held spellbound by the plot and the hero is to die for. This reviewer gives this book a Five Flames for a love story that is a classic in itself." Sizzling Romances
"Five Stars! A great, hot quickie, Detour is sure to have you panting for more from new author Kay Wilde." Just Erotic Romance Reviews
Praise for Seduction Of The Senses:
"All I can truly stress about Seduction of the Senses by Kay Wilde, is not to stop reading it until the very last word is read!! This is an author I am finding to be one that gives her readers more than they ever expect, keeps things hot and heavy, brings us undeniable romance and her stories usually come with a surprise or two. Seduction of the Senses is blazing hot. It tantalizes the senses, sends us into over-drive and ready for more quickly. This holiday romp is a true delight that keeps one wondering and has the reader remembering all the things that are important in life. Not many authors can do sexual tension like Kay Wilde, and she does it splendidly. Seduction of the Senses will make one even feel a bit guilty for enjoying it so much…readers must read it to understand why!" The Road to Romance
"Five Hearts! A great romance for couples, Seduction of the Senses is a great way to put a spark back into any relationship." The Romance Studio
Read an excerpt from Auld Lang Syne:
Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind. Yeah right. Easier said than done.
The embossed invitation to her class reunion should have hit the trash can the moment she received it. Not only had she not tossed it, she’d actually brought the damn thing with her to New York City. Even more amazing, she was tempted to attend. Tempted to show the popular in crowd from her old high school that plain Jane Smith had become someone worth recognizing.
Jane wanted to believe she was a better person than that. That painful, confidence-destroying part of her life was over, finished. She’d moved on, leaving plain Jane, the invisible, non-person well behind her. Jane wanted to believe that to be the case--deep down she knew better.
Old hurts and slights died hard. Despite her success, the magnitude of which she still found impossible to comprehend, inside she was still plain Jane Smith, the non-person from the wrong side of the tracks. Was the embossed invitation in her hand a cruel reminder of who she was, who she would always be? Or was it her opportunity to banish plain Jane once and for all?
Playing out on the television screen in her hotel room at the famed Waldorf Astoria, a crush of humanity gathered in Times Square waiting for the countdown and the descent of the glittering ball which marked the end of the old year and the beginning of the new.
Rising from the satin covered bed where she’d been sitting Indian fashion surrounded by a mound of cream colored, satin pillows, Jane walked to the oak framed, full length mirror.
The red and gray plaid flannel nightgown she wore, the same gown that had been loose even when she was sixty-five pounds heavier, effectively concealed the finely sculptured curves beneath. Except for the weight loss, Jane couldn’t deny that she had done little to alter her plain Jane image.
Reaching for her glasses on the bedside table, she glanced at the clock displayed at the lower right-hand corner of the television screen which counted down the minutes. Turning back to her reflection, Jane was determined to be brutally honest with herself as she assessed her own attributes.
Her complexion, which thankfully hadn’t plagued her with an unsightly outbreak of pimples in years, was now smooth and clear. Always considering her hair to be her one good feature, Jane released the confining clip at the nape of her neck. While some might call her waist length hair a mousy brown, it was thick and shimmered with good health. Taking a deep breath, Jane then did something she’d never done before. She released the buttons at the neckline of her nightgown, allowed it to slide from her shoulders, down her arms and hips until it puddled at the feet. She then critically appraised her own nude body.
"Not bad," she admitted, sounding almost surprised. "Actually, pretty darn good." After leaving her hometown, it had taken her three years to write Silver Lining, the novel which had changed her life. Three years of working two jobs just to make ends meet, and writing during what free time she could squeeze into her days and nights. In high school she’d used junk food as a panacea to make her feel better, which in the end made her feel even worse when she continued to gain weight. On her own, money for food was tight and junk food a luxury she couldn’t afford. She was often so immersed in her writing she forgot to eat all together. The excess pounds and inches had slowly melted away without Jane even realizing it.
Reaching for the invitation she’d laid upon the chest of drawers next to the mirror, Jane reread the information before her eyes returned to the mirror. She felt as if the woman with the killer body gazing back at her was someone totally separate from herself.
"You have to face and conquer the past before you can let it go and move on to the future that’s opened up for you," the woman in the mirror insisted.
Jane pulled the huge flannel gown back up. Leaving the buttons at the neckline unfastened, she returned to the bed.
On the television the mob scene in Times Square grew loud and rowdy as the ball started to descend and the countdown to the New Year began.
Vowing this would be the last New Year’s Eve she would spend alone, while the rest of the world was out there enjoying life, Jane reached over and poured herself a solitary glass of champagne from the small, complimentary bottle supplied by the hotel.
"Five ... Four ... Three ... Two ... One ... Happy New Year!!!"
Having no one with which to share the toast, Jane held her glass toward the excited, kissing and hugging revelers on the screen as the strains of Auld Lang Syne drowned out the sounds of their cheers.
For Auld Lang Syne--meaning, for old long since, Jane interpreted. Days long gone, best forgot and never brought to mind. Let go of the past and move on with the future. This was exactly what Jane intended to do by following the advice from the lady in the mirror--face and conquer the past.
Jane picked up the yellow legal pad upon which she’d been jotting down notes and ideas for her next book. Turning to a blank page, she picked up her pen and began to write.
New Year’s Resolutions:
I. Make over plain Jane
(a) Attend reunion
(b) Seduce Ryan Shipman
(c) Lose virginity
II. Get a real life.
Read an excerpt from Second Chances:
Perched precariously near the top of a ladder, covered with pale yellow speckles as she rolled paint onto the dingy tan walls, Jill Dennis tried to ignore the persistent ringing of the doorbell. Just when she thought her unexpected visitor had given up, the ringing started again.
"Dammit," she muttered under her breath. She'd taken the day off so she'd have a three day weekend to paint, clean and redecorate her living room. Since she started painting this morning, she'd had three phone calls from friends, two from the office, and now the doorbell. If she kept getting interrupted she wouldn't finish before she returned to work Monday morning.
Laying the roller in the paint pan attached to the top of the ladder, she backed carefully down the steps and picked up a dish towel, wiping paint from her hands as she made her way to the front door.
"I'm sorry for the interruption, ma'am," the female mail carrier apologized after she took in Jill's disheveled, paint spattered appearance.
"Can I help you?" Jill asked, trying to keep the impatience from her voice.
"I hope so. You wouldn't by any chance know a Jillian Williams who used to live at this address, would you?"
"I'm Jillian Williams, or I was. Williams is my maiden name."
"I thought that might be the case. At least I hoped so. I mean, Jillian isn't that common a name. And two Jillians at the same address..."
"Excuse me?" Jill interrupted, thinking of the paint roller drying out in the pan. The mail carrier was rambling and not making much sense.
"Maybe I should explain," the mail carrier responded. "During our move to the new post office, we found several pieces of mail that had fallen between a bank of file cabinets and the wall. The Post Master felt, if possible, those pieces of mail should be delivered."
"I imagine so," Jill agreed somewhat reluctantly. Knowing her luck, after years of struggling, now that she was relatively debt free, they'd probably discovered some long overdue bill which remained unpaid.
"This belongs to you." The mail carrier handed a red envelope to Jill ... a greeting card sized, red envelope.
If Jill was surprised by the ten cent stamp on the upper right hand corner, she was even more shocked by the date on the postmark: February 13, 1975. Directly under it, was another postmark with yesterday's date: February 10, 2000. And then the distinctive script on the envelope caught her attention.
Even after twenty-five years, she immediately recognized the bold, masculine scrawl. Jill's hand began to tremble. Her heart began to flutter within her chest like a trapped wild thing struggling to escape. The mail carrier's apology sounded like an incomprehensible roar in Jill's ears.
Barely conscious of doing so, Jill accepted the rest of her mail, closed the door and walked into the living room where she sank onto the sofa. In a stunned daze, she laid her mail aside, except for the card, and sat staring at the handwriting. As much as she wanted to open the card, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she laid her head back, closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to travel twenty-five years into the past.
Brandon Sinclair's image and status fit perfectly with the red Corvette convertible his parents had given him for high school graduation. No one expected to see Jill driving anything better than her mother's second hand Ford Pinto, which was in the shop more often than not. He was the only son and heir to the family's publishing company who lived on an estate at the outskirts of town. Jill was the daughter of a divorcee who tended bar at a downtown lounge and lived from paycheck to paycheck. Jill and her mother lived in a modest, two bedroom, tract style home with a postage stamp sized yard.
Jill and Brandon started dating toward the end of their sophomore year of high school and had remained inseparable throughout their junior and senior years. Much to the chagrin of the doom sayers who claimed they wouldn't last, those years were spent with few harsh words or disagreements between them. They'd been best friends and confidants who brought out the best qualities in each other, loving each other without reservation or conditions.
Brandon's parents strongly disapproved of the relationship and never missed an opportunity to make their opinion of their son's choice brutally clear. Jill's mother didn't approve either. She believed boys from Brandon's social class dated girls like Jill for one reason only. Once they got what they wanted, they would move on to the next naive victim, ultimately marrying someone considered suitable, within their own circle.
Jill and Brandon had been so caught up in the all-consuming intensity of first love, their social and economic backgrounds never entered into the equation. Despite the opposition of those around them, Jill had believed with all her heart and soul they were meant to be together. She believed their love was strong enough to withstand the test of time and she would have bet her life that Brandon felt the same way.
That was why she had been so devastated when it ended so abruptly ... and permanently.
Nearly to the very day twenty-five years later, despite everything that had happened during the intervening years, there was still a part of Jill that had never been able to let go of the fantasy.
Jill's mind wandered to the last time she and Brandon had been together, and to the subsequent argument which had severed their relationship with absolute finality. That night remained in her mind with such vivid clarity it seemed as if it had happened mere days ago, instead of on February 12, 1975 ... two days before Valentine's Day.
The evening was cold and damp, with a rain/snow mixture. Brandon arrived around eight o'clock with a pizza and a bottle of wine he'd taken from his family's wine cellar. As she did nearly every night except Sunday, her mother was working, so Jill and Brandon had the house to themselves.
So attuned to Brandon's moods, Jill knew something was wrong the moment he walked through the door. They'd put a stack of their favorite 45's on the stereo. Brandon built a fire in the fireplace and they'd tossed the pillows from the sofa onto the floor creating a comfortable, romantic setting. He ate little of the pizza, instead of devouring more than two-thirds as he usually did. He was instead making rapid inroads toward depleting the contents of the wine bottle.
Brandon was uncommunicative, almost morose. Jill tried to draw him out with idle conversation. His responses were stilted, sometimes clipped, one-word answers. As she waited for him to tell her what was bothering him, she too lapsed into silence. By the time Jill carried the leftover pizza and paper plates into the kitchen, a sick feeling was knotted in the pit of her stomach.
When she returned to the living room she knew she had to force the issue. "What happened, Brandon? Talk to me," Jill insisted as she curled up next to him on the floor in front of the fire.
He was silent for a moment, just sat there staring into the flames. Then he downed the contents in his glass and poured himself another. "I'm leaving for the University at the end of April, starting school in May," he responded at last, without looking at her as he imparted the shocking news.
"What?" Jill gasped in surprise. "You weren't planning to start until the fall session. What happened to your decision to take a year off before you started college?"
"My father."
"Your father?" Why should she be surprised by that one? "I thought he accepted your decision to wait a year."
"Apparently not. Unless I start school in May, as he dictates, I'm on my own financially. I could pull it off if I used my trust fund. But without my father's approval, I can't get access to that until I'm twenty-one."
"Which he won't give," Jill concluded. She should have seen this coming. Especially after the elder Sinclair paid her a visit at work last week and offered her a check in an attempt to buy her off. A staggering amount of money for someone in her position, he'd said, and all she had to do was walk out of Brandon's life. She'd torn up the check and handed the pieces back to him. That was the only secret Jill had ever kept from Brandon. As she figured it, there was already enough friction between Brandon and his parents because of their relationship. Jill didn't want to cause more by telling him what his father had done.
With an almost weary sigh Brandon set his wine glass aside and pulled her into his arms. "My only other option is to get a job and work my way through school. I'm willing to do that. But if I'm forced to go that route, do you have any idea how many years it will take me to get my degree?"
Considering his school of choice was a prestigious university with exorbitant fees, more years than Jill cared to even consider. "It's because of me, isn't it? This is their way of separating us." With a defeated sigh, Jill finally accepted the truth. "No matter what I do, no matter how we feel about each other, your parents will never accept me."
"Oh, on the contrary. My parents insist, if we love each other as much as I claim, we'll still love each other in four years ... after I get my degree." Brandon's statement was delivered in bitter, almost angry tone of voice. "And, if we still want to be married at that time, they'll give us the most spectacular wedding this town has ever seen."
That was something at least. Wasn't it?
"We'll make it work, Brandon," she insisted softly. "We already knew you'd be leaving at the end of August. This way you'll be finished a term sooner."
"Always the optimist, aren't you? You don't get it, Jill. They don't expect us to make it. Do you know of any couple who has been able to hold a long distance relationship together, for that length of time? I sure as hell don't." He took her face between his hands and forced her to meet and hold his frustrated gaze. "We're talking four years, Jill. Four years that I'll be half way across the country. Four years that I'll only be able to see you on breaks and holidays."
"Then we'll have to make each visit special enough to hold us until the next one."
"Will we, Jill? I wonder."
"Brandon, I.…"
When his lips met hers, there was a desperation in his kiss that had never been there before. His tongue didn't tease at the seam of her lips to coax them to open for him, he thrust forward, demanding admittance and she gave it without hesitation. He hooked his finger through the ring attached to the zipper tab on the front of her sweater and jerked it downward. As he pushed the sweater from her shoulders, her own hands reached behind her to release the hooks on her bra.
When she was bare from the waist up, lightheaded from the passionate intensity of their kiss, Brandon pulled back and devoured her breasts with his eyes as if he were trying to memorize the sight of them. Then he pressed her back until she was lying on the carpeted floor. His mouth and hands took over where his heated gaze left off.
He caressed and kissed every inch of her breasts as if he were also attempting to memorize the feel and taste of her. When he began to suck forcefully on one distended nipple and squeeze the other between his fingertips, Jill felt her insides begin to clench and grow wet.
It wasn't unusual for a simple kiss between them to escalate into a heated petting session, but tonight was different. Brandon had never been this demanding, this out of control. Jill had never been this out of control. All she could think of was, they had six, maybe seven weeks, then he would be gone.
When Brandon unsnapped then unzipped her jeans, he didn't slide his hand inside to caress her, using his fingers to bring her to orgasm as he usually did. Instead, he pushed her jeans and panties over her hips and down her thighs.
Now was the time to stop him, before they did something they would regret later. Jill couldn't do it. She was too far gone.
He was on his knees between her spread legs as she lay before him totally nude for the first time. The passion burning in his eyes was so intense, Jill could almost feel the heated touch of his gaze as it slid over her quivering flesh.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, his voice husky with pent up emotion.
Jill knew what he was going to do before she felt his breath between her legs. She'd read about it. She'd listened to other girls talking about the experience.
"I love you, Jill," Brandon told her.
And then she felt his lips on her. Jill's ability to protest was lost in the heat of the moment. What he lacked in experience, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. He quickly had her moaning and writhing on the carpet, forcing him to grip her hips to hold her secure against his probing tongue.
When her orgasm began, it was nothing like the ones she'd experienced when he'd used his hand to bring her release. This one began deep inside, building slowly, with an intensity that was almost agony. Jill wasn't even aware that she was arching against his lips as she begged, "Oh, God, Brandon, please don't stop." And then she exploded. Her entire body was gripped by sensations which took control and went on and on until her body went limp, and she lay gasping for breath upon the carpet.
When she was able to open her eyes, Brandon was above her, looking down at her. The frenzied passion glittering in his eyes caused her heart to flutter within her chest. She could feel the tip of his erection pressing at the opening so recently vacated by his tongue. Jill wanted to feel him inside her more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.
"Once he gets what he's after, he won't want you any longer," her mother's words forced their way past the passion induced fog clouding her mind. Followed closely thereafter by the words tossed at her by Brandon's father. "If it's your plan to get yourself knocked up so my son will be forced to marry you, I'll cut him off without a penny, and he'll eventually hate you for it."
Jill felt as if someone had just tossed a bucket of ice water over her heated flesh. She panicked and began pushing at his chest. "No, Brandon. We can't. We have to stop."
When Brandon realized what she was saying, the passion clouding his eyes was replaced by an expression of stunned disbelief, followed by absolute fury. He grasped her wrists in a punishing grip and pulled her arms above her head. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just remained above her, breathing heavily as he glared down at her, erect and ready.
"I'm sorry, Brandon. I love you, but I can't." Jill knew he was struggling for control. All it would take was one forceful thrust. Jill wouldn't have blamed him if he did. She almost hoped he would, taking the decision out of her hands.
Brandon swore savagely, then rolled off her. He lay there on his back breathing heavily with his forearm covering his eyes.
Following so closely on the heels of the incredible pleasure he'd given her, Jill felt like a cheat, a tease. Wanting to make it up to him, she reached down and wrapped her hand around his rigid erection.
Once again he grasped her wrist. "Not this time," he snapped as he pulled her hand from him. "Hell, I can do that myself. God knows, I've had enough practice." Brandon rolled to his feet and turned his back to her while he zipped his jeans and buckled his belt.
Jill used the time to pull the afghan from the sofa and cover herself. "Brandon, I'm sorry. You know how much I love you."
He turned and glared down at her. "Do I, Jill?"
"How can you ask that?"
"All I know is when I leave you, I need you so badly I ache. If you loved me as much as I love you, you wouldn't find it so easy to stop. You'd want us to be together in every way two people who claim to love each other can be together."
"In other words, if I loved you I'd prove it? That's unfair, Brandon."
He raked his fingers through his hair and gave a harsh mirthless laugh. "Unfair? Let me tell you what's unfair, sweetheart. For nearly three years I've gone head to head with my parents over our relationship, and never once have I backed down on my feelings for you. I've ignored all the country club Muffys and Buffys they've thrown at me. Girls who've made it perfectly clear they'd be more than willing to give me what I need. But I didn't want them, Jill. You are the only one I've ever wanted."
Jill rose to her feet, wrapped the afghan around her sarong fashion, and went to Brandon. "You're the only one I've ever wanted, Brandon."
"Apparently not enough," Brandon accused. "I'm out of here," he muttered under his breath, then reached for his leather jacket on the back of the sofa.
Jill reached out and put a restraining hand on his arm. "Please try to see my side of this. Can't you see that I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't."
He jerked his arm away from her and picked up his jacket. "That's bullshit. I'm tired of trying to see everyone else's side of things. And I'm tired of being manipulated by the people who claim they love me."
"I've never tried to manipulate you."
"Haven't you? You've held your virginity over my head like a God damned trophy and I've toed the line like a whipped pup. Maybe the old man was right after all."
"What are you suggesting?"
"That you're deliberately holding out on me, until you manipulate me into a marriage neither of us are ready for."
"And if we made love and I got pregnant? Would I then be the slut who deliberately got pregnant, to trap you into marriage?" Jill could hear the desperation, the pleading tone in her voice, but she didn't care. She was desperate. She was afraid of what he might do if he walked out the door still angry. She had to make him understand.
"You know better than that," he snapped.
"No, I don't know better than that. Deep down, you know I'm right." Jill reached out and placed her hand on his clenched jaw. "Please, Brandon, think.…"
Once again he jerked away from her touch. "Think with the head on my shoulders instead of the one in my pants? I've heard that lecture often enough from the old man. I don't need it from you." Brandon put on his jacket and took his car keys from his pocket. "I'm through, Jill. I can't take it any longer." He said those words with a finality that cut through Jill's heart like a hot knife through cold butter.
Jill's tears started flowing as she watched him walk toward the door. Her thoughts were squirreling around in her head as she tried to think of something to say that would keep him from walking out. But what else was there to say? He was angry, frustrated, and in no mood to listen. Maybe when he had time to cool off he'd see things differently.
With his hand on the doorknob he turned and looked back toward her, as if for the last time.
"Don't do this, Brandon. I love you," she pleaded.
"And I love you. Ain't it a bitch." With those words, he opened the door and walked out of her life.
On the stereo, the final record on the stack dropped onto the turntable. The dulcet timbre of Barbra Streisand's voice filtered through the stereo speakers as she began singing The Way We Were. Little did Jill know how appropriate that song would prove to be.
Now, twenty-five years later, Jill sat in her living room, the very room in which that argument had taken place, holding a Valentine he'd sent her the following day. Her finger slid under the flap of the envelope, pulled it open and extracted the card. On the cover bordered with an embossed white lace design, two hearts were joined by the words Now and Forever. The words blurred through the tears filling her eyes as she opened the card and read the message he'd written.
Jill,
You are the first thing I think of each morning and the last thing I think of each night. I can't imagine my life without you in it. I was angry and frustrated and I took it out on the only person who loves me unconditionally, without demands or expectations.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean the things I said.
Meet me at Tony's, 8:00, Valentine's night.
Well begin making those special memories you talked about last night.
My Love Always,
Brandon
A tear dropped onto the page. Brandon's signature began to smear and run.
She hadn't received the card. How different both their lives might have been if she had. Jill could only imagine what he must have been going through as he waited for her to arrive at their favorite restaurant. How long did he sit there waiting before he accepted that she wasn't coming?
Read an excerpt from Journey's End:
"Please don’t do this, Donal. There must be a way to defeat her," Megan pleaded, unable to quell the edge of hysteria in her voice.
"The curse the Lianhan Shee forced the old witch to put upon me ‘tis a far better fate than were I to concede to her demands and leave ye to be with her."
"But Donal, ‘tis it not said ye kin send another to the Lianhan Shee in yer stead?"
Megan suggested hopefully.
"And what kind of man would I be to send another to suffer me fate?"
"Donal, please." There was a catch in her voice and her tears started to flow as she was forced to accept the inevitable.
"Near tears me heart out to see ye hurtin’ so, me love. But ‘tis the only way. Least this way, I’ll be free to watch over ye."
"If ye must do this," Megan forced herself to say, trying to equal his courage, "‘tis also said, the Selkie kin shed their skin at night and walk among humans. We kin still be t’gether."
"Ah, luv." With a weary sigh Donal pulled Megan into his arms. "Unless I kin stand by yer side, night and day, as yer husband, protector, and the father of yer children, I must leave ye free to find one who kin."
Megan held him tightly, then said the words she already knew he loved her too much to accept. "Then I’ll ask the old witch to put the same curse upon me. We will share the same fate."
Donal had anticipated such a desperate action on Megan’s part. He’d already extracted a promise from the witch that she would grant no such request. "The old witch has done her best fer us. She has given us a chance to say good-bye and the promise that in another time, our souls will be given the opportunity to find one another."
"How kin I live without ye?"
"Ye will do what ye must," Donal insisted. "Promise me, Megan. Grant me the peace of knowin’ ye’ll not remain alone."
Megan knew that without Donal half of herself would be forever missing, and she would never again find the happiness only he could give her. But, if it would give him peace, she forced herself to speak the words he needed to hear. "I give ye me promise, Donal."
Beginning to feel pain in his flesh and bones and the overpowering call of the sea, Donal O’Shea knew their time together was about to end. Sliding his hands up her back to her shoulders, he gently pushed her away from him. "Me prayers be with ye, me love. And may God watch over and protect ye on yer journeys, ‘til we are again united."
"I’ll always love ye, Donal O’Shea," Megan whispered, also sensing the end was near.
His beautiful, long-lashed, dark eyes misted over as he looked deeply into hers, so deeply Megan felt as if he were caressing her soul. "And I will always love ye, me lovely Megan." He leaned down and tenderly kissed her good-bye, then turned and walked into the sea.
Megan stood on the beach watching as the huge swells washed over him. What seemed like an unbearably long time later, a sleek black seal broke the surface. Bypassing the other seals grouped upon an ocean-washed outcropping of rocks, the lone seal began moving out to sea.
"Nooo," Megan cried out, then fell to her knees upon the sand.
* * * *
Jerked from the depths of her unsettling dream, Colleen McBride bolted upright in her bed. Chilled, she pulled the quilt around her, wrapped her arms around her bent legs and rested her head upon her knees. The dreams were recurring with increasing frequency, each occurrence leaving her more shaken, with a lingering sensation of desperation which was intensifying. Time was running out. But time for what? All she had to go on were small fragments she remembered from the dreams-- haunting, long-lashed, dark eyes gazing deeply into hers, the image of a house on a hill overlooking the ocean, a door upon which a shamrock had been painted and a door mat embossed with a gold claddaugh design.
Barely having the energy to lift her head, Colleen looked at the clock radio on her bedside table. It was only 4:00 a.m. Previous experience taught her that going back to sleep would be impossible.
Wrapping the quilt securely around her, Colleen rose from the bed. Using only the glow of the street light outside which filtered through her closed blinds, she made her way to the kitchenette area of her small, one bedroom apartment. Taking a glass from the cabinet, she turned on the tap and filled it with water. Her hand was trembling so badly, the glass slipped from her fingers and shattered when it hit the stainless steel sink.
It took a while, but Colleen managed to pull herself together enough to make a pot of coffee, a cup of which she carried into the living room. Still feeling chilled all the way to her soul, Colleen started a fire in the gas log fireplace, then curled up on the sofa, cocooned within the comforting warmth of her grandmother’s handmade quilt. And as she had done on many such nights, there Colleen sat until the sun came up and it was time to get ready for work.
* * * *
"Are you out of your mind?"
"That’s a distinct possibility," Colleen responded to Karen, her best friend and coworker, as she emptied her personal belongings from her desk drawer and placed them into the cardboard box she’d found in the storeroom.
"I can’t believe you quit your job."
"He didn’t give me any choice," Colleen insisted. "I told him something personal has come up and I needed to take a week of my vacation time. He won’t give me the time off without two week’s notice, so I quit."
"Jeez, Coll," her friend groaned. "These crazy dreams you’ve been having are really getting to you. You’re exhausted, on edge, and not behaving like yourself at all. Go back in there and talk to Goldstein. Hell, he thinks you walk on water. He’ll give you your job back."
Colleen’s wordless response to her friend’s impassioned speech was to pick up the photograph of her parents and grandmother from the top of her desk, gently place it in the box, and close the lid.
"Dammit, Colleen. I’m your friend. I care about you. Stop and think about what you’re giving up. You’ve invested six years here."
"And I’ve barely missed a day in those six years. What about all the days I come in early and stay late, or the weekends I’ve put in. All without overtime pay?" Colleen hastened to point out, cringing inwardly at the sharpness in her voice. "You’d think that would grant me a little consideration the first time I’ve ever asked for anything."
"You’re also the highest paid secretary in the company and you have an excellent benefit package," Karen inserted. Working in payroll gave her access to the salaries and hourly rates of all the employees. "Keep your job, Coll. Give Goldstein the required notice, then take your vacation. What’s two weeks?"
"Two weeks more than I have, Karen. If I don’t go now, I’ll be too late." Colleen knew Karen was trying to be a good friend, a friend who was genuinely concerned for her welfare.
"Too late for what? Go where? You still haven’t told me where you have to go that’s so damn important." Karen’s voice was laced with frustration, confusion, and more than a little hurt that Colleen wouldn’t confide in her.
Confide what? That apart from her flip answer regarding her sanity, Colleen was also concerned that she might truly be losing her grip on reality. The only answer she could give her friend was the plain and simple truth. "I don’t know."
Read an excerpt from Sold to the Lowest Bidder:
Cinda Ellis tucked the lightweight blanket around her daughter, brushed the blonde curls from her face, then dropped a butterfly kiss upon her flushed cheek. "Sweet dreams, angel," she whispered. The concern in her eyes coupled with the exhaustion etched into her lovely features made her look older than her thirty years. She paused briefly at the door and looked back toward the bed to reassure herself that Sami was sleeping soundly before she switched off the light and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
"She asleep?" asked Jean Collier, Cinda’s neighbor, dear friend, and at times her personal fairy godmother. To Sami, Jean had become a surrogate grandmother.
"Out like a light, but she’s a bit feverish. I know it’s just a cold, but I hate leaving her when she isn’t feeling well."
"Then don’t," Jean insisted. "It’s supposed to be your night off, and you could use the rest yourself."
Cinda closed her eyes briefly as she forced back her sense of maternal guilt. "I wish I could stay home, Jean, but I have to work." The truth was, Cinda couldn’t afford to turn down time-and-a-half for Saturday and double-time for Sunday.
"I understand, dear." Jean wrapped her arm around Cinda’s waist and urged her down the narrow hallway. "I’ve made a fresh pot of tea and I baked your favorite apple pie this afternoon. Gotta put some meat on those bones if you’re hell bent on keeping up all the hours you’ve been working."
"I don’t know what we’d do without you." Cinda gave her friend a hug, not for the first time recognizing how frail Jean had become since her mild heart attack this past fall. "I wish you’d let me pay you for taking care for Sami while I work."
Jean stepped back, squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine, bringing her all the way up to her five foot two inch stature. "We’ve been over this before, dear," her tone reminiscent of the one Cinda used on Sami when she meant business. "We have a fair trade-off going here, you and I. Having you and Sami across the hall and her sleeping over here nights while you work keeps my son off my back about going into one of those assisted living places. Or worse yet, moving in with him and his Gestapo wife," Jean added with a shudder. "You don’t have a monopoly on independence, you know."
Seated opposite Jean at her dining table in the small alcove off the compact kitchen, Cinda finished off her last bite of pie then glanced at the watch strapped to her wrist. If she left now, she’d have an hour to write out bills and attempt to balance her extremely tight budget for the month ahead. When Cinda picked up her tea, she caught a glimpse of Jean’s expression over the rim of the cup.
"What’s wrong, Jean? You went to the doctor for a check-up this afternoon. Is it your heart?"
"Heaven’s no. I have the constitution of a pack mule. An old pack mule, true, but other than that, I’m fine," Jean assured her with a shrug.
"Then what has you looking like Sami when she knows she has to take some foul tasting medicine? Out with it."
"Well, dear," Jean began hesitantly. "You know I’m not one to interfere, but I’ve been looking into a few things."
"Such as?"
"I know you won’t spend money on an attorney to take your ex-husband to court for back child support. But there are organizations you can contact that won’t cost you anything, and I hear they have an excellent success rate." Jean poured herself another cup of tea while she waited for Cinda’s response. When it wasn’t forthcoming, she prodded, "If you had that money, you wouldn’t be forced to work nights, putting in ten and twelve hours shifts. The scoundrel owes you. He owes his daughter."
"That isn’t an option." Cinda took a deep, weary breath. She didn’t talk much about her ex-husband because she was grateful to have him out of their lives, and because she was embarrassed to admit how stupid she’d been to marry Richard Ellis in the first place. Cinda reached across the table and covered Jean’s hand with her own. "Don’t think for a minute that I don’t appreciate your concern. And while I can’t deny that money is tight, I’m doing okay without Richard’s support. You’ve never met Sami’s father. Believe me, my daughter is better off with no father at all than to have him in her life."
* * * *
Back in her own apartment, Cinda sat at her own table in her duplicate alcove off the kitchen. She’d just totaled the balance in her checking account for the second time, knowing she’d have no choice but to transfer funds from her savings to cover some of the checks she’d just written. A savings account which was dwindling at an alarming rate, but under the circumstances, Cinda was responsible enough to know she couldn’t risk getting behind on the bills. Once she allowed that to happen, she’d never get caught up.
Although she rarely gave in to the temptation to throw herself a pity party, she was so tired and worried she didn’t have the energy to resist the tears that were upon her before she could force them back. Dropping her head onto her arms folded upon the table, Cinda allowed herself the luxury of a good cry. There was no way she would worry Jean by letting her know just how desperate her situation was becoming.
Until six months ago, her job at the computer assembly plant had allowed them to live in a nice apartment in a quiet, safe, middle-class neighborhood that put Sami in an elementary school in a good school district. Although money had always been tight, her paychecks had paid the bills with a little left over for the occasional treat or surprise for her daughter. When the cutbacks and layoffs started, the company’s goal seemed to be to keep up the same production output with fewer employees, hence, overtime. Fearing the direction the plant might be headed, Cinda switched to nights for the higher pay rate and had taken all the overtime she could get. Except for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Day when the plant was closed, she hadn’t taken a day off in the past six months, putting every extra penny she could pinch into savings ... just in case. Unfortunately, overtime pay meant higher income tax withholdings. Nor had she anticipated a hefty rent increase, the skyrocketing gas bills, and a car which needed a new engine and new tires when she could least afford them, but she needed her gas guzzling vehicle to get back and forth to work.
Then last month, amid rumors of the plant relocating to Mexico, another group of employees had been let go. Whether the plant closed or not, Cinda knew she was frighteningly near the bottom of the seniority list and the next layoff would include her.
Jean hadn’t known how tempting her suggestion had been that Cinda attempt to collect back support from Sami’s father. Nor had she known, regardless of how desperate the circumstances might become, it was a risk Cinda wasn’t willing to take.
Sami had been two years old when Cinda divorced Richard. She was now seven. Cinda had never received a dime from the court ordered support payments, and Sami had never received so much as a birthday or Christmas card, not even a phone call from her absentee father. That Richard could easily afford to pay the support payments was never in question. He simply didn’t care enough about his daughter to do so. Cinda also knew Richard hadn’t given up his taste for booze, fast cars, and cheap women. If she forced Richard to pay up, whether he wanted to see his daughter or not, Cinda knew her ex-husband well enough to know he’d retaliate by demanding visitation rights. Just the thought of Sami being in a car with him when he’d been drinking made Cinda’s blood run cold.
If things got too bad, there was always her father. Yeah right! He was so caught up with his latest wife and her two daughters that except for a Christmas card with a small token check, a check written and signed by wife number four, his own daughter hadn’t heard from him in over a year. If her stepmother hadn’t been attempting to make a point, she doubted they’d have received even that. On the cover of the Christmas card was a family photograph taken in front of an elaborately decorated Christmas tree. Needless to say, Cinda and Sami had not been included, nor had they been invited to join them for the holiday. With her stepmother and stepsisters running interference, Cinda suspected that her father received neither her phone messages nor her letters.
Except for her dear friend Jean, she was on her own, much as she’d been since her own mother passed away when she was fifteen years old.
* * * *
Across the hall, Jean opened the door to her spare bedroom to check on the sleeping child in her care.
A head of blonde curls popped off the pillow and big, innocent blue eyes looked up at Jean expectantly. "Did my mom go home?"
"Why you little faker," Jean chided with a chuckle.
"I can’t help it. I’m too excited to sleep," Sami confided in a conspiratorial whisper, in case her mother was still in the other room. "Did you mail my letter?"
Jean cringed inwardly, fearing she’d made a mistake by going along with Sami’s outrageous scheme, a scheme which had a slim to none chance of succeeding. The little angel would be even more disappointed when her secret plot to give Cinda a special Mother’s Day gift failed. She’d known the moment Sami told her what she wanted to do, by going along with it, she was encouraging the child’s unrealistic expectations. Unfortunately, Jean was a sucker when it came to the little girl she couldn’t love more if she were her own grandchild. Sami was so excited, Jean didn’t have the heart to refuse to play co-conspirator. She just hoped she didn’t live to regret being such a soft touch.
"Grandma Jean, you did mail the letter, didn’t you?" Sami asked again.
"Yes, sweetheart. I mailed your letter." Who knows? Miracles happen every day. In Jean’s mind, if anyone deserved a miracle it was Sami and Cinda Ellis.
* * * *
"Are you out of your mind?" Wade Travers couldn’t believe his agent would have the audacity to suggest such a thing, much less expect him to go along with it.
Wade was a reclusive loner whose comfort zone was located in the peace and quiet of the country where he could write undisturbed. Book tours ranked at the top of his avoidance list, right along with shmoozing publishers and hobnobbing with high society. Yet, when everyone knew he hated book tours and autograph sessions, he’d allowed himself to be coerced into a grueling, two-month, cross-country jaunt to promote his new book--returning to discover that his mother and his agent had been setting him up in his absence.
"It’s for your favorite charity, Wade. Need I remind you that you were the one who encouraged your mother to get involved with the organization? That you talked her into accepting the position as chairperson of the fund raising committee?" Freda Neilson hastened to point out.
Wade groaned inwardly. "I wanted her to have something to occupy her time. Hopefully to divert her attentions away from me, and her disastrous, not to mention distracting, matchmaking schemes. How the hell was I to know it would backfire? You’re my agent, Freda. Get me out of it."
"She does have a point, Wade. How effective can she be soliciting donation worthy prizes from the movers and shakers if her own famous son isn’t willing to do his part?"
"That was a cheap shot."
"I know. But I’m so good at it, darling."
"I’m willing to do my part, dammit. I’ll double, hell, I’ll triple my usual contribution. But I’ll be damned if I’ll allow myself to be auctioned off to the highest bidder."
"You’re making it sound like a fate worse than death. It’s only one weekend, for heaven sake. For underprivileged children," Freda coaxed. "Look at it this way. You got off easy. The committee’s original plan was to hold a regular bachelor auction. They’d have had your gorgeous bod in a tux, strutting your stuff down a runway, enduring catcalls and bidding wars between sexually frustrated society matrons and social climbing debutantes out to snare a rich husband."
The visual image her description created in Wade’s mind caused him to break out in a cold sweat and his gut to tighten into a painful knot. "How did I get so lucky?" was his sarcastic retort.
"Your mother, actually. She convinced the committee that while bachelor auctions were profitable up to a point, they limited contributions by drawing only wealthy women. Except for the cost of the admission, only the highest bidders paid up and walked away with the prize. By holding a well publicized, silent auction, everyone knows up front that their entries are donations to the organization, and the prizes will go to the highest contributor in each category." As she always did when excited about a project, Freda began pacing back and forth in front of the window behind her desk. "It was a stroke of genius on your mother’s part. Beyond the coveted fantasy dates with the city’s most successful bachelors and bachelorettes, it also left room for a wide variety of other prizes. The response has been overwhelming. The organization doubled its goal less than a week after the press release went out, and there are still two weeks remaining before the bidding closes and the winners are announced."
Wade couldn’t deny his pride in his mother’s accomplishment. As a boy growing up on the lower west side, his mother had often been forced to work two jobs just to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. To this day Wade had never met anyone, male or female, who could manage money better or stretch a dollar as efficiently as Estelle Travers.
Barely finishing high school and unable to afford college, Wade’s one asset had been his gift for telling a compelling, often graphic story. With grim determination, a lot of luck, three novels, and the support of a fledgling, bulldog of a literary agent by the name of Freda Nielson, Wade finally made his mark in the literary world. He had finally been able to realize his childhood dream of moving his mother out of their dingy, yet spotlessly clean, one-bedroom apartment and into a nice home of her own. They’d both come a long way since their days in the old neighborhood but they’d never forgotten what near poverty was like. Nor had they forgotten the children who were still there with little hope for a better future unless someone cared enough to intervene. Hence, the organization and Wade’s current dilemma.
"Why a fantasy getaway weekend, for Christ’s sake?" Wade muttered. "Why didn’t she put up autographed first editions of my books? Or even my car? That I could accept. Not her attempts at matchmaking, which always turn out to be dates from hell." He tossed back the remainder of his drink in one fiery gulp. He should have known he would not like the outcome of this meeting when Freda met him at the door with a stiff bourbon in hand. "I won’t allow her to manipulate me into another torturous fiasco. I’m quite capable of finding my own dates, without my mother’s loving but misguided interference."
Freda rolled her eyes. "Um-hum. Pretty, empty-headed warm bodies, willing to scratch the itch without making demands." Her opinion of his choice in women was nothing Wade hadn’t heard before.
"Works for me," Wade snapped. His mother’s meddling and Freda’s culpability in the mess had stretched his patience to the breaking point.
"Hey, I’m on your side, pal," Freda said, putting her hands up as if in surrender. "As you said, I’m your agent. The more money you make, the more money I make. I’m for any lifestyle, or lack thereof, that allows you to keep cranking out best-sellers. It is, however, unlikely to produce the grandchildren your mother is longing to spoil. As for this charity thing, like it or not, I’m afraid you’re stuck."
"Not necessarily," Wade countered. "If what you say is true, when the final bids are in, I’ll top the highest bid by a thousand dollars and save myself the agony of a wasted weekend."
Wade didn’t care for the sound of Freda’s responding chuckle. "That’s exactly what your mother said you’d do." She opened the center drawer of her desk, pulled out an envelope and slid it across the desk toward Wade. "She asked me to see that you read this particular entry for your fantasy date."
Unfolding the letter, Wade quickly scanned the childlike printing then muttered a curse.
Dear Mr. Batchler Numbr 1,
I want to give money to help the other kids. I no what it feels like to be different cause I don’t have a dad like my frinds at school. They some times teese me and I feel bad. But it dont matter cause I got the best, most butiful mom in the whole world. I had $25 dollars in my bank and I want to win the date with you for my mom for mothers day cause she works all the time. She all ways does things for me to make me laugh and feel good but she dont have any fun. My mom dont laugh any more and I want to suprize her and make her laugh and be happy again. If you take her on a date - her name is Cinda Ellis. My name is Samantha and I am 7 years old.
Your frind,
Sami
Wade looked up from the page and fixed his agent with a disapproving glare. "If this is some kind of joke, I left my sense of humor back at the newsstand in the airport where I saw my picture on the front page of the paper, along with my mother’s other sacrificial offerings. Cinda Ellis? Next you’ll be telling me she has a fairy godmother, a wicked stepmother, and three ugly stepsisters."
"The letter is legit, Wade. Read the second page."
To Whom It May Concern,
In case you might think the previous letter is some kind of attention getting hoax, I assure you it isn’t. Cinda and Sami live in the apartment across the hall, and I care for Sami while her mother works nights at a computer manufacturing plant. Cinda has been working ten and twelve hour shifts, seven nights a week for months, without taking a single day off. Sami is correct. She has been blessed with a wonderful, beautiful mother, who is wearing herself out to provide for her child.
I’m afraid I’m a tender hearted old lady who allowed herself to be conned into a fairy godmother fantasy, and into becoming Sami’s co-conspirator in her quest to give her mother a special Mother’s Day gift. Believe me, Sami Ellis is an irresistible little charmer and I didn’t have the heart to let her down.
I realize Sami’s small contribution isn’t enough for the surprise she wanted for her mother, but should it be enough to win one of the lesser prizes, I hope you will see your way clear to apply her entry to that one instead. She’ll be disappointed, but still able to give her mother something special for Mother’s Day.
If you wish to respond to Sami’s entry, please contact me at this address. Should she win something, I’d hate to see Sami’s surprise for her mother spoiled before Mother’s Day.
Sincerely yours,
Jean Collier
Wade read Jean Collier’s letter, then reread the letter from the little girl. He looked up in time to catch Freda hastily stuff a tissue into the pocket of her jacket. "Tears? I don’t believe it."
"A hardened bitch like me? No way," Freda insisted, not quite successful at disguising the catch in her voice. "And before you tell me to have someone check it out, your mother already paid Jean Collier a visit. She met the little girl too. I’d better warn you, your mother is already smitten."
"This is emotional blackmail. You know that, don’t you?" Wade insisted, then raked his hand through his hair in frustration.
"I know."
"And you’re so damn good at it."
"True, but compared to your mother, I’m a rank amateur. Face it, darling, you’ve been sold to the lowest bidder."
Read an excerpt from Independence Day:
The sound of air brakes from an eighteen wheeler drew J.T. Dalton’s attention from the ancient boat motor he’d been in the process of tuning up. The driver exited the truck and walked around to assist a girl in her descent from the passenger side of the high riding cab. J.T. immediately felt his anger begin to simmer. Kids today didn’t seem to have a lick of sense. Didn’t they know the dangers of hitching a ride ... especially for a female? The news was full of stories about young girls who were last seen hitching a ride and not heard from again until their decomposing body was discovered in a drainage ditch several states away. And still they did it, in the arrogance of youth ignoring the risks, believing they were somehow exempt from the possible consequences of their actions. Or worse yet, getting off on the adrenaline rush from flirting with danger.
While the girl and the trucker parted company, J.T. picked up a shop cloth and wiped the motor oil from his hands as he made his way toward the marina office. By the time she turned and headed in his direction, J.T. was leaning against the door, waiting, preparing to give the kid a well deserved tongue lashing for being so stupid.
The words died in his throat, never to be spoken. As she approached and he got a better look at her, J.T. was forced to do a rapid two-step and revamp his earlier assessment. Her petite stature and the impression of extreme fragility had thrown him off. Despite the dark glasses she wore, it was obvious the female in question wasn’t a kid at all but a young woman. A young woman, one who should have been old enough to know better, but also old enough to make her own decisions, right or wrong.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"That depends."
"Upon?"
"Whether or not you’re the person with whom I need to speak regarding renting a cottage."
Cultured, articulate speech pattern. "Interesting", J.T. thought. "You’ve found the right person. I’m J.T., but I’m afraid I won’t be much help." She didn’t respond, remaining silent as she waited for him to clarify. "It’s peak vacation season. Everything on the lake that isn’t privately owned is normally booked solid Memorial Day through Labor Day."
"I should have anticipated that," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
She appeared to wilt before his eyes. Expecting her to buckle beneath the weight of her backpack at any moment, he instinctively reached out to offer support. But before he could make contact, she stiffened and literally jerked herself backward, out of his reach. In the process, J.T. caught a brief glimpse of discoloration high on one cheekbone which had been concealed by the wide lenses of her dark glasses.
He clenched his jaw and choked back the words to keep from asking a perfect stranger the question which was uppermost in his mind ... and none of his business.
"Can you suggest any place in the area where I might find lodging for a couple of days?
It doesn’t have to be on the lake."
"Sorry," he answered reluctantly, truly meaning it. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to put two and two together. With his FBI background, he’d picked up on the clues quicker than most: a lone woman hitchhiking, one clearly old enough and intelligent enough to know the risks, the way she constantly glanced over her shoulder, and her skittish, ready-to-bolt demeanor. The most conclusive evidence of all was the dark glasses to conceal bruising, and the long sleeved turtle-necked shirt, on a blistering hot July afternoon. She was mostly like a woman on the run, someone in need of a safe place to hole up for a while.
His old partner and mentor was always warning J.T. that his damsel in distress, knight errant fixation would get him killed one day. On his last assignment, it nearly had. With that unpleasant memory still fresh in his mind, J.T. couldn’t believe he was even considering getting involved.
"Look, maybe we can work something out." The words were out of his mouth before he could call them back. Consequences be damned. Nothing set him off faster than a man low enough to hit a woman.
There was a subtle tightening of her jaw and squaring of her shoulders. J.T. suspected she was wondering just what he was about to suggest, how much it was going to cost her, and would the price be something she’d be willing to pay? Silently, she again waited for clarification.
"I’m just managing the place for a friend who recently suffered a stroke and is in the hospital," he explained, making idle conversation in an effort to ease her mind. "I can move into his place and rent the cabin I’m currently staying in to you."
"Just like that?" she asked, hope mingled with suspicion evident in her voice.
"Just like that." Having no way of knowing her financial situation, J.T. quoted a weekly rate a good deal lower than the usual charge. "Of course the total amount depends upon how long you plan to stay."
"I’m not sure," she answered, then asked point blank, "Why are you doing this?"
"Let’s just say I’m a sucker for ladies in distress."
She opened her mouth to refute his assessment, then closed it as if fearing she’d say something to make him renege on his offer.
"Do you want the cabin?"
"I’ll take it."
"Then let’s go inside where it’s cooler and take care of the paperwork." Her hesitation was so brief, he’d have missed it, if he hadn’t been expecting it.
Once inside, J.T. made his way around the counter, pulled out the standard registration form and slid it across the counter along with a pen. He then stood back and watched. She carefully read through the form, swallowed, then picked up the pen. She hesitated over each blank, including her name. While J.T. knew he should ask to see some identification, he was pretty sure it would be pointless to do so. If she were to produce the requested documentation, it wasn’t likely to have her real name on it anyway. Giving the completed form only a cursory glance, he slipped it into the drawer, planning to go over it later.
"So, Linda, will you be paying by check or credit card?"
"I’ll pay in cash, in advance ... if that’s acceptable?"
Now why didn’t that surprise him?
* * * *
When she was finally alone, Mara Quinn leaned back against the locked door, closed her eyes and breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was the first time she’d felt secure enough to do so in the past week. Secure? Who was she kidding? She couldn’t afford to let her guard down, not even for a moment.
Turning toward the window to do a quick visual scan outside, she saw J.T. come out of the neighboring cabin. He paused and looked toward the cabin she was in. Mara stepped back from the window so he couldn’t see her, hoping he wouldn’t feel the need to check and see if she needed anything. That he was curious about her was understandable, yet he’d thankfully refrained from asking questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
He took several steps in the direction of her cottage. Mara felt her body tense. Then apparently having second thoughts, J.T. changed course and headed back toward the marina. She watched until he rounded the bend taking him out of her range of vision.
He was certainly gorgeous, a prime example of raw masculinity, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, trim waistline, narrow hips, and thighs accentuated to mouth watering perfection by snug fitting blue jeans. He had hair that made women fantasize about raking their fingers through it, thick and dark with natural curl brought out by the extreme humidity. More than anything else about him, it was his eyes that caught and held her attention, deep, dark and probing, giving her the impression that while he was saying one thing, he was thinking something else entirely. While Mara had never thought a mustache added to a man’s appeal, J.T.’s mustache was neatly trimmed and somehow fit the image of a dangerously handsome devil. And if she knew what was good for her, she’d do well to remember that. Men like J.T. were just that ... dangerous.
It was because of another handsome devil that she was now running for her life. Outwardly, Ross possessed the same friendly, easy going manner, the same irresistible charm that drew her in, and slowly, before she realized what was happening, began to suck the life out of her. She still couldn’t believe she was the only one who knew, the only one to discover that Ross’s charm was all a smoke screen, a deliberate facade designed to disguise his dark side, his controlling mean streak.
Never in a million years would she have believed that she, who counseled women in abusive relationships for a living, would find herself in the same potentially life threatening situation. In doing so, she’d quickly learned some hard truths. Mara learned how smug and self righteous she must have appeared to the women she counseled. She learned that all the textbook cases, all the pat warning signs, and all the rationale that made so much sense when you were on the outside looking in, didn’t mean shit when you were on the inside looking out. If she were ever able to return to her chosen career, Mara knew she’d do so with a more sympathetic and empathetic attitude.
"For Christ’s sake, Mara, move," she scolded herself when she realized she’d gone barely two feet beyond the door since she entered the small log cabin.
Familiarizing herself with her temporary surroundings, she walked around the rustic yet cozy living/dining/kitchen combination. A sofa, recliner, and wooden rocker were grouped facing the gas log fireplace and portable television. A round pedestal table with four chairs was centered upon a braided rug strategically placed near the sliding doors which opened onto a wood deck facing the lake. The kitchen was fully equipped with all the amenities--compact range/oven, microwave, refrigerator, pots, pans, dishes, etc. On the counter between the small double sink and coffee maker, she found half a can of ground coffee, her favorite brand. Had J.T. deliberately or accidentally left it behind? As Mara set about emptying a sack of groceries, she was grateful for J.T.’s suggestion that while he transferred his belongings to the other cabin, she pay a visit to the small store at the marina for a few supplies. While the selection had been limited, she was able to purchase a few immediate necessities.
A double bed covered with a handmade patchwork quilt, armoire, a small dresser and bedside table filled the small bedroom to capacity. Not large enough for a tub, the adjoining bathroom had a commode, sink, and an enclosed shower. Nevertheless, Mara couldn’t believe her luck in finding something so comfortable, charming, and immaculately clean. She genuinely hoped she’d be able to stay awhile, at least long enough to catch her breath and come up with a rational plan of action. She didn’t intend to run and hide forever. She shouldn’t have to. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
Mara couldn’t stand the repressive heat a moment longer. Unable to resist the temptation of a refreshing shower, she set about unpacking her meager belongings ... then had second thoughts. "Not a good idea," she said aloud. "Just in case I have to make a quick getaway." Stowing both her overnight bag and her backpack in the armoire, she took out a change of clothes, her bath supplies, and headed for the shower.
Scrubbing her flesh nearly raw, Mara could not wash away the shockingly visible evidence of Ross’s handiwork. The bruising at her throat was just beginning to turn from purple to a yellowish color. Her wrists and upper arms also bore similar evidence of his anger. What had her stomach churning in rebellion were the long, finger-shaped bruises on her breasts, accompanied by deliberately inflicted love bites, as he’d called them. Attaching the word love to what he did to her was tantamount to reducing the term to an insult. Better to call a spade a spade, crude as it might be, the word was hickey. What he’d done to her was crude and as ugly as the marks marring her flesh. When her soapy washcloth encountered similar markings on her inner thighs, her stomach recoiled, forcing her to bolt from the shower and drop to her knees in front of the commode. When there was nothing in her stomach left to lose, Mara returned to the shower where she remained until the water turned cold and she could no longer bear the bite of the icy pellets against her flesh.
Read an excerpt from The Phantom Lover:
"No."
"It’s exactly what you need."
"I don’t need anything," Tessa Brandt insisted. "I like my life just the way it is."
"Bullshit," her best friend Jessica came back with a snort of disgust. "You don’t have a life. You’ve spent your entire life playing the role of little miss perfect that was forced on you by your grandmother. And what has it gotten you, Tessa? I’ll tell you. Nothing. You ramble around in this museum of a house, alone."
Jessica was on a roll. Knowing it was pointless to interrupt her friend before she had her say, Tessa leaned comfortably back in her chair, propped her feet up on the ottoman, and settled in for the siege. Besides, what would be the point? Tessa had no convincing argument to offer against the truth. They had been next-door neighbors and best friends since they were in the same class in elementary school. Jessica knew her better than anyone else in the world, maybe even better than Tessa knew herself, at least Jessica believed she did.
"Tessa, you know you’re my best friend, and I love you like a sister, but let’s be honest.
Your grandmother was an autocratic witch who controlled and manipulated you until the day she died," Jessica continued, jumping with both feet upon sensitive ground that was the one source of friction between the two friends.
"That’s not fair," Tessa countered, immediately coming to her grandmother’s defense, as she always did. "My grandmother took me in and raised me after my own mother dumped me on her doorstep. Without her, God only knows what would have happened to me."
"And she never let you forget it. The old woman made you pay for her daughter’s sins,"
Jessica argued. "You were never permitted to play, to get dirty, never allowed to mess up your clothes or your hair. I’m not sure you even sweat. For Christ’s sake, Tessa, you were expected to behave like an adult when you were only six years old."
Not one word of Jessica’s argument was untrue, but loyalty to the woman who raised her would not permit Tessa to admit it openly. "Using my grandmother to make your point is not the way to get my cooperation, Jess. She’s been gone five years. What do you hope to accomplish by bringing her up now?"
Jessica raked her fingers through her riot of blonde curls, closed her eyes, and turned her head toward the ceiling as if praying for divine guidance. With a sigh of frustration, she opened her eyes and sat on the ottoman in front of Tessa’s chair, fixing her friend with an earnest gaze.
"I care about you, Tessa. I think you’re wonderful. Hell, you’re a saint. But think back to when we were in high school. Every time you talked your grandmother into letting you go on a date, she conveniently got sick, and you stayed home to take care of her. After a while, the boys quit asking. You worked hard in school and earned a full scholarship to a university upstate. You know, that was the first and the last time I ever saw you happy and excited about doing something for yourself. Then your grandmother really became ill. You forfeited the scholarship, took the job you still have, and you stayed home to care for her for the next four years until she passed away."
"I don’t have any regrets. I was all she had, and I owed it to her." They had been over this before, and still Tessa found herself defending her actions as if she had done something wrong.
"And being the kind of person you are, you wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself if you had done otherwise," Jessica conceded. "I understand that, Tessa. I admire and respect you for doing what you felt was right. But look around you. Your grandmother has been gone five years, and you haven’t changed a thing in this house since you inherited it. It’s still her house, not yours. It’s as if she is still here, still manipulating your life."
"And your point is?" Tessa inserted.
"My point is, you’re twenty-seven years old. It’s your turn. It’s time to get a life. And I can’t think of a better time to bury the ghosts than Halloween."
"Just like that? I dress up in some ridiculous costume, go with you to this masquerade ball, and at the stroke of midnight I become Cinderella and my boring existence is changed forever?" Tessa quipped sarcastically.
"Of course not," Jessica answered. "But it is a start. Aren’t you tired of living up to other people’s expectations? Just once, wouldn’t you like to know what it feels like to shed your inhibitions and have a good time, to become the sensual woman you’ve repressed all these years? Dammit, Tessa, I’d bet my new convertible that you’re still a virgin."
"You’d lose," was Tessa’s shocking revelation. Her one and only sexual encounter had been hurried, painful, disappointing, and so embarrassing Tessa had never been tempted to repeat the experience.
"I don’t believe it," Jessica gasped. "When? Who?"
"The last time my grandmother was in the hospital," Tessa answered, even now unwilling
to share how ashamed she’d felt afterward. Her grandmother was dying. She had been alone and vulnerable, spending day and night at the hospital, returning to her hotel room only long enough to shower and change clothes. Looking back on the encounter, Tessa knew she’d been an easy target, ripe for seduction by a seemingly sympathetic charmer. "He was a young intern who worked the night shift on her floor. We often went to the cafeteria for coffee when he was on break or just sat and talked in the tenth floor visitor’s lounge."
"Where did you...."
"In one of the empty rooms on the tenth floor," Tessa answered before Jess could complete the question.
"Wow! That’s one fantasy even I wouldn’t have thought of trying. How could you have held something like that out on me?" Jessica accused, then asked, "Was it good?"
The expression on Tessa’s face was all the answer she needed. "Uh-oh," Jessica groaned. "Maybe I won’t try that one after all. Anyway, back to the subject at hand," Jessica quipped, bouncing to her feet and making her way to the garment bags she’d brought with her. "I have two costumes. You can have your pick, and I’ll take the other."
"Jess, I can’t deny everything you said about my life is true. I do need to get a life,"
Tessa conceded. "But making a fool of myself in some outlandish costume at a fancy ball, no doubt an event worthy of coverage by the local media, is not the answer. I’m not going."
"That’s the point of a masked ball. You’ll be in disguise, a different person. By the time I’m finished with you, you could make the moves on anyone in town, and they’ll have no idea who you are," Jessica coaxed. "Besides, even if someone thought a guest resembled you, they’d dismiss it. There isn’t a person in this town who would expect Ms. Prim and Proper Brandt to attend such an undignified affair."
"No. I’m not going."
* * * *
"I can’t believe I’m doing this," Tessa kept telling herself over and over from the time Jessica’s candy apple red convertible pulled out of her driveway, up to the time they turned between the opened wrought iron gates at the entrance of the restored Rosehaven Estate, soon to open its doors as the exclusive Rosehaven Inn. As an avid history buff and president of the local Historical Society, Jessica had been an invaluable source of information during the restoration of the deserted estate. In gratitude for her assistance, the new owners had sent her two invitations to the "By Invitation Only" grand opening.
Despite Jessica’s steamroller tactics and her arguments as to why Tessa just had to attend the Halloween Ball, in the end it was Rosehaven itself Tessa had been unable to resist.
Once, when she was maybe eight or nine years old, her grandmother had refused to allow Tessa to attend the birthday party of a young classmate, and she ran away from home. She made it as far as the edge of town, somehow ending up at the tall brick wall surrounding Rosehaven. By then she was tired, hungry, frightened, and lost. She had no idea how to get back home even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. Along the west wall she’d discovered an opening where the bricks had come loose and slipped through onto the grounds. To the little girl she was at the time, Rosehaven looked like a forgotten fairytale castle. She’d never seen anything so grand nor so sad. On some strange level, Tessa identified with the abandoned, neglected estate, and she didn’t feel frightened any longer. She didn’t go any closer to the house for fear someone would catch her and she’d be in more trouble than she already was. She sat on the ground, leaned back against the wall, and promptly fell asleep. That’s where the man found her.
She woke up to something tickling her nose and opened her eyes to see a man bending down in front of her with a daisy in his hand. "Are you lost, sweetheart," he asked her and smiled gently. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she pretended he was the prince who had returned to reclaim his castle. Tessa’s grandmother had warned her never to talk to strangers because some were bad men. She knew she should be frightened. She wasn’t. She somehow knew this man would never hurt her.
"I’m not lost," she told him. "I ran away."
"Oh? Now why would you want to do something like that?" he asked as he offered her the daisy he’d used to tickle her nose and wake her.
With her prized daisy clutched tightly in her hand, Tessa told him all about the party and how her grandmother wouldn’t let her have any fun like all the other kids. Sometime during her rambling, he took her hand, and they began walking in the direction of the house, then down the drive to toward the front gates. He listened to her tale of woe and talked with her, not at her, as her grandmother did. He told her she was special, and one day she would grow up to become a beautiful woman, just like the lady who once lived at Rosehaven. When they reached the front gates, they opened by themselves, and he led her to the side of the road. He stood there beside her giving her words of encouragement until he saw the mail truck coming down the road. He stepped inside the gates, and they closed after him.
"When you’re all grown up, little one, come back and see me," he told her then put his
finger to his lips and winked. Their visit was to be a secret. He stood inside the gates and watched to make sure she was safe until the mailman who had been alerted to watch out for a missing little girl stopped the truck. Tessa looked back toward the gates for one last look at her prince. He was gone.
Tessa never told another living soul about the handsome man at Rosehaven, but she had never forgotten. And now, tonight, she was all grown up and returning to Rosehaven.
Before Tessa had time to breathe, much less bolt, as soon as they stepped through the beveled glass double doors into the entry, Jessica hustled her into the powder room. Not that she could breathe within the confines of the tightly laced corset she was wearing.
"Here’s the plan. We go in separately," Jessica explained. "While even your dearly departed Granny wouldn’t recognize you in that get-up, people do know we’re good friends, and I’m likely to be recognized. So, in order to protect your anonymity, it’s wiser if we don’t stay together. Agreed?"
Jessica would most definitely be recognized. The revealing harem girl costume she wore did little to conceal Jessica’s lush body and left nothing to the imagination of the appreciative male observer, including her identity. For that very reason, Tessa readily agreed to her friend’s suggestion that they separate. She didn’t want to give anyone the slightest reason to connect the two friends and as such speculate as to her identity.
"Fine," Tessa agreed, then held up her manacled wrists. "Give me the key to these things before you are snatched up by some Arab sheik, never to be seen again." While the lightweight manacles linked together by a ten inch length of chain were padded and not uncomfortable, Tessa didn’t care for the sensation of helplessness that went along with them.
"And give you an avenue of escape? Not a chance my friend," Jessica responded by slipping the key between her breasts and into the scanty bra of her costume. "Besides, the manacles and the blindfold make the costume. Without them you’re likely to be mistaken for one of the serving wenches likely to be wandering around here." Before Tessa could argue, she turned and headed for the door. "For the first time in your life, don’t analyze the consequences. Just go for it. I intend to," was Jessica’s parting shot before she stepped through the door.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Tessa turned, bypassing the mirror above the triple sink vanity, she instead gazed at her reflection within the mirror tiled wall to the right.
Jessica was right about one thing, her grandmother wouldn’t recognize her. She didn’t recognize herself. To Tessa’s critical eye, the costume revealed a shocking amount of cleavage. While it was provocative, it was most definitely the lesser of the two evils in Jessica’s possession. The theme of her costume was The Captive. Her long dark hair hanging loose to the center of her back had been moosed and scrunched to give it a tousled, wind blown look. Her mask was a black silk blindfold which allowed her to see through slits artfully concealed within the folds. The simple, strapless, underwire corset of white cotton was the most revealing part of the costume. Although she had never considered her breasts large, Tessa had thought them to be adequate. Thanks to the mechanics of the corset, they now appeared much more than merely adequate. The navy blue ankle length skirt was tattered with a rip up the left side to her hip. A rip which revealed a tantalizing amount of bare leg when she walked. That was doable, Tessa decided. She would just be careful how she walked, which made perfect sense considering that her feet were bare.
"This is a test," she told her reflection, thankful she had the powder room to herself. "Do you want to be a timid mouse all your life? Or do you have the guts to be the woman you’ve only fantasized you could be?" It was only one night. One night which could give her a taste of what life could be like. "Don’t analyze. Just go for it," Tessa repeated her friend’s advise as she turned and walked from the powder room into the unknown.
Returning to the elegant tiled entry, complete with a sparkling crystal chandelier, she had no difficulty discovering the direction she needed to go. Music and laughter were emanating from the opened French doors at the end of the hallway to her right. Needing just a little more time to build up her courage, Tessa walked to the closed pocket door on the other side of the entry. She slid the door back, slipped inside, and closed the door behind her. In truth, she chickened out.
Tessa quickly realized she was in the library, the most elaborate private library she had ever seen. But then, only the best would be good enough for Rosehaven. The entire back wall and the walls flanking the ornate fireplace were floor to ceiling bookcases, complete with a ladder on rollers at the top to allow access to the volumes on shelves out of reach from the floor. There were several antique library tables and comfortable leather chairs throughout the room which smelled of old books, fine leather, and pine from the logs burning in the fireplace.
The pull of the room and the cozy fire was almost irresistible. It would be so easy to select a book, curl up in a comfortable chair in front of the fire, and hide out in here for the duration of the party.
"Or I could just leave," Tessa muttered. "I don’t belong here." She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Turning her back on the temptation offered by the inviting room, Tessa reached for the door.
"Did you honestly think the Master of Rosehaven would allow his beautiful captive to escape him?"
Read an excerpt from Detour:
"This is not good," Kayla Reed muttered aloud as she switched the windshield wipers from low to medium.
She had originally turned down her friend Paula’s invitation to spend an old fashioned Thanksgiving with a group of friends in the mountains near Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Until then, Kayla hadn’t realized how upset her daughter, Kellie, had been by the prospect of spending Thanksgiving with her father and leaving her mother to spend the holiday alone. Unwilling to put a damper on the holiday for her daughter, Kayla buckled under Kellie’s less than subtle steamroller tactics and had called Paula back and accepted the invitation. In doing so, Kayla was surprised to discover she was actually looking forward to the trip. She was aware that since her divorce she had gone into emotional hibernation, devoting herself totally to her work and to her daughter. A daughter who would be leaving home next fall to attend an out of state university.
Making this trip had seemed like a positive decision on her part, the first step toward the life she needed to get. She’d driven three hours without mishap, until she came up on a rockslide, which had closed the highway and forced her to take a detour. She was now somewhere in the Smoky Mountains; exactly where, she didn’t have a clue. On her right was a wall of jagged granite or limestone, or what ever the hell it was made of. On her left was a flimsy guardrail, which served as the only barrier between her vehicle and a steep, deep ravine. Up ahead and behind through the rear view mirror all she could see were mountains.
Now she had the snow to contend with. A snow predicted by the weather man before she left home to amount to nothing more that light flurries which were not expected to reach this area until sometime late tomorrow, Thanksgiving Day.
The engine of her compact car began to groan in protest as it began to climb another steep rise, forcing Kayla to shift into second gear.
All of a sudden spending Thanksgiving alone with a good book and a turkey TV dinner didn’t sound so bad.
As she crested the rise, she was greeted by a yellow, diamond shaped sign warning of a steep drop then a series of hair-pin curves. "Oh shit," Kayla gasped as the bottom dropped from her stomach and she began the inevitable roller coaster descent. It took all of Kayla’s questionable skill and concentration to successfully navigate her way down the treacherous terrain, which was rapidly becoming ice covered and even more hazardous.
At last reaching a relatively flat stretch of road, she applied her brakes and shifted into neutral. Probably not the smartest move, but considering that she hadn’t seen another vehicle in over half an hour it was a risk she was willing to take. She literally had to pry her hands from the white knuckled grip they had on the steering wheel. Her hand trembled as she reached for the knobs of her radio. Again her efforts were rewarded by the same static she had encountered when it first started to snow and she attempted to get a weather report. In her opinion, radio reception in the mountains was, at best, lousy.
"Calm down and think," she told herself. It didn’t take a genius to know she had to get off the road and soon. The windshield wipers were no longer doing the job on medium, forcing her to switch them to high. Under normal circumstances she would just keep driving, knowing she would eventually reach some form of civilization--a spot on a map from which to get her bearings. These were not normal circumstances.
To make a bad situation even worse, her car was starting to sound strange. Taking a deep calming breath, she then exhaled slowly. "Just get me somewhere safe and we can both rest for a while," Kayla said as she reached over to pat the dashboard, as if her words of encouragement could coax the necessary mileage from the vehicle.
One more steep climb, one more hair raising descent and fifteen minutes later driving at a snail’s pace on the slick road, Kayla was nearly at the end of her rope. And then she saw it. A lane curved up the side of the mountain. Unless she was hallucinating, there was a light about halfway up.
The flurries predicted by the weatherman had escalated into a full-blown blizzard. Seeing no other option Kayla turned off the road and began to drive slowly, once again, up the side of a mountain.
"It would be just my luck to find a shack occupied by a gang of banjo playing moonshiners," she muttered. Kayla had learned some time ago that one of the side effects of divorce and spending so much time alone was talking to yourself. It was a side effect, which hadn’t concerned her unduly ... until she started losing arguments.
Read an excerpt from Seduction of the Senses:
Allison Beckett checked the time on her wristwatch and glanced around her boutique. The constant ebb and flow of frantic holiday shoppers appeared to have slowed to a manageable pace, which made this as good a time as she was likely to get for a break. Catching the eye of her manager, she pointed toward the store entrance and mouthed the words, "I’m going to lunch." Nodding her understanding, Cyndy excused herself from the customer she’d been assisting and headed toward the rear of the shop to man the register.
At the entrance, Allison took a deep breath as she prepared to step into the fast paced pedestrian traffic flow in the mall’s concourse. She was relieved yet disappointed at the same time to discover the inevitable crush of humanity was not as heavy as would normally be expected for December twenty-third, which meant she would possibly be able to find a table in the restaurant instead of being forced to settle for the food court. Fewer people also meant sales were down. Although her shop was doing well enough, profits for the year had fallen, which was often the case in an election year when consumers watch to see how changes in Washington will effect the economy. In an attempt to cut expenses, she’d taken on less seasonal help, and instead of working only part time, she was pulling twelve-hour days to pick up the slack.
Allison was tired and irritable, and she freely admitted, less effective at home as a mother and as a wife. Not that her husband was home any more than she was. As a financial consultant, her husband’s hours were just as long, if not longer, than hers. Too often lately he’d been forced to go out of town on business or had canceled out on family plans at the last minute.
Despite the fact that her situation was seasonal and only temporary, her children were spending too much time in the care of their grandparents or sitters, and her relationship with her husband was suffering from the neglect, on both sides.
"It isn’t worth it," Allison muttered under her breath, for the first time seriously considering the offer she’d received for the purchase of her boutique. Lost in thought as she was, Allison wasn’t watching where she was going and was momentarily stunned when she walked headlong into a wall of solid muscle.
Strong arms went around Allison’s waist to steady her and her eyes traveled slowly up a black leather jacket until they clashed with coffee dark eyes which were not only amused but glinting with the heat of an unmistakable predatory gleam.
"Are you all right, miss?" he asked, the husky rasp of his voice sending a vibration of awareness slithering down her spine. His compelling dark eyes held hers and for the life of her Allison couldn’t force herself to look away. Her hands rested gently upon his chest and she could feel the warmth of his body through the leather jacket he wore.
"I’m sorry," she apologized, not realizing how breathy her own voice sounded. "I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going."
"No need to apologize, sweetheart. It was my pleasure. I assure you."
"I um…."
"Get a room." The crude remark sounded behind Allison, snapping her befuddled senses back to reality. For the first time she realized he still had his arms around her and was holding her tightly against him, too tightly, too close. She was a mature woman, in the middle of a busy mall, in the middle of the day, in what looked like a heated clench. Who was she trying to kid? It was a heated clench.
Pushing gently against his chest, she attempted to take a step back. He released her immediately, but not without a deliberate sigh of regret. "You appeared to be in a hurry."
"I’m on my lunch break," she responded, consciously swallowing back her own sigh of regret.
He reached out and with his thumb beneath her chin, tilted her head upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Then I mustn’t keep you," he replied as he used his forefinger to trace her lips. Then with a knowing chuckle and a wink, he turned and walked away, leaving her to stand there staring at an incredible ass displayed to perfection in tight blue jeans.
At first the Christmas carols being sung by the high school choir and the chatter and grumbles of the shoppers strolling past her sounded as if it came from a great distance, then gradually clearer and louder.
"Get a grip, Allie," she chided herself, unable to believe she had reacted to the encounter like an adolescent in a hormone-induced stupor. Yet, there was no denying that the physical awareness sparking between them had been instantaneous, nearly overwhelming.
As Allison had hoped, there were several tables available in the second floor restaurant overlooking the lower level concourse. Seated at a table for two beside the plate glass wall, she discovered she no longer had an appetite.
While studying the menu for something that looked appealing, a pair of jean-clad thighs strolled past her table. She looked up and instantly recognized the ass … and the jacket. He seated himself facing her at the table directly across from hers. With an acknowledging nod of his head, he picked up his menu.
She ordered a small house salad, and a cup of herbal tea for its calming effects.
He ordered a club sandwich and a glass of wine.
Allison tried to eat her lunch without looking directly at the man seated at the next table. It was nearly impossible not to respond to what seemed to be some form of mental telepathy between them, as if he were mentally compelling her to look at him. Toying with her salad, barely able to get down a couple of bites, she watched the hustle and bustle of the mall shoppers below and tried to concentrate on the piped-in Christmas carols. She was successful, for the most part, until she picked up her cup to finish her tea.
He watched her as she watched him play with the moisture beading the side of his wineglass with the tip of his finger. Her nipples tingled, then beaded. Remembering she was wearing her lightweight, off-white, cashmere sweater, Allison didn’t have to look down to know that despite the bra she was wearing the results would be noticeable. He, on the other hand, was obvious in his appraisal of the hard pebbles protruding beneath the soft fabric. His lips curved into a smile, which could only be described as smug. Lifting his glass to her in a toasting gesture, he carried it to his lips and downed the remaining contents.
Rising to his feet, he walked slowly toward her table, pausing only long enough to allow her to see the unmistakable bulge straining the front of his jeans. He made a point of letting her know he was as affected by her as intensely as she was by him. Her empty teacup slipped from her hand, shattering when it hit the saucer. Allison again heard him chuckling as he walked away leaving her to pick up the pieces. When she attempted to pay her check, the hostess informed her with a speculative grin that the gentleman had taken care of it along with a generous tip.
"He said to wish you a Merry Christmas," the hostess informed her.
Allison took her time returning to the shop, this time making a point of watching where she was going, as she attempted to figure out why she had reacted so strongly to the encounters. They’d been unexpected, making her feel more desired as a woman than she’d felt in a very long time. The lure of the forbidden fantasy was more exciting than she would have believed possible.
"Get a grip, Allie," she again chided herself mentally. "Time to return to the real world."
She paused briefly at the white picket fence surrounding Santa’s throne. This was her favorite place to go when the frantic pace, fatigue, and rudeness of some of the shoppers made her forget what Christmas was all about. Nothing put things in perspective faster than watching children on Santa’s lap. A cherubic little face with big blue eyes and long blonde curls caught Allison’s attention. She was with her young mother standing directly in front of Allison on the other side of the fence, next in line to see Santa. Wearing a red velvet dress trimmed in white lace and a matching bow in her hair, no doubt in preparation for a priceless photo documenting her first visit with the jolly man in red, her sweet little voice carried easily to Allison’s ears.
"I want a Pooh Bear, Elmo, a doll house, and a baby doll that cries until you give her a bottle. And some story books for Mommy and Daddy to read to me." The little angel repeated her carefully memorized list several times. Her last rehearsal before the big event.
And then Allison recognized the intensely masculine fragrance of the cologne worn by the man standing directly behind her. Instant awareness stiffened her spine.
He moved in closer, deliberately pressing himself against her backside.
Allison’s breath grew thick and heavy in her chest as she wordlessly reached out and gripped the flimsy picket fence in front of her.
The little boy on Santa’s lap was screaming bloody murder, forcing an apologetic mother to rescue the frightened child, and Santa. The little girl in red was next. Her mother leaned down and asked, "Do you remember what you want Santa to bring you?"
"I want a Pooh Bear, Elmo, a doll house, and a baby doll that cries until you give her a bottle. And some story books for Mommy and Daddy to read to me."
"Good girl," her mother praised. The young mother ushered her forward and lifted her on to Santa’s lap before stepping back out of range so the photographer could snap the photo. Big blue eyes appeared even larger and rounder, reminding Allison of a doe caught in the beam of headlights from an oncoming car.
"Tell Santa your name, sweetheart," the bearded man asked.
"Sara Jane Michaels," the little girl responded quickly, looking toward her mother for reassurance that she’d done okay.
"Well, Sara Jane Michaels, tell Santa what you want for Christmas."
"I want ... I want ... presents," Sara Jane informed him, then quickly slid from his lap, grabbed a candy cane from Santa’s helper and rushed to her mother’s open arms. "I was brave. Wasn’t I, Mommy?"
Allison, who had literally held her breath throughout the entire exchange, was beginning to feel lightheaded. She could feel the warmth of his wine-scented breath as a knowing chuckle sounded against her ear. And then he was gone.
Back in the boutique, business picked up as evening approached, giving Allison little time to think, much less to dwell on her lunch time encounters. Nevertheless, she was so distracted, she short changed one customer and gave two others too much. Fortunately they were honest enough to call it to her attention.
He came in the shop shortly after seven o’clock. Allison watched as he headed directly for the lingerie section. A man as attractive as he was didn’t have to wait long for service, especially from the single members of the staff. Cyndy got to him first. As they spoke Cyndy looked over her shoulder toward the back of the store to where Allison manned the register. Cyndy nodded her head, then turned and headed toward Allison. Watching her approach, Allison felt her insides tense and her heart rate accelerate.
"The gentleman asked if you would help him, Allie."
"Why me?" she asked.
"He said he’s buying a gift for a lady who is built exactly like you and he needs help with sizes."
In lingerie. "Oh God," Allison groaned inwardly.
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