by Nora Roberts
neck and her mouth a breath away from his. “Tell me again that you want me to go.”
“No.” He dragged her against him. “I can’t.” His mouth was devouring hers. Power flowed into him again, hot and painful. He pressed her closer and felt her mouth respond to the savageness of his. “It’s too late,” he murmured. “Much too late.” Excitement was burning through him. He couldn’t hold her near enough. “I won’t be able to leave the door open for you now, Ryan. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes, I understand.” She drew her head back, wanting to see his eyes. “But it’ll be closed for you, too. I’m going to see to it this is one lock you can’t beat.”
“No escape, Ryan. For either of us.” And his mouth was on hers again, hot, desperate. He felt her give against him as he crushed her to him, but her hands were strong and sure on his body. “I love you, Ryan,” he told her again as he roamed her face and neck with kisses. “I love you. I lost everything when you left me.”
“I won’t leave you again.” She took his face in her hands to stop his wandering lips. “I was wrong to ask you what I did. I was wrong to run away. I didn’t trust enough.”
“And now?”
“I love you, Pierce, exactly as you are.”
He pulled her close again and pressed his mouth to her throat. “Beautiful Ryan, so small, so soft. God, how I want you. Come upstairs, come to bed. Let me love you properly.”
Her pulses hammered at the quiet, rough words he spoke against her throat. Ryan took a deep breath, then, putting her hands on his shoulders, she pulled away. “There’s the matter of a contract.”
“The hell with contracts,” he mumbled and tried to pull her back.
“Oh, no.” Ryan stepped away from him. “I want this settled.”
“I’ve already signed your contract,” he reminded her impatiently. “Come here.”
“This is a new one,” she stated, ignoring him. “An exclusive life term.”
He frowned. “Ryan, I’m not going to tie myself to Swan Productions for the rest of my life.”
“Not Swan Productions,” she countered. “Ryan Swan.”
The annoyed retort on the tip of his tongue never materialized. She saw his eyes change, become intense. “What sort of contract?”
“A one-to-one, with an exclusivity clause and a lifetime term.” Ryan swallowed, losing some of the confidence that had carried her this far.
“Go on.”
“It’s to begin immediately, with the provision of a legally binding ceremony to follow at the first reasonable opportunity.” She laced her fingers together. “With a proviso for the probability of offspring.” She saw Pierce’s brow lift, but he said nothing. “The number of which is negotiable.”
“I see,” he said after a moment. “Is there a penalty clause?”
“Yes. If you try to break the terms, I’m allowed to murder you.”
“Very reasonable. Your contract’s very tempting, Miss Swan. What are my benefits?”
“Me.”
“Where do I sign?” he asked, taking her in his arms again.
“Right here.” She let out a sigh as she lifted her mouth. The kiss was gentle, promising. With a moan, Ryan drew closer.
“This ceremony, Miss Swan.” Pierce nibbled at her lip as his hands began to roam. “What do you consider the first reasonable opportunity?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.” She laughed and again pulled out of his arms. “You don’t think I’m going to give you time to find an escape hatch, do you?”
“I’ve met my match, I see.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed with a nod. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Lifting the Tarot cards, she surprised Pierce by fanning them with some success. She’d been practicing for months.
“Very good.” He grinned and went to her. “I’m impressed.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she promised. “Pick a card,” she told him, her eyes laughing. “Any card.”
Keep reading for an excerpt from
the third book in the Inn BoonsBoro trilogy
by Nora Roberts
THE PERFECT HOPE
Available November 2012 from Berkley Books
With a few groans and sighs, the old building settled down for the night. Under the star-washed sky its stone walls glowed, rising up over Boonsboro’s Square as they had for more than two centuries. Even the crossroads held quiet now, stretching out in pools of shadows and light. All the windows and storefronts along Main Street seemed to sleep, content to doze away in the balm of the summer night.
She should do the same, Hope thought. Settle down, stretch out. Sleep.
That would be the sensible thing to do, and she considered herself a sensible woman. But the long day left her restless and, she reminded herself, Carolee would arrive bright and early to start breakfast.
The innkeeper could sleep in.
In any case, it was barely midnight. When she’d lived and worked in Georgetown, she’d rarely managed to settle in for the night this early. Of course, then she’d been managing The Wickham, and if she hadn’t been dealing with some small crisis or handling a guest request, she’d been enjoying the nightlife.
The town of Boonsboro, tucked into the foothills of Maryland’s Blue Ridge Mountains, might have a rich and storied history, and it certainly had its charms—among which she counted the revitalized inn she now managed—but it wasn’t famed for its nightlife.
That would change a bit when her friend Avery opened her restaurant and tap house. And wouldn’t it be fun to see what the energetic Avery MacTavish did with her new enterprise right next door—and just across The Square from Avery’s pizzeria.
Before summer ended, Avery would juggle the running of two restaurants, Hope thought.
And people called her an overachiever.
She looked around the kitchen—clean, shiny, warm and welcoming. She’d already sliced fruit, checked the supplies, restocked the refrigerator. So everything sat ready for Carolee to prepare breakfast for the guests currently tucked in their rooms.
She’d finished her paperwork, checked all the doors, and made her rounds checking for dishes—or anything else—out of place. Duties done, she told herself, and still she wasn’t ready to tuck her own self in her third-floor apartment.
Instead she poured an indulgent glass of wine and did a last circle through The Lobby, switching off the chandelier over the central table with its showy summer flowers.
She moved through the arch, gave the front door one last check before she turned toward the stairs. Her fingers trailed lightly over the iron banister.
She’d already checked The Library, but she checked again. It wasn’t anal, she told herself. A guest might have slipped in for a glass of Irish or a book. But the room was quiet, settled like the rest.
She glanced back. She had guests on this floor. Mr. and Mrs. Vargas—Donna and Max—married twenty-seven years. The night at the inn, in Nick and Nora, had been a birthday gift for Donna from their daughter. And wasn’t that sweet?
Her other guests, a floor up in Wesley and Buttercup, chose the inn for their wedding night. She liked to think the newlyweds, April and Troy, would take lovely, lasting memories with them.
She checked the door to the second-level porch, then on impulse unlocked it and stepped out into the night.
With her wine, she crossed the wide wood deck, leaned on the rail. Across The Square, the apartment above Vesta sat dark—and empty now that Avery had moved in with Owen Montgomery. Hope could admit—to herself anyway—that she missed looking over and knowing her friend was right there, just across Main.
But Avery was exactly where she belonged, Hope decided, with Owen, her first and, as it turned out, her last boyfriend.
Talk about sweet.
And she’d help plan a wedding—May bride, May flowers—right there in The Courtyard, just as Clare’s had been this past spring.
Thinking of it, Hope looked down Main toward the bookstore. Clare’s Turn The
Page had been a risk for a young widow with two children and another on the way. But she’d made it work. Clare had a knack for making things work. Now she was Clare Montgomery, Beckett’s wife. And when winter came, they’d welcome a new baby to the mix.
Odd, wasn’t it, that her two friends had lived right in Boonsboro for so long, and she’d relocated only the year—not even a full year yet—before. The new kid in town.
Now, of the three of them, she was the only one still right here, right in the heart of town.
Silly to miss them when she saw them nearly every day, but on restless nights she could wish, just a little, they were still close.
So much had changed, for all of them, in this past year.
She’d been perfectly content in Georgetown, with her home, her work, her routine. With Jonathan, the cheating bastard.
She’d had good, solid plans, no rush, no hurry, but solid plans. The Wickham had been her place. She’d known its rhythm, its tones, its needs. And she’d done a hell of a job for the Wickhams and their cheating bastard son, Jonathan.
She’d planned to marry him. No, there’d been no formal engagement, no concrete promises, but marriage and future had been on the table.
She wasn’t a moron.
And all the time—or at least in the last several months—they’d been together, with him sharing her bed, or her sharing his, he’d been seeing someone else. Someone from his more elevated social strata, you could say, Hope mused with lingering bitterness. Someone who wouldn’t work ten- and twelve-hour days—and often more—to manage the exclusive hotel, but who’d stay there—in its most elaborate suite, of course.
No, she wasn’t a moron, but she’d been far too trusting and humiliatingly shocked when Jonathan told her he would be announcing his engagement—to someone else—the next day.
Humiliatingly shocked, she thought again, particularly as they’d been naked and in her bed at the time.
Then again, he’d been shocked, too, when she’d ordered him to get the hell out. He genuinely hadn’t understood why anything between them should change.
That single moment ushered in a lot of change.
Now she was Inn BoonsBoro’s innkeeper, living in a small town in Western Maryland, a good clip from the bright lights of the big city.
She didn’t spend what free time she had planning clever little dinner parties, or shopping in the boutiques for the perfect shoes for the perfect dress for the next event.
Did she miss all that? Her go-to boutique, her favorite lunch spot, the lovely high ceilings and flower-framed little patio of her own town house? Or the pressure and excitement of preparing the hotel for visits from dignitaries, celebrities, business moguls?
Sometimes, she admitted. But not as often as she’d expected to, and not as much as she’d assumed she would.
Because she had been content in her personal life, challenged in her professional one, and the Wickham had been her place. But she’d discovered something in the last few months. Here, she wasn’t just content, but happy. The inn wasn’t just her place, it was home.
She had her friends to thank for that, and the Montgomery brothers along with their mother. Justine Montgomery had hired her, on the spot. At the time Hope hadn’t known Justine well enough to be surprised by her quick offer. But she did know herself, and continued to be surprised at her own fast, impulsive acceptance.
Zero to sixty? More like zero to ninety and still going.
She didn’t regret the impulse, the decision, the move.
Fresh starts hadn’t been in the plan, but she was good at adjusting plans. Thanks to the Montgomerys, the lovingly—and effortfully—restored inn was now her home and her career.
She wandered the porch, checking the hanging planters, adjusting—minutely—the angle of a bistro chair.
“And I love every square inch of it,” she murmured.
One of the porch doors leading out from Elizabeth and Darcy opened. The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the night air.
Someone else was restless, Hope thought. Then again, she didn’t know if ghosts slept. She doubted if the spirit Beckett had named Elizabeth for the room she favored would tell her if she asked. Thus far Lizzy hadn’t deigned to speak to her inn-mate.
Hope smiled at the term, sipped her wine.
“Lovely night. I was just thinking how different my life is now, and all things considered, how glad I am it is.” She spoke in an easy, friendly way. After all, the research she and Owen had done—so far—on their permanent guest had proven Lizzy—or Eliza Ford, when she’d been alive—was one of Hope’s ancestors.
Family, to Hope’s mind, ought to be easy and friendly.
“We have newlyweds in W&B. They look so happy, so fresh and new somehow. The couple in N&N are here celebrating her fifty-eighth birthday. They don’t look new, but they do look happy, and so nice and comfortable. I like giving them a special place to stay, a special experience. It’s what I’m good at.”
Silence held, but Hope could feel the presence. Companionable, she realized. Oddly companionable. Just a couple of women up late, looking out at the night.
“Carolee will be here early. She’s doing breakfast tomorrow, and I have the morning off. So.” She lifted her glass. “Some wine, some introspection, some feeling sorry for myself circling around to realizing I have nothing to feel sorry for myself about.” With a smile, Hope sipped again. “So, a good glass of wine.
“Now that I’ve accomplished all that, I should get to bed.”
Still she lingered a little longer in the quiet summer night, with the scent of honeysuckle drifting around her.
***
When Hope came down in the morning, the scent was fresh coffee, grilled bacon, and, if her nose didn’t deceive her, Carolee’s apple cinnamon pancakes. She heard easy conversation in The Dining Room. Donna and Max, talking about poking around town before driving home.
Hope went down the hall, circled to the kitchen to see if Carolee needed a hand. Justine’s sister had her bright blond hair clipped short for summer, with the addition of flirty bangs over her cheerful hazel eyes. They beamed at Hope even as she wagged a finger.
“What are you doing down here, young lady?”
“It’s nearly ten.”
“And your morning off.”
“Which I spent—so far—sleeping until eight, doing yoga, and putzing.” She helped herself to a mug of coffee, closed her own deep brown eyes as she sipped. “My first cup of the day. Why is it always the best?”
“I wish I knew. I’m still trying to switch to tea. My Darla’s on a health kick and doing her best to drag me along.” Carolee spoke of her daughter with affection laced with exasperation. “I really like our Titania and Oberon blend. But . . . it’s not coffee.”
“Nothing is except coffee.”
“You said it. She can’t wait for the new gym to open. She says if I don’t sign up for yoga classes, she’s signing me up and carting me over there.”
“You’ll love yoga.” Hope laughed at the doubt—and anxiety—on Carolee’s face. “Honest.”
“Hmmm.” Carolee lifted the dishcloth again, went back to polishing the granite countertop. “The Vargases loved the room, and as usual the bathroom—starring the magic toilet—got raves. I haven’t heard a peep out of the newlyweds yet.”
“I’d be disappointed in them if you had.” Hope brushed at her hair. Unlike Carolee, she was experimenting with letting it grow out of the short, sharp wedge she’d sported the last two years. The dark, glossy ends hit her jaw now, just in between enough to be annoying.
“I’m going to go check on Donna and Max, see if they want anything.”
“Let me do it,” Hope said. “I want to say good morning anyway, and I think I’ll run down to TTP, say hi to Clare while it’s still my morning off.”
“I saw her last night at book club. She’s got the cutest baby bump. Oh, I’ve got plenty of batter if they want more pancakes.”
“I’ll let them know.”
Once she’d satisfied herself that her guests were happy, she started back upstairs to grab her purse—and ran into the newlyweds as they entered from the rear porch.