CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
Emma stared out the carriage window the entire way to Hawthorne Manor, willing the horses to gallop faster. The instant the regal fa?ade came into view, her heart ran at breakneck speed. The moment of truth was upon her.
However, the driver slowed his pace too early for her liking. So before he’d come to a complete stop before the stairs, she opened the door and leapt out. Propriety be damned.
Leaving every parcel behind, she rushed up to the door and flung it open—only to see Oliver standing in the foyer. Her half boots skidded to a stop on the marble tiles. She was out of breath.
“You’re here.” It was then she noticed the hat in his hand and was unsure if he was just arriving or just going out. She didn’t see a satchel waiting. Yet, it could already be packed and inside his carriage. Perhaps Miss Lovetree was waiting as well . . . “Were you going out again?”
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, his expression changing like the sky in inclement weather—darkening, shifting, churning. “Not any longer,” he said at last and then laid his hat atop the table. “I was on my way to Danbury Lane to ensure that you were—or rather that your group was”—he drew in a breath—“I’d no notion that needlework could occupy so much of your afternoon.”
Was that concern in his gaze? She dared to hope. “We were a restless lot. I’m afraid we decided our time was better spent in the shops . . . And you? I hope you kept good company today.”
An eternity passed before he answered.
“I did. A mutual acquaintance, in fact. Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
“Oh,” she said. A bud of hope had an inkling to blossom. “The whole day?”
“Yes.”
A startled sob bubbled up from her throat. It wasn’t him! He wasn’t the one who ran away with Lily Lovetree this morning. Though she tried to smother the sound with her hand, she was too late. Tears pricked her eyes and flooded her lower rims. Her vision of him rapidly turned liquid, giving her the sense that she was drowning.
For the past two weeks, it had taken every ounce of control not to reveal the depth of her feelings. Her only outlet had been while making love. Time and again, he’d whispered his desires for her to let go. And she did. While in his arms, it was safe to give him everything. But afterward, while he held her so tenderly, she still had this terrible restlessness inside her. It made her want to leap out of bed, fling open the doors of their balcony and shout her love for him for all the world to hear. She wanted to make love to him with the rain pouring over their skin. She wanted to sip chocolate from his lips. She wanted to crawl inside of his skin so she would never be apart from him.
The depth of her feelings terrified her.
Oliver took a step toward her. “Emma, darling, what is it?”
Emma’s cool head had helped her get through many moments when the world around her turned to complete and utter chaos. Only now, the chaos was inside her, threatening to expose her. “I’m afraid . . .” The words were there, waiting to spill out. And yet, they shied away at the last moment. “That I won’t be ready in time for our guests, if I don’t hurry.”
Like the coward she was, she rushed past him and up the stairs.
Emma’s sudden tears had robbed Rathburn of speech. He’d hurt her, obviously. More than ever, he wanted to comfort her and apologize for being such a cold-hearted ass this morning. Unfortunately, the moment she’d disappeared up the stairs, the carriages arrived, bringing their guests of honor.
Now, inside the drawing room with his grandmother, mother, Cuthbert and Celestine Danvers, and Emma, he felt as if he were about to burst out of his skin. Each time he checked the mantle clock, it was as if the hand never moved. He wanted dinner over with as soon as possible, and yet the opposite seemed to be happening. They were still chatting while sipping aperitifs in the drawing room, and the meal was not scheduled for another quarter hour.
“. . . take Harrison for instance,” his father-in-law continued. Although, whatever he’d said before was a mystery. “His jowls are positively inspiring.”
Rathburn shook himself out of his distraction. Once he saw Emma rise and walk toward the sideboard to refill his grandmother’s sherry, he started to think of a dozen ways to get her alone. “Quite right,” he said absently. “Can I offer you another splash of whisky?”
It was only when he started to walk away without Danvers’s glass in hand that he turned back. His father-in-law chuckled. Biting down on the tip of his pipe, he offered a nod. “A prize above all others, son.”
Rathburn smiled at this exchange, and turned to join his bride at the sideboard.
“Faring well?” he whispered, leaning in to catch the scent from one of the jasmine flowers tucked in her hair.
She angled her head toward him and kept her voice low. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me after how I’d behaved earlier.”
“No, darling. I was the cad. I never should have—”
“I’ve changed my mind, dear,” his grandmother interrupted. “I don’t think I will have another. Too much sherry can cause a headache, and after the news I learned earlier, I shouldn’t take the risk.”
“Mother, surely now is not the time to mention such things,” his mother said with very uncharacteristic reproof. It was enough to draw his curiosity, as well as, it seemed, Emma’s.
They both turned.
“I believe the news left our dear Emma shaken as well. After all, she didn’t even notice our carriage pass her in the street this very afternoon.”
Emma drew in an audible breath. “I didn’t realize. Forgive me. I was unsettled by an encounter with an old friend.” Before he could ask whom and threaten to run them through for causing her any moment of distress, she glanced up at him. “Miss Mallory.”
“Ah.” He thought he was beginning to understand. However, when his grandmother continued, he realized it was much worse than he imagined.
“No doubt the news of Captain Burns—our neighbor and the recently deceased Lord Sturgis’s nephew—running away with that actress was enough to unsettle anyone with high morals. Though at this moment, her name slips my mind . . .”
“Miss Lovetree,” Emma supplied.
“Thank you, dear,” his grandmother said with a nod that seemed more of admiration at his bride’s character than appreciation at having a name supplied. In fact, he believed his grandmother wanted to make certain he knew exactly of whom they were speaking.
Recalling the way Emma had rushed into the foyer a short while ago, the way that she was surprised to see him, how she asked him if he was planning to go out again, and if he’d been with the Smiths the whole day, it all started to make sense.
“You thought that I—”
“Of course not.” Facing him, she shook her head. Then, she lifted her gaze and the truth was there as she worried the corner of her mouth. “Not for longer than the briefest of moments.”
He blew out a breath that ended in a chuckle. Lifting a hand to his brow, he pressed the pad of his thumb and forefinger to his temples. “And I’d worried that you might have met with the vicar to seek an annulment.”
“Annulment?” His grandmother scoffed. “I’ll not hear of it. The truth of your bride’s altered state is far too obvious in the glow of her cheeks and brightness of her eyes. As are yours, for that matter. Therefore, she cannot give you back.”
He expected Emma to gasp at his grandmother’s frank speaking. After all, he’d had years to grow used to her ways when she hadn’t.
Yet, Emma didn’t gasp. She laughed instead, though her cheeks were suffused with bright color. “I would not wish to,” she said quietly, still holding his gaze. “He is very dear to me.”
Rathburn was the one left struggling for breath. There was no steadying the sudden leap of his pulse.
“I’m sure I do not need to tell you what a remarkable man he is.”
“Nothing escapes my notice,” his grandmother declared arrogantly. “After all, I’ve known about his plan to build that hospital since the inception, or thereabouts.”
Stunned, Rathburn blinked. The hospital. “You knew?”
His attention focused on his grandmother—the same woman who’d withheld his inheritance for years. The same woman who’d practically beaten him over the head with the notion of marrying Emma when he was too blind to see how much he loved her. And now, she was the same woman who’d known his secret all along.
She huffed as if disappointed that he hadn’t figured it out. “There is no secret you can keep from me. Besides, didn’t it occur to you that Collingsford would come to me for payment when he knew I held the funds? He even tried to plead your case.”
His gaze veered to his mother and he noted that she, too, was unsurprised, albeit tearfully happy. However, the Danverses were sufficiently shocked. In that he felt moderately mollified.
“A hospital. What a wonderful way to honor your father,” Celestine Danvers said, tears brimming in her eyes. “Why ever would you keep it a secret?”
Emma slipped her hand in his. “Because he is too modest for his own good. If I hadn’t found out by accident—”
“You mean you didn’t tell her?” his grandmother asked. “When you schemed with her in order to gain your inheritance, you should have told her everything.”
His mouth fell open. She’d known about that as well?
Grandmamma heaved a great sigh of exasperation and turned her focus to Emma. “Forgive my grandson, dear. He can be rather thickheaded at times. He was so focused on repairing the manor, building the hospital, and keeping it a secret that he never saw what was right in front of him. Therefore, I felt compelled to give him a reason to open his eyes, first by nudging him in the direction of your false courtship. Then, by releasing his inheritance without condition, he was free to decide what his heart truly wanted.”
Emma went still. “Released . . . his . . . . inheritance?”
“Over a month ago,” she said offhandedly. “Plenty of time for the two of you to call off the ruse. I even gave you the perfect opportunity to break your betrothal, if you’ll recall.”
She turned and searched his gaze. He hoped she saw what his heart truly wanted reflected in his eyes. “Oliver is a very honorable man. I’m sure he was only worried about my reputation if we would have broken our engagement.”
“You’re rather thickheaded too.” The dowager issued an uncharacteristic chuckle as if this were the most entertainment she’d had in years. “Heaven help my great-grandchildren.”
Emma blinked out of her momentary haze as all the news slowly spread through her. “Released your inheritance . . . a month ago?”
When her hands went slack, Oliver took them in his. “I told you at the church. Don’t you remember how I said that the original reason we were there was no longer a factor, that it was real for me?”
Incredulous, she simply stared at his confused expression. “That was your way of telling me you’d received your inheritance?”
“Well”—he shrugged—“yes.”
Was it possible that he’d loved her all this time? “You never intended to get an annulment.”
He grinned at her and shook his head. “Never. Did you?”
She held his gaze, a pleasant warmth filling her. If she had a modicum of doubt any longer, she wouldn’t be able to speak at all. “I had no foundation for an annulment.”
He radiated a palpable energy while remaining perfectly still. His eyes glittered with those gold flecks as he drew in a breath. “And your vows?”
“Were spoken with sincerity and a full understanding of their significance.” She had not ventured into this marriage lightly.
He huffed in frustration and looked up to the ceiling as if seeking council. “You are determined to make me question my sanity. You know very well what I’m asking of you.”
Emma didn’t know why the sight of him so flustered amused her, but it made her feel giddy. She replayed all those years of his teasing her, his quips of how buttoned-up she was, his own flirtations that had left her flustered time and again.
“You and I have gotten too used to keeping secrets,” he said with an edge to his sincerity.
She squeezed his hands. “I’d like to be done with all that now.”
“Are you sure?”
There was a distinct challenge in his expression. But she didn’t back down. Emma decided that it was time to banish all secrets between them. This was her home. Rathburn was her husband . . . by choice. There was power in that knowledge. It changed her. “Yes.”
He grinned in a way that made her question if she would regret her acquiescence.
“Everyone, I believe dinner is ready,” he announced, glancing to Harrison’s presence near the door. “However, if you would follow me to the study first, I have something I’m certain you’ll all want to see.”
This was not what she expected. Then again, she didn’t know what to expect. In the end, she indulged her curiosity. What was he up to?
As a group and without an ounce of ceremony, they crossed the hall and stepped into the study. She was just about to ask him the reason for their detour when she saw it hanging on the far wall.
“You—” All the air suddenly left her body. “You framed the painting.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away. The frame was a work of art in itself, looking to be hand carved from a dark cherry wood that altered the focus of her painting. Now, the eye naturally sought the pink blush of roses hidden in the shadows of the arch at the end of the path.
Only then did she realize—only then did she know with absolute certainty—that Oliver knew her secret. Or secrets, rather. All of them. And from the smug look on his face just now, he’d known for quite a while.
“Of course.” That smug look didn’t waver as he stepped around the desk and stood within arm’s reach of her.
He knew. She felt lightheaded. “Why?”
“Because it’s remarkable,” he said with a secret smile. “Especially the jasmine and the topiaries . . .” His words trailed off, letting her know how utterly obvious she’d been.
She felt exposed. Even though he’d stripped her bare dozens of times in the past two weeks, she felt far more vulnerable this time. After all, this was part of her that no one knew about.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked as he drew her against him. “Or is this another part of you that you’re determined to keep hidden, maddeningly out of reach?”
She didn’t want to hide anything from him. “Oliver . . . Everyone . . .”
His gaze was intense, boring into hers with expectation. “Yes, my darling?”
“I painted it,” she confessed.
“Oh, Emma!” her mother exclaimed, tears glistening in her eyes. “It’s magnificent. The flowers are so alive.”
Studying the painting closely, her father looked over his shoulder at her and nodded. His eyes misted over and crinkled at the corners. At the simple gesture, it was all she could do not to run across the room and hug him. “I always knew you had it in you.”
“My dear, what a remarkable talent you have,” her mother-in-law said, embracing her. “Why ever would you keep such a gift a secret?”
Emma swallowed and shrugged without knowing what to say. Should she admit to never imagining praise or acceptance, but always scorn and censure?
“Clearly,” the dowager said, her lips pursed. The tip of her cane tapped against the floor.
During the moment when her gaze traveled from the painting and back to her, Emma held her breath.
“I was right to encourage the match all along.”
“Then you aren’t terribly disappointed?”
“That depends. How long must I wait until I have a painting of my own to place in my sitting room where I can brag about my granddaughter-in-law?”
Emma felt her shoulders relax and her lips curve into a smile. “Not long.”
“Good.” The dowager winked at her. Winked! “Now, let us see what artful creations your cook has in store for us.”
Her parents beamed as they followed the dowager and Oliver’s mother out into the hall. She was still grinning when she felt him take hold of her hand and pull her back into the study, closing the door the behind them.
“We’ll only be a moment,” he said, pulling her close.
She slipped her hands beneath his lapels and gazed up at him. “Should I have confessed the way I take my tea with sugar instead of lemon, do you think?”
“You do not want to incur my grandmother’s wrath,” he teased.
His expression told her that he was still waiting for a different confession.
Wanting to bare her soul to him, she said, “I haven’t painted anything in years, but in the weeks leading up to the wedding, I couldn’t help myself. When you asked my opinion about the garden, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to show you how I feel . . . when I wasn’t brave enough to tell you.”
He smiled. “That painting shows me how passionate you are and how much you love . . .”—he lowered his mouth, stealing her breath with a kiss—“. . . the garden.”
“I knew that an association with another artist in the Danvers clan would not bode well for you. I didn’t want to say anything for fear of you losing your inheritance.”
“Because you thought our marriage had everything to do with my inheritance and nothing to do with how much I love you.”
She gasped. A delightful airy feeling rushed into her heart, as if the fireflies in his gaze were fluttering there. She circled his neck with her arms and leaned against him.
“How I’ve loved you all along,” he continued, pressing his lips to one corner of her mouth and then the other. “At first, I was going to leave the decision up to you. After all, you had the perfect excuse to end our pretense when your brother swept into the library with every intention of murdering me.” His lips lightly brushed over her jaw. “The next day, when you met with my grandmother, I was fully prepared to stop you and confess the whole truth.”
She arched her neck, encouraging his exploration of her throat. “What stopped you?”
“I heard you whisper”— he lifted his head and gazed down at her with enough intensity to stop her heart and start it all over again—“and I’m certain, sweeter words have never been spoken. I knew in that moment I had to marry you, Emma. For my sake as well as yours. You said it best. We share a heart. A statement so true that I had the jeweler inscribe it inside your wedding band.”
It took her a moment to recover from the joy rushing through her. “You’re right, you know. You’ve been right all along. I do love”—he took a breath—“your garden.”
“Emma . . .” He growled at her, taking her mouth in a fierce kiss of total possession, demanding her complete surrender, and leaving her dizzy.
“But not nearly as much as I love you, Oliver.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Thank you to my amazing editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz, for your insight, dedication, support, and most of all for making my dream a reality.
Thank you to the art department at Avon Impulse for my swoon-worthy cover.
Thank you to my sisters—Deanna, Cyndi, and Katie—and to my sisters of the heart—April, Gwen, Lora, and Robin—for listening to me ramble on about fictional characters, and even more for the times when you believe in them too.
Thank you to my parents for helping me to become the person I am.
Thank you to the incomparable Cindy C, the best research librarian I know.
Thank you to Lynne for making the day of “the call” even more incredible.
And to Mike, thank you for years of love and laughter.
See how Vivienne Lorret’s Wallflower romances began
with an excerpt from
“TEMPTING MR. WEATHERSTONE”
available now in FIVE GOLDEN RINGS: A Christmas Collection.
And continue reading
for a sneak peek at
WINNING MISS WAKEFIELD,
coming June 2014 from Avon Impulse.
An Excerpt from
“Tempting Mr. Weatherstone”
Responsible Ethan Weatherstone is determined to save Penelope Rutledge—and her reputation—from her silly scheme, but can he save himself from the temptation of her lips?
Ethan Weatherstone was due for a piece of her mind. It was about time he understood that he had no right to interfere with her life.
Mind made up, she took one last look at the mail coach and shook her head. She reached down for her satchel and stormed over to Ethan’s carriage.
Penelope threw open the door and climbed inside, seething as she sat across from him. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look at her. Instead, he sat back against the squabs, his head turned to the window. The only reason she knew he was aware of her presence was from the way he clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching just beneath the surface of his skin.
“Were you waiting to humiliate me? Waiting until I was already seated before you dragged me away from the mail coach? Or perhaps you planned to follow me all the way to Portsmouth?”
He refused to respond or even so much as look at her. If she hadn’t been angry before she entered the carriage, then she certainly was fuming now.
“Truly, Ethan, for someone who cannot live outside the lines of your carefully crafted order, your sameness that covers you like a shroud, this is quite surprising behavior,” she hissed, baiting him. “I only wish your concern for my happiness were as great as your concern for my reputation.”
At that, he glared at her sharply. Ah, so she’d struck a chord.
Good. Yet still, he did not say anything.
There he sat, perfectly groomed, his cravat perfectly pleated, his temper perfectly managed. She wished just once he’d lose some of that control. Because here she sat, with her eyes, most likely puffy and red from having cried most of the night instead of sleeping. She was certainly not perfectly groomed, since she could feel a soggy tendril of hair plastered to her cheek. Her cloak was damp from rain. Her nose was cold and likely red as well.
“How can you be so . . . so unaffected all the time?” Her voice rose with her accusation. “Haven’t you ever dreamed for something outside the realm of possibility? Or are you content with each day so long as your cravat is perfectly pleated?”
She glared at the offending garment, struck by a ridiculous notion to crumple it. No sooner had the idea formed that she gave in to the impulse and moved forward on her seat, her arm reaching forward.
Ethan stopped her, taking hold of her wrist. His eyes flared. Before she could react, he yanked, propelling her forward to land clumsily on his lap.
“How dare—”
His mouth covered hers, silencing her outrage. Her head spun, reeling from the sudden scorching heat of his kiss.
This was a kiss, wasn’t it? Yet, it was nothing like her dreams, where his rehearsed request was followed by carefully controlled actions. No, this was no gentle dream. This was hard and demanding. His tongue didn’t request entrance but swept in and plundered.
His arms were not gentle either. In fact, he held her so tightly she couldn’t move, and grasped her wrist so she couldn’t touch him or push him away.
But she’d never push him away.
Instead, she wanted to cling to him. Her anger evaporated in a rush of steam. Her mind cried out for more of this glorious punishment. She wanted his kiss to burn her, through and through. This was the first time she’d been warm in months.
An Excerpt from
WINNING MISS WAKEFIELD
When her betrothed suddenly announces his plans to marry another, Merribeth Wakefield knows only a bold move will bring him back and restore her tattered reputation: She must take a lesson in seduction from a master of the art. But when the dark and brooding rake, Lord Knightswold, takes her under his wing, her education quickly goes from theory to hands-on knowledge, and her heart is given a crash course in true desire!
“Now, give back my handkerchief,” Lord Knightswold said, holding out his hand as he returned to her side. “You’re the sort to keep it as a memento. I cannot bear the thought of my handkerchief being worshipped by a forlorn Miss by moonlight or tucked away with mawkish reverence beneath a pillow.”
The portrait he painted was so laughable that she smiled, heedless of exposing her flaw. “You flatter yourself. Here.” She dropped it into his hand as she swept past him, prepared to leave. “I have no desire to touch it a moment longer. I will leave you to your pretense of sociability.”
“’Tis no pretense. I have kept good company this evening.” Either the brandy had gone to her head, impairing her hearing, or he actually sounded sincere.
She paused and rested her hands on the carved rosewood filigree, edging the top of the sofa. “Much to my own folly. I never should have listened to Lady Eve Sterling. It was her lark that sent me here.”
He feigned surprise. “Oh? How so?”
If it weren’t for the brandy, she would have left by now. Merribeth rarely had patience for such games, and she knew his question was part of a game he must have concocted with Eve. However, his company had turned out to be exactly the diversion she’d needed, and she was willing to linger. “She claimed to have forgotten her reticule and sent me here to fetch it—no doubt wanting me to find you.”
He looked at her as if confused.
“I’ve no mind to explain it to you. After all, you were abetting her plot, lying in wait, here on this very sofa.” She brushed her fingers over the smooth fabric, thinking of him lying there in the dark. “Not that I blame you. Lady Eve is difficult to say no to. However, I will conceal the truth from her and we can carry on as if her plan had come to fruition. It would hardly have served its purpose anyway.”
He moved toward her, his broad shoulders outlined by the distant torch light filtering in through the window behind him. “Refresh my memory then. What was it I was supposed to do whilst in her employ?”
She blushed again. Was he going to make her say the words aloud? No gentleman would.
So, of course, he would. She decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. “She professed that a kiss from a rake could instill confidence and mend a broken heart.”
He stopped, impeded by the sofa between them. His brow lifted in curiosity. “Have you a broken heart in need of mending?”
The deep murmur of his voice, the heated intensity in his gaze, and quite possibly the brandy—all worked against her better sense and sent those tingles dancing in a pagan circle again.
Oh, yes, the thought as she looked up at him. Yes, Lord Knightswold. Mend my broken heart.
However, her mouth intervened. “I don’t believe so.” She gasped at the realization. “I should, you know. After five years, my heart should be in shreds. Shouldn’t it?”
He turned before she could read his expression and then sat down on the sofa, affording her a view of the top of his head. “I know nothing of broken hearts, or their mending.”
“Pity,” she said, distracted by the dark silken locks that accidentally brushed her fingers. “Neither do I.”
However accidental the touch of his hair had been, now her fingers threaded through the fine strands with untamed curiosity and blatant disregard for propriety.
Lord Knightswold let his head fall back, permitting—perhaps even encouraging—her to continue. She did, without thought to right, wrong, who he was, or who she was supposed to be. Running both hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, she watched his eyes drift closed.
Then, Merribeth Wakefield did something she never intended to do.
She kissed a rake.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
VIVIENNE LORRET loves romance novels, her pink laptop, her husband, and her two teenage sons (not necessarily in that order . . . but there are days). Transforming copious amounts of tea into words, she is the author of Avon Impulse’s “Tempting Mr. Weatherstone” and the Wallflower Wedding series. For more on her upcoming novels, visit her at www.vivlorret.net.
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By Vivienne Lorret
Daring Miss Danvers
“Tempting Mr. Weatherstone” in Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at two brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
FALLING FOR OWEN
BOOK TWO: THE MCBRIDES
By Jennifer Ryan
GOOD GIRLS DON’T DATE ROCK STARS
By Codi Gary
An Excerpt from
FALLING FOR OWEN
Book Two: The McBrides
by Jennifer Ryan
From New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Ryan comes the second book in an unforgettable series about the sexy McBride men of Fallbrook, Colorado. Reformed bad boy Owen McBride will do anything to protect his beautiful neighbor when she gets caught in the crossfire between his client and her abusive ex.
Claire woke out of a sound sleep with a gasp and held her breath, trying to figure out what had startled her. She listened to the quiet night. Nothing but crickets and the breeze rustling the trees outside. A twig snapped on the ground below her window. Her heart hammered faster, and she sucked in a breath, trying not to panic. Living in the country lent itself to overactive imaginings about things that go bump in the dark night. The noise could be anything from a stray dog or cat to a raccoon on a midnight raid of her garbage cans, even an opossum looking for a little action.
Settled back into her pillow and the thick blankets, she closed her eyes, but opened them wide when something big brushed against the side of the house. Freaked out, she got up from the bed and went to the window. She pulled the curtain back with one finger and peeked through the crack, scanning the moonlit yard below for wayward critters. Not so easy to see with the quarter moon, but she watched the shadows for anything suspicious. Nothing moved.
Not satisfied, and certainly not able to sleep without a more thorough investigation, she padded down the scarred wooden stairs to the living room. She skirted packing boxes and the sofa and went to the window overlooking the front yard. Nothing moved. Still not satisfied, she walked to the dining room, opened the blinds, and stared out into the cold night. Something banged one flower pot into another on the back patio, drawing her away from the dining room, through the kitchen, and to the counter. She grabbed the phone off the charger, went around the island, and tiptoed along the breakfast bar to the sliding glass door. She peeked out, hiding most of her body behind the wall and ducking her head out to see if someone was trying to break into her house. Like she thought, the small pot filled with marigolds had been knocked over and broken against the pot of geraniums beside it. Upset that her pretty pot and flowers were ruined, she moved away from the wall and stood in the center of the glass door to get a better look.
With her gaze cast down on the pots, she didn’t see the man step out from the other side of the patio until his shadow fell over her. Their gazes collided, his eyes going as wide as hers.
“You’re not him,” he said, stumbling back, knocking over a potted pink miniature rose bush, and falling on his ass, breaking the pot and the rose with his legs. She hoped he got stuck a dozen times, but the tiny thorns probably wouldn’t go through his dirt-smudged jeans.
In a rage, she opened the door, but held tight to the handle so she could close it again if he came too close. She yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ll get him for this and for sleeping with my wife,” the guy slurred. Drunk and ranting, he gained his feet but stumbled again. “Where is he?” The man turned every which way, looking past her and into her dark house.
“Who?”
“Your lying, cheating, no-good husband.”
“How the hell should I know? I haven’t seen or heard from him in six months.”
“Liar. I saw him drive this way tonight after he f*cked my wife at his office and filled her head with more bullshit lies.”
“Listen, I’m sorry if my ex is messing with your wife. I left him almost two years ago for cheating on me. Believe me, I know how you feel, but he doesn’t live here.”
“You’re lying. He drove his truck this way and stopped just outside.”
“He doesn’t drive a truck.”
“Stop lying, bitch.”
“I’m not. You have the wrong person.”
“You tell that no-good McBride he better stop seeing my wife. If he thinks a bunch of papers will ever set her free from me, he doesn’t know what I’m capable of, what we have. He’ll be one sorry son of a bitch. She’s mine. I keep what’s mine.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No. You don’t understand,” he said, almost like a whining child. “You tell him, or I’ll make him pay with what’s his.” He pointed an ominous finger at her. “You tell him if he doesn’t leave my wife alone and let her come back to me like she wants, I’m going to hurt you before I come after him.”
An Excerpt from
GOOD GIRLS DON’T DATE ROCK STARS
by Codi Gary
Gemma Carlson didn’t plan on waking up married to her old flame—and her son’s father-turned-country rock star—Travis Bowers, following a night of drunken dares. So she does the only sane thing: she runs!
Travis finally has a second chance, and he doesn’t plan on losing Gemma again—or the son he didn’t know he had. He’s in this for the long haul. Even if it means chasing his long-lost love all over again . . .
“What are you doing here, Travis?”
The rage and frustration that had been simmering below the surface of his skin started to burn. “Why wouldn’t I come here?” He turned around and faced her, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re my wife. We spent a magical night together, and I just happen to have a break in my tour that allows me to spend several weeks with you.”
“I thought you would—”
“What, Gemma?” His voice was low and dark as he approached her. Grabbing her shoulders, he gave her a gentle shake. “What? You thought I’d just read your letter and be grateful? That I’d think, ‘you know what, she’s right’ and leave you alone, just disappear from your life again?”
She stopped struggling, and he could tell by her expression that was exactly what she’d been thinking.
“This is my home, Travis. You can’t just show up here and disrupt my life,” she hissed.
“I’m not trying to disrupt your life. I just want to know why you left without talking to me. At least trying to work out what happened,” he said.
“What happened is we got drunk and did something stupid. End of story,” she said.
“No, that’s not the end of it, sweetheart,” he snapped before he could rein in his temper. “Like it or not, we’re married. It wasn’t something I planned, but that’s the way things are, and you could have at least given me the courtesy of waking me up and talking about it.”
“What’s there to talk about, Travis? We haven’t seen each other for ten years, and yes, I had fun with you, but we want totally different things,” she said, sounding almost disappointed. “You and I . . . we don’t work anymore. We’re too different. Our worlds are too different.”
He took a calming breath and thought about her words. It was true that their lives were different, but that wasn’t a kill switch for a future. People called alcohol “truth serum,” and if he’d stood up and pledged himself to Gemma legally, deep down he must have wanted it. Which led to a whole new line of crazy he could sift through later, but right now, he needed to make her understand that he took what they’d done seriously. He wasn’t going to let her just sweep it under the rug as a drunken mistake.
Especially since it took two to say “I do.”
He had been developing his strategy the whole drive, and he’d come up with an idea he was going to propose—before he’d lost his cool. He needed to prove that there was more to what happened than a wild weekend gone wrong. Gemma had said he didn’t know her; well, what better way to get to know someone than to date them?
She’d never agree to it, though, until she got over whatever had her in a panic. He needed to show her that it wasn’t over, not just like that. There was too much left between them for “closure” or whatever her letter had said.
And he would prove it to her.
“I thought we were working really well together,” he said softly, his tone seductive. He took her hand, holding it gently when she tried to pull away and caressing the back of it with his thumb. He saw her shiver and smiled as he brought her fingers up to his mouth, his lips hovering above the knuckles as he spoke. “When we were in your hotel room, and I had my hands on your body, running them over your skin . . . you felt so good.” She licked her lips and closed her eyes. He pulled her closer, trailing his lips from her wrist to her elbow. “And the taste of your skin . . . all the little sounds you made when I played with your breasts . . . or when I was deep inside you.”
He wrapped his arms around her, his large hands splaying across the curve of her ass, using it to pull her against him. Her breath whooshed out as he pushed himself against her, knowing she could feel every inch of his erection between them. He felt her relax into him, and her hand held onto his bicep, her eyes opening slowly, meeting his. He saw the matching desire in those mossy depths and dropped his lips to her temple, traveling over her skin until his mouth reached her ear. He nipped the small shell teasingly, and her body tightened against his, making him smile as he added, “I can show you again, if you don’t remember.”