Courting Chloe

by Nancy Warren

  “I need to get you naked more than I’ve ever needed anything,” he said, his voice low and husky.

  “But this was a very expensive outfit,” she said, her pout not disguising her raging need for one second.

  “Well,” he said, standing back and pretending to think about it.

  He stood there just a second too long, so she said, “Matthew,” in that dreamy, needy way that went straight to his cock like a stroking hand.

  “Okay. You can leave the hat on,” he said, stepping closer.

  “And the boots.”

  His hands were on hers as they both struggled to free her from that spangled outfit.

  When she stood before him in nothing but her hat, with that rose bobbing, and her tooled leather boots, shiny and new, he thought he’d never been a happier man.

  He tore out of his clothes and then, advancing on her, scooped her up into his arms.

  She giggled. “Be careful of your knee.”

  “Don’t you worry about my knee,” he said, dropping her to the bed so that she bounced, laughing. Then reached for him.

  She climbed on top of him. “I didn’t do nearly enough riding.”

  He put a hand behind his head and looked up at her. “You learn to ride Texan style?”

  Her nose turned up at that. “Certainly not. I ride English style. Get used to it.”

  And when she mounted him and he slid home so perfectly, he knew he already had.

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  Chapter 29

  Meg stared at the page, the final page of her novel.

  It wasn’t often that the ending surprised her. Not like this. How could the villain not be dead? All along, she’d envisioned that final desperate fight. The psychiatrist would get to her bag, she’d reach in it for her gun, which she shouldn’t even have in her purse, but the detective had warned her to be extra careful and so she’d tucked it in there this morning.

  Of course, the weapon had fallen to the bottom under the lipsticks and the pack of tissue. Oh, there it was – no, shit, that was her sunglasses case.

  And the madman would be almost upon her when she’d grab the gun, fumbling for the safety and boom, she’d shoot him through the bottom of her Fendi bag. Shot through the heart, they’d discover in the autopsy, in a nice bit of irony.

  How could it not have ended that way?

  Meg read the final scene again, her hands shaking, from too much coffee probably.

  Had she cheated? This new final scene, was it some manipulation by her own psyche?

  She re-read the entire chapter. And then she saw what she’d missed with her clever bit of shot-through-the-heart irony. The quick, clean death wasn’t enough of a punishment for this guy. No. Prison. Lack of control. No privacy. Being looked down on, ordered, insulted. Forced to perform menial tasks. Oh, how her villain would suffer. It was a much more fitting punishment.

  Her new ending was the perfect one.

  In every way.

  She stretched back in her chair, reached her arms up to the ceiling and stretched.

  Done. She was done. Of course, she needed to read and polish it a few times, but her story was told.

  She walked to the tiny village, humming under her breath. She stopped in at the Newsagents. The shop carried a couple of international papers, always a day or two late, but she rationed herself to the Sunday New York Times.

  Tramping back across the fields, with her paper, a pint of milk and a loaf of fresh bread, she stopped for a moment and took a slow, luxurious turn. It took no imagination at all to picture this as it had been a hundred years ago, two, three hundred years. Block out the cars and trucks and the telephone poles and the scenery would have looked almost precisely the same. Sun glinted off fields while sheep munched quietly, barely bothering to lift their heads as she walked by on the common footpath.

  The village at her back was postcard quaint with its old stone houses scattered with thatched roofs. Hart House rose like a fairy tale and behind the lawns, at the edge of the wooded section, sat her little house. Built from the same pale stone.

  It was so peaceful. A perfect place to work. She’d never felt so content. Perhaps, it was a perfect place to live. At least, part of the year.

  She wouldn’t give up her house in Seattle. Why should she? And Arthur wouldn’t give up the parsonage. Or the pub. They’d simply enjoy two homes.

  She opened the thick oak door and walked in. The fresh flowers she’d bought herself yesterday were a cheerful sight on the kitchen table where she’d written. She opened the French doors to connect herself with the outdoors.

  “Still at your murder and mayhem?” She glanced up to find Arthur walking toward her. She couldn’t have written a better-timed entrance.

  “No,” she said. “I’m finished.” She reached for the bottle of Bordeaux on the counter. “Care to celebrate with me?”

  “Yes.” He walked in, looking much less happier than she felt, and kissed her. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I know there’s a corkscrew here somewhere.” She opened the cutlery drawer and he reached over her shoulder.

  “I’ll do it.” While he opened and poured the wine, she watched him, feeling ridiculously pleased with herself.

  He handed her a glass and raised his. “Here’s to my favorite author,” he said.

  “And here’s to my favorite villain.”

  “You drink to your villains?”

  “Well, I have a small secret. Something I’ve been keeping from you. I never, ever write characters who are in any way like people I know. Never ever.”

  “I see. Makes good sense, that.”

  “Except this time.” She looked up at him, at that strong face, the sharp cheekbones, the blue, blue eyes and the black hair. He gazed at her in the same magnetic way he’d stared at her that first day. “I saw you and you were the perfect model for my sadistic killer.”

  He blinked. “Well, cheers.”

  She laughed. Oh, she was so high on this moment she might never come down. “You know what? I always fall in love with my villain.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “Especially this time.”

  He put his glass down as though he’d forgotten about it. “What happens to this one? In the end. You said you were going to kill him off. Was it very gruesome?”

  She put her own glass down beside Arthur’s and walked up until they were almost touching. “I thought he was going to die. All along, I knew his death. But when I wrote it, I found out I was wrong. He doesn’t die.”

  “Don’t tell me the rotten bugger gets away?”

  “Oh, no. He gets caught, of course.”

  “Does he now?” His gaze narrowed on hers. “What’s his punishment?”

  She kissed the man she loved more than all her villains combined. “He gets the perfect punishment.”

  “And that is?”

  “A life sentence.”

  He reached out and traced her jaw with one finger, his blue-gray eyes glinting at her. “To be served
where?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Maxine was right, she realized, gazing at Arthur, he did glow. Or maybe it was her own glow of happiness reflecting back. He smiled at her. “Not particularly, no.”

  He moved, letting his finger trail lazily down the side of her neck to follow the curve of her collarbone. She shivered as ribbons of pleasure played over her skin. They were going to make love, right here in the kitchen, maybe on that sturdy table where she’d typed her novel, always with his dark, sexy image before her.

  “I have to go back for a couple of months. I’ve got obligations and I want you to meet my family. Come with me to Seattle?”

  He pulled her to him and kissed her, a long, perfect kiss. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Read on for a sneak peek of Jack’s story:

  To: chefgal@usmail.com

  From: Maxinelarraby@Harthouse.ukorg

  Subject: I know you’re there!

  Message: Hey, sis. We’re worried about you. Mom says she hasn’t seen you for weeks, and you sound weird on the phone. Yeah, yeah, I know, but nobody else has seen you either. Possibilities. 1. You’re seeing a hot new guy and you haven’t crawled out of bed in weeks. 2. You’re depressed. Which makes perfect sense given that your divorce became final and they closed the restaurant a couple of weeks later. Pissy timing, huh?

  Let me know what’s up. Miss you.

  Ttfn, Max

  To: Maxinelarraby@Harthouse.org

  From: chefgal@usmail.com

  Subject: I’m fine

  Rachel Larraby paused and looked at her subject line. Should she add an exclamation mark after fine? Or would snarky punctuation make her older sister suspicious?

  She looked down at herself and was glad she and Max had never indulged in video chats. She really didn’t want designer Max to see her like this. Her comfy sweatshirt was a pretty accurate food diary for the last couple of weeks. There was a Thai noodle, desiccated and lonely, rather like Rachel herself; there was the tea stain from where she’d fallen asleep watching an I Love Lucy episode. There a blob of chocolate from where she’d laughed so hard at a Seinfeld rerun she’d dropped the chocolate out of her mouth. Not one of her finest moments. Dayglo orange Doritos dust, butter smears from popcorn, an unidentifiable foodstuff she suspected had once adorned a pizza. The old UCLA sweatpants that had been Cal’s weren’t in much better shape. Still, she was showering daily and brushing her teeth regularly. She even took her vitamins every morning. She was fine.

  Mostly. She typed her reply.

  Don’t worry about me. I’m catching up on my sleep and hanging out at the beach.

  How’s England?

  Luv Rach

  Maxine Larraby cried out, “I knew it!”

  “Knew what, darling?” George asked, coming behind her where she sat at the computer, and kissing the nape of her neck.

  “My sister is a mental case.”

  “Every family has one. My uncle Cecil takes my aunt Winifred everywhere with him.”

  Rachel stared at the screen as though she could see all the way to L.A. and her sister. “So?”

  “She was cremated. In 1986. He has a lovely box for her -- Georgian silver, I believe, with her favorite poem engraved on the lid. A Shakespearean sonnet, but it’s a bit disconcerting to people who aren’t used to the pair of them, such as the staff of restaurants. And the family. I once sat on poor old Aunt Winnie at Christmas dinner. Caused a fearful row and put me right off my roast goose.”

  “Rachel’s not that kind of mental case. She’s depressed.”

  George read over her shoulder, leaning in so she smelled his skin and felt the warmth of him. “She says she’s hanging out at the beach. That doesn’t sound very depressed.”

  “Rachel hates the beach and she gets hives if she sits in the sun. That’s what worries me the most. If she had to lie, couldn’t she make up something I might believe? No,” she said, rising. “This has gone on long enough. That email is a cry for help. We’ll have to stage an intervention.”

  Read Jack’s story. Or, for half price, you can get the full box set collection of The British are Coming.

  About the Author

  Nancy Warren is the USA Today Bestselling author of more than 70 novels. She’s originally from Vancouver, Canada, though she tends to wander and has lived in England, Italy and California at various times. She’s currently in Bath, UK, where she often pretends she’s Jane Austen. Or at least a character in a Jane Austen novel. Favorite moments include being the answer to a crossword puzzle clue in Canada’s National Post newspaper, being featured on the front page of the New York Times when her book Speed Dating launched Harlequin’s NASCAR series, and being nominated three times for Romance Writers of America’s RITA award. She’s an avid hiker, loves chocolate and most of all, loves to hear from readers! The best way to stay in touch is to sign up for Nancy’s newsletter at www.nancywarren.net.

  To learn more about Nancy and her books

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  The British are Coming: Courting Chloe Copyright © 2015 by Nancy Warren

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at www.nancywarren.net.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.