Real Romance

Chapter One



"So, what do you think?"

Marie McCloud opened her eyes wide and blinked. She saw bright blue eyes looking into hers, and a glacier-melting smile. What did she think, indeed.

When she'd walked into the spectacle shop nearly an hour ago, her vision had been so fuzzy she'd barely been able to make out the blue shirt and slacks the optician wore, let alone his muscular build. Now that she could focus, Marie was all too aware that the smooth-as-silk southern baritone was coming from a stunning specimen of masculinity.

She adjusted the frames on her nose and felt herself blush.

"Fine," was all she could manage to say through her clogged throat. "I'll take you. I mean, them."

Marie lifted a hand to wipe the tiny beads of sweat gathering at her hairline, thinking it was awfully hot in here for October. November. What the heck month was it, anyway?

"Well, they suit you," he said, sending the room spinning, as he leaned forward with an appraising smile.

The frames did look good with her chestnut brown hair. She was really quite attractive. Gorgeous, some would say. In an understated way, that a lesser man might think of as mousy. But David Lake knew better. He'd hooked up with more than one soft-spoken brunette in his lifetime. And every one of them had a fiery furnace burning beneath that creamy, cool exterior.

Something in her big, brown eyes told David that Marie McCloud was no different. The only question was, did she know it?

David checked his watch, then glanced back at her lovely face, trying hard not to be obvious. There was something in the delicate curve of her cheek, the long, porcelain line of her neck, the richly dark tendrils, spiraling recklessly from her pulled-back hair.

"Have any plans for lunch?" he asked, his lips racing with the thought that had barely formed in his brain.

She looked him up and down and blinked again, her color going all pink and cinnamony.

His hair was sandy and cropped short. Parted neatly on the side. He looked less like an optician and more like... a lifeguard. Marie froze momentarily at the thought of him administering mouth-to-mouth.

"I, ah..."

David glanced nervously over his shoulder to see if Caroline, his boss, had been listening. She'd have his head for certain. Socializing with the clients. Last time he'd done it, he'd nearly lost his job. Didn't help that Cindy had threatened to smash a whole wall of designer frames when he'd finally called things off.

"Can't." Marie sprang from her seat like a frightened cat. "Oh my gosh," she said, studying the clock on the wall, "twelve-thirty! Gotta be getting back."

"I'm sure they'll understand at..." David waited, hoping she'd fill in the blank.

"Books & Bistro," Marie added hastily, making her way toward the counter and digging for the checkbook in her purse. She bit into her bottom lip, realizing what she'd just done.

So now he knew where she worked, David thought, ringing up her purchase. And it was right around the corner.

"Well," he said, eyeing the soft curves of her body beneath her figure-hugging sweater dress. "You couldn't have overrun your lunch hour by that much. Surely, they won't throw the book at you."

Marie looked up at a smile brighter than sunlight on freshly fallen snow. His crisply pressed shirt did little to disguise his delectable shoulders and broad chest. The flat plane of his stomach that ran in a flawless line right down to...

Book! The only books Marie should have thrown at her were all those romances she wasted so much time reading. Silly escapism. Nothing like that ever happened in real life.

His hand grazed hers as he passed over a fabric-covered glasses case. "Hope you have better luck this time."

Marie laid down her checkbook and steadied herself against the counter. What was it in those clear, blue eyes that turned her knees to butter?

"With the glasses," David said, thinking he'd read her look. She'd been burned, that's what it was.

Bad luck with men, in a town like Covesville where the women outnumbered the male population ten to one, was commonplace in these parts. And David, he realized with a sense of shame, was partially to blame for those dismal statistics. He'd had plenty of opportunity with women. Plenty of opportunity, that was, to break their hearts. But why in the world was he thinking of that now?

Not that David ever tried to hurt anybody intentionally. It just appeared to be an unhappy by-product of his becoming romantically involved. He couldn't seem to help it. No matter what he tried to tell himself, there was something about the notion of a woman demanding a commitment that made him want to cut and run.

"Thanks," she said, accepting the paperwork along with the receipt. "I'll try to be more careful."

Then David realized she was running out on him. He panicked and stepped in front of her, blocking her sumptuous body with his broad frame.

"Is there something I've forgotten?" she asked, looking up with doe-like eyes.

It took every ounce of his strength not to reach out and touch her. Not to find some excuse to...

David's hands were halfway to the edge of her wire frames before he realized what he was doing and stopped short.

"Just wanted to make sure the fit's okay," David said, his hands motioning in the air surrounding Marie's shoulders.

Marie smiled shyly. "Couldn't be better," she answered, her voice an inexplicable squeak.

Up close, he smelled as good as he looked. All musky and exotic, like some forbidden, sensual body oil sold in the back room of a Moroccan bazaar.

Marie shook her head, thinking she should have known better than to read the last chapter of Arabian Lust over a donut at her ten-thirty coffee break. There was something about this man, this tall hunk of masculinity, that made her feel very female. Maybe it was his look which seemed to strip her down, made her entertain fantasies of a long, silk veil and a privately viewed belly dance—with an audience of only one.

A short breath escaped her, and Marie brought her palms to her cheeks which she knew were flaming red.

"Well, good," he said, looking deeply in her eyes. "Just as long as we're clear on that."

"Clear?" Marie asked, feeling as if she'd missed something.

"That the fit is right."

He smiled and all reason plummeted to her stocking-clad toes.

"You know, we offer an unconditional guarantee."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, drawing her purse in at her side and turning quickly on her heels.

What was happening? Why in the world were her palms so sweaty and her legs trembling? Marie shot for the exit before her feet could give way.

She thanked him again for his help, then pushed her way out the door to the street. She breezed past the paper turkey hanging on the front glass wall of the eye doctor's office. Eye doctor, her foot. He was more like some kind of psychic. A seer who could look right through her... and into the deepest depths of her soul.

No, that was crazy! That sort of thing never happened. She'd only just laid eyes on him, for heaven's sake. So what if he had a body to die for, and a heart-stopping lopsided grin? So what if he'd asked her to lunch, indicating both his immediate interest and availability?

She was not available—that was the important part. Marie glanced down at the meager blue stone on her left hand that served as an engagement ring. One of these days, Cecil was going to save enough cash from serving lattes to buy her a real diamond... That would be shortly after he finally sold his book and hell froze over, she thought with a slow, sad smile.

She knew she should have more faith in Cecil, but, after five long years, it was getting hard. If only he weren't so faithful, it would have been a cinch to look for someone else. But the trouble with all those someone else's was that she wasn't good enough for them. Just like Paul, they'd nail her heart, then chase anything in a skirt.

Not Cecil. Good old, reliable, thirty-eight-year-old Cecil. Though he was only six years her senior, at times Marie swore he was pushing one hundred.

Marie found herself wondering briefly about the age of the optician. Though he was probably a little older than she, there was a vibrancy in his eyes that spoke of youthful vigor. Enduring vigor. A relentless, animalistic...

She stopped herself, shocked at where her mind was going. Right down to his form-fitting jeans and dockside loafers. Then back up again—past his rock-hard torso and unforgettable smile, to his unnerving, brilliant blue eyes.

No! She wouldn't do this! As she'd learned from her disastrous affair with Paul, animal attraction only went so far... before the other partner started monkeying around.

It was better this way. Better with Cecil. Though he might not be the most exciting man Marie had ever met, he was certainly the most dependable. Five years together and he hadn't cast a roving eye at a single other woman. They got along, had some laughs. And, even though he never could interest her in that deep-thinking literary fiction that always had him so enthralled, at least they both liked to read.

He worked in the cafe, she sold books. He, after all, wrote books—even if he couldn't sell them. There was a strange logic to their arrangement. And a comfort, too. From one day to the next, Marie knew that Cecil would be there. And until today... that had been enough.



David absentmindedly twirled his pencil, then tapped its eraser against his ledger. Someday soon, his boss Caroline was going to spend her profits wisely and hire an official accountant. In the meantime, David looked at his chance to serve as both optician and bookkeeper as an opportunity. Next year, when he planned to open his own shop, the financial experience would come in handy. Then, he sighed, any rules about employee-client fraternization would be self-imposed. Or, not.

David knew it was wrong, really wrong, to hit on the women who came in here. And he almost never did. But when they handed him their cell phone numbers with a wink and a smile and a maybe-we-can-see-each-other-sometime look, it was pretty damned hard to resist. He was a red-blooded male, just like the next guy. And when they had legs like Suzanne, or breasts like Rebecca....

David rubbed his temples and glared at the column of numbers in front of him, willing the insubordinate figures to make sense. But the only figure that stood out in his mind belonged to one Marie McCloud. Not that she was as voluptuous as some of the women he'd dated. Not even that she was more beautiful. But there was something in the way she'd widened her eyes when she'd looked at him. Something in the warm flush of color on her skin.

David shook his head, thinking himself stupid for believing they'd made any kind of meaningful connection.

He turned half-heartedly and scanned through the contacts on his cell phone. Thursday afternoon, already. If he hoped for a respectable date—or even a not-so-respectable one—by the weekend, David would have to start calling soon.

But suddenly, he had the unusual notion that he'd be more happy spending his Saturday night with a book.



Marie blew into the cafe like a gust of autumn wind and settled her purse on the counter.

"Decaf, darling?" Joanne smiled, swabbing a dollop of cream off the faux marble serving bar.

Marie stared back at the older woman, somehow unable to fix her gaze. "Yes. No. I mean, I don't—"

Joanne extended a wrinkled hand in Marie's direction. "Slow down there." She had to be in her seventies, but with her batik skirt and sleek silver braid, sometimes looked more like a willowy teenager gone prematurely gray.

Joanne dropped her rag and leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. "What's wrong, doll? That Cecil done some—"

She fell silent as the ponytailed man materialized at her side.

"Morning, Marie." He smiled, and his even teeth shone white beneath his aquiline nose.

Marie sighed. "It's way past noon, Cecil. How long have you been here?"

He swiveled his head and glared at the clock. "Oh, since nine. Time flies when you're having fun."

Marie groaned. "Short cappuccino, Joanne. Double foam, nix the caffeine."

"Hey, Marie," Cecil said, when Joanne went to steam the milk. "About our dinner tonight..."

Marie adjusted her new frames and fumbled for an excuse. Somehow, in light of her lunchtime encounter, eating with Cecil seemed downright unappetizing.

"I have some revisions to do."

Marie smiled as his meaning dawned.

"Oh, Cecil, of course I understand. I have a little project I'm working on myself." She drew a sharp breath, wondering where on earth that had come from.

"You do?" Cecil asked, his gray eyes narrowing. At one time Marie would have called the color smoldering, like embers. But right now it looked... like smog.

She pulled two singles from her wallet as Joanne set her coffee down in front of her, puzzling at her new perspective. Surely, twenty minutes with a handsome optician wouldn't—

"A book?" Cecil pressed.

"Has to be romance," Joanne chimed in, securing the lid on the paper cup.

But Marie just turned the color of a very ripe tomato, picked up her cappuccino and left.



This time of day, right before closing, Marie normally perused the aisles to be certain everything was shelved properly. The upscale store paid its staff well to ensure a user-friendly environment for the average book buyer. But occasionally there were slip-ups, like when a new employee mistakenly placed Growing Old Gracefully in with New Age category books.

Marie resisted the urge to linger in the paperback romance section. Her feet ached and her back was sore from all the bending and stooping involved in reviewing the day's new arrivals. She'd arranged two author signings and helped coordinate an event for the mystery book club that was originally scheduled to meet in the cafe, but got bumped by a big-name local musician who'd agreed to play there on Monday. A real coup for Books & Bistro, but a major headache for Marie, who needed to accommodate the sure-fire crowd that live music brought, while avoiding the ire of her hard-core mystery fans. They, after all, bought more books on a regular basis than any other group—apart from romance aficionados. As a compromise, she'd offered to help sponsor a "Who Done It" wine and cheese tasting in the store's lounge area, complete with samplings from "mystery" local vineyards whose identities would be revealed at the evening's end.

Marie blew a hard breath and sent a loose lock of hair flying. And to think she'd gotten into the bookstore business because she loved to read! She rarely ever had time for it. Which is why she was so often caught red-handed over her Danish and coffee with something just as steamy as her java.

She paused mid-stride, trying to remember which way she was going. Somehow her eye had fallen on one of those gloriously embossed crimson covers, the kind boasting a manly hero with an admirable show of muscle. The title said something about a pirate and his mistress. Marie studied the male model's tawny ponytail, comparing it to Cecil's. Well, he certainly had Cecil's hair, but the body definitely belonged to...

Marie snatched her glasses off her nose and humphed into the air. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes was all he'd had. Yet somehow it had been enough to leave his mark. She'd felt as branded by his smile as by the hottest, deepest kiss. As ravaged by his eyes, as... Marie cleared her throat and placed her glasses back squarely where they belonged. She smiled pleasantly at a passing patron who nabbed the pirate book off the shelf and openly ogled its cover. Then blushed at the thought that she had probably looked just like that only hours ago—right in the center of the spectacle shop.