by Meg Tilly
The next thing Mick knew, Sarah was on her knees, too, her arms wrapped around his neck, her mouth on his, passionate and tender all at once. “Yes,” she murmured, kissing his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his eyelids. “Yes. Yes. A million yeses. I love you so much, Mick, sometimes I think my heart is going to explode.” And then her warm mouth found his again.
The bathroom door flung open. “Why are you guys crying and kneeling on the floor?” And there was Lilly standing in the doorway.
Sarah stretched out her arm, and Lilly pattered over and nestled into the hug. “We’re crying because we are happy,” Sarah said. “Mick has asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”
“Does that mean you would be my daddy?” Lilly’s buttercup face tilted back so she could see him.
Mick’s gaze captured Sarah’s, wanting so much, but taking his cue from her. Sarah smiled softly and gave a slight nod. Mick let out the breath he was holding. “I would be”—his voice had gone gruff with emotion—“so honored for you to be my little girl.”
“Good. I’d like that,” Lilly said, as if life were that simple. And sometimes it was. Then she leaned her tiny body against the two of them and plopped her thumb into her mouth. And somehow, at that moment, kneeling on the wet bathroom floor, his arms around his new family, he felt like he had come full circle and it was the absolutely perfect place to have gotten engaged.
* * *
* * *
Two hours later the limo pulled up in front of the theater. The red carpet was rolled out, cameras were flashing as the stars posed for the paparazzi and the press. Farther down the line were the camera crews from the entertainment channels. “You ready?” Mick asked. Sarah nodded, her eyes warm with love. She looked sensational in a midnight-blue silk sheath dress she had purchased on a shopping trip with Lilly and Jane. It clung to her curves and accentuated her lean body and her endless legs. Her hair no longer looked like a lawn mower had rolled over her head while she was sleeping. The Soho hair salon had transformed it into a chic pixie cut with an edge. She was wearing the diamond opera necklace he’d purchased at Tiffany & Co. Sarah had tied it in a knot, which bumped gently between her breasts as the long, looped strand of diamonds swayed and sparkled. Mick’s gaze traveled to the two rose-gold slender bangles and the delicate whisper-thin diamond one on her elegant left wrist. His gaze traveled farther past her healing hand, to the brilliant flawless 3.2 carat diamond on her ring finger, which seemed to float above the simple platinum band, twinkling and sparkling at him, promising family and happiness and forever. He had planned to set the stage for the proposal: music, rose petals, chocolates, and champagne . . . He shook his head and smiled. The best-made plans laid low by a simple question.
“How about you, Auntie Jane?” Sarah’s voice pulled Mick’s attention back to the present. “Are you ready to face the madding crowd?”
Jane’s beatific smile included both of them. “Let the games begin.” The chauffeur got out, rounded the car, and opened the door. The second Mick exited, the cameras started flashing and the shouting began. “Mick!” “Mick Talford!” “Look over here!” He ignored them and helped first Jane and then Sarah, his wife-to-be, out of the limo. The two women slipped their hands through his crooked arms. He could feel the gentle weight of them resting against the black silk of his Tom Ford Shelton suit.
“Mick, my man!” His producer Paul rushed over, grabbed Mick’s face, and standing on tiptoes, managed to lay a loud kiss on each cheek. The camera flashed.
“Again!” the photographers cried. “Look this way!”
“Don’t even,” Mick said to Peterson, who was starting to rise onto his tiptoes again. Peterson shrugged good-naturedly. “Paul, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Sarah Rainsford, and her aunt, Jane Clarke.”
“Harris,” Jane said. “I’ve decided to reclaim my maiden name.”
“Hello, ladies,” Peterson said, sweeping into a Shakespearian bow. “Paul Peterson at your service. You’ve snagged a good one.” He gave Sarah a wink and a nudge. “Never thought I’d see Mick Talford, the bad boy of Hollywood, settling down. Speaking of . . .” He turned back to Mick. “You’re never gonna believe my good fortune. I’m in the clear! The police got a confession out of some guy in New York. Thank God. I’ve been dealing with an absolute nightmare while you wiled the days away on a fuckin’ vacation.” He turned to Jane. “Excuse my French.” His eyes widened as he took her in. “Hey, Mickster! How come you get two beautiful ladies on your arm and I’ve got none?” He looped his arm through Jane’s and gazed admiringly into her eyes. “Pure East Coast class, born and bred. That’s what I’m missing in my life. Are you married, sweetheart?” Jane shook her head, her eyes twinkling. Her lip caught between her teeth as if she were holding back laughter.
Sarah was nestled next to Mick. He could feel the suppressed laughter shaking her slender frame. “Hmm . . . Don’t think he’s quite what Auntie Jane had in mind for her new beginning,” Sarah murmured.
“And you’re the perfect height, too!” Peterson continued happily. “I need an old broad. I’m so damned tired of chasing after women half my age and twice as tall as me. Always come home empty-handed, with blue balls and a crick in my neck.” That comment was the tipping point that broke the dam, and Sarah and Jane burst into laughter. There was a frenzy of flashes from behind the area cordoned off with a red velvet rope.
After the laughter subsided, the four of them walked the red carpet together, and many posed photos were taken, both before the screening and at the after-party, while Jane’s sons futilely attempted to shield their “delicate” mother from Peterson’s avid attentions.
* * *
* * *
The pouch arrived from the studio while Mick and Sarah were lounging lazily in bed, enjoying breakfast in bed, buttery croissants with raspberry jam, hot coffee, and yogurt with fresh fruit and granola. Lilly was bouncing around the room describing in great detail every millisecond of the plot of Frozen. “Umm . . .” Mick said, only half listening as he slit open the pouch and pulled out the trades, clippings of reviews, and the overnight box office numbers and flipped through them, scanning the contents. Retribution was dominating, was more than double that of the closest competitor. If the momentum carried through the weekend, his movie would break box office opening-weekend records. Not bad, Mick thought, and for the first time ever he discovered he could enjoy the ride without worrying about when the inevitable wall would hit. Why is that? He glanced over at Sarah, who was listening to her daughter’s recital with a contented smile on her face, and suddenly he knew why he had enjoyed last night so much. Because it’s not all you have. Sarah loved him for the man he was, warts and all. Lilly did, too. Neither of them had seen his movies before they had found him worthy of their love. He had a life outside of making films, a steady ballast in the storm, and it made a world of difference. Mick was gathering the clippings. His thoughts had already turned to their plans for the day. Jane’s son Daniel had called, thanked Mick again for inviting them to Retribution, and then asked to speak with Sarah. When Sarah had hung up the phone, he knew she had gotten good news because joy was radiating from every pore of her body. While decluttering their parents’ New York apartment so it could be put on the market, Daniel and Stephan had discovered a floor safe in their father’s office, hidden under a rug beneath the desk. Inside were Sarah’s files, her missing ID, and labeled keys to the Rainsford family properties.
Sarah didn’t even have to ask. She just looked at him with glowing eyes, and he picked up the phone and pushed their return flight to LA. So instead of heading to the airport, they would be tromping around Sarah’s childhood homes. Mick started to slide the clippings back into the pouch when Sarah’s hand alighted on his. “What’s this?” she asked, nestling close, peeking over his shoulder.
“It’s a photo of Auntie Jane,” Lilly piped up as she clambered onto the bed.
“It certainly is,” sa
id Sarah, grinning, as she tucked her daughter into the crook of her arm.
“And there you are, Mommy. You look so pretty. Daddy does, too. But why did that funny-looking man squeeze into your picture? Do you think he’s a leprechaun in disguise?” And suddenly Mick and Sarah were laughing again, because out of all of the photos the press could have used, the photo that ended up gracing the entertainment pages was Mick, Sarah, and Jane, their heads thrown back in hoots of laughter, Peterson looking like a puzzled little gnome, scratching the fringe of hair above his ear with a bemused expression on his face.
“Anything is possible,” Mick said, still chuckling. “I’m living proof of that.”
Lilly looked at him, her eyes widening. “You’re magic?”
“No, sweetheart,” he said, ruffling Lilly’s hair affectionately as he smiled at Sarah over Lilly’s head. “But I feel”—he paused, emotion, gratitude welling up—“like I’ve stepped into a fairy-tale world, complete with the family I didn’t know I longed for. A life I didn’t know to wish for. I am such a lucky bugger, and I promise never to take the blessing of you for granted.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to start off by thanking my readers, my Cozy Tea Timers, and all the librarians and booksellers for your support. Thank you for taking a chance on me and my books, for putting my books in readers’ hands, for writing reviews and sharing my offerings with other like-minded readers. I put my heart into my writing, and the kindness you have shown fills me with gratitude. Thank you.
One of the enormous blessings of recent years is the friendships I have been gifted with while writing in this genre that I’ve read for decades. And yes, I felt like I already knew these authors through their wonderful books long before I met them in person. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined these heroes of mine would become personal friends who would help guide and advise me through these new-to-me waters. My heartfelt love and thanks to Mary Bly/Eloisa James, Jayne Ann Krentz/Jayne Castle/Amanda Quick, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Christina Dodd, Mariah Stewart, and Jill Shalvis.
Speaking of friendships, thank you, Cissy Hartley, Susan Simpson from Writerspace, and Nancy Berland at NBPR, for all that you do on my behalf, for the shared laughs and meals, and for helping blow up and deflate all those air mattresses at Book Lovers Con! All of us sweating like dogs as we stomped, rolled, and laughed our guts out trying to get the air out of those damned things! Thank you to Degan and Celeste as well.
To my brilliant editors Kerry Donovan and Cindy Hwang, thank you so much! The Runaway Heiress is so much better because of your insights and editorial questions and comments. I’d also like to thank the rest of the team at Jove/Penguin Random House, including Michelle Kasper and Mary Geren for catching the multitude of slipups that had snuck past me, and the design crew. A shout-out to Katie Anderson for her art direction and Jeff Miller for his design. They created such a gorgeous cover for The Runaway Heiress that it stopped my heart. And thank you to George Towne for the great interior design. I am grateful for the marketing and publicity expertise of Erin Galloway, Jin Yu, Jessica Brock, Stephanie Felty, and Fareeda Bullert, who sort out the battle plan to get eyes on my books. My thanks also to Iris McElroy and Leeza Watstein at PRH Audio for creating the wonderful audio recording of my books for those who prefer to experience the worlds I create through sound.
Special thanks to my agents, Kim Witherspoon and Jessica Mileo at InkWell Management, for your encouragement and help with this manuscript. When Mick started rolling out on the page, I was a little surprised, to say the least. And how the heck were my readers going to be able to follow a heroine who had three different names? I sent you the first pages, wondering if I should toss this unruly pair in the garbage heap or keep going. Luckily, you both voted for the latter, with a few helpful comments and tweaks. You gave me confidence, shored me up, and I am so glad, because I really, really, really love this book!
And last but not least, my love and thanks to my husband, Don, and my family and lifelong friends who fill my heart and day-to-day life with thanksgiving and joy.
Thank you, all!
Much love,
Meg xo
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1
Maggie Harris had her cell phone jammed against her right ear, a finger stuffed in her left, but still, Brett’s voice was an indistinct murmur. “Sorry, honey. Could you please speak a little louder? It’s kind of noisy in here.”
That was an understatement. The club was packed with writhing, sweaty bodies undulating to the pounding pulse of the music, not to mention the shrieking laughter of her eight bridesmaids and assorted female family members and friends.
Maggie felt a tug on her arm. It was Carol Endercott from the office, who had been knocking back shooters since they had arrived an hour ago. Maggie didn’t know her well, but the woman’s husband had walked out on her and their kid after ten years of wedded bliss. Probably not the best person to invite to one’s bachelorette party; however, Carol had overheard Maggie and Sarah making plans and Maggie hadn’t had the heart not to include her.
“Magsters,” Carol slurred, leaning close, stumbling slightly. “Come on, girl, off za phone. It’s pardy time!” She wore a big, sloppy smile, her mascara was smeared, and wisps of frizzy blond hair clung to her perspiring face. “Let’s have fuuun!” she bellowed like an elephant in heat.
Maggie held up a finger. One moment, Carol, she mouthed. It’s Brett.
“Ooooh,” Carol said, throwing up her hands and tiptoeing backward, eyes wide, like a cartoon character removing herself from a bomb site. “The luuuvebirds. I bettah give you some privacy, seeing as how yer talkin’ to za fabulous Mr. Nolan!”
“Yes, well . . .” Maggie smiled at Carol. “Thanks. I think I’ll just . . .” She tipped her head toward the bathrooms and started moving past Carol.
“Good idea!” Carol said, giving Maggie a crazy-hard nudge in the ribs and an attempt at a wink. “I’ll tell the gang you’re in za potski having phone sex, so they won’t barge in at an inopportune moment,” she bleated, and lurched off.
“Jeez,” Maggie said, watching her leave. “I am very grateful not to have a drinking problem.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing, Brett. Hang on a second,” Maggie said. She started weaving her way through the crowd.
Once she was in the restroom, she heaved a sigh of relief. It was cooler in there, almost peaceful. She could still hear the thump and roar of the music, but it was muffled. “Thank goodness,” she said. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” Brett said, his voice mostly clear, just a little static.
“What time is it?”
“Uh . . . ten fifteen. Look, babe, I wanted to—”
“Ten fifteen! Oh my gosh, we’ve only been here an hour? I’m pooped already. How long do you think I need to stay? Don’t want to be rude or anything. Everyone’s come from so far away. But I gotta say, this going to clubs, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, the meat-market behavior typical of these places? It’s not really me.” Maggie laughed. “Well, you know that better than anyone, don’t you? Honey, I am so glad we met.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“I can hardly wait until this is over. Maybe I can drop by after, if it’s not too late, and snuggle in bed with you. Oh my goodness, my feet are sore,” Maggie said, slipping off her heels, the polished concrete floor cool and soothing under her feet.
“That might be a problem.”
“I know, right? I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow! I don’t know why I let my sister talk me into those strappy, sparkly heels to finish off my wedding ensemble. I should have stuck with my original idea and bought those glittery Doc Martens. Nobody cares what you’re wearing underneath, and then I’d b
e comfort—”
“Margaret,” Brett cut in. “I need you to stop talking for a minute. Can you do that?”
“What?” Maggie’s breath caught in her chest. He’d used her formal name, and his voice sounded strange. “Are you all right? Is everything okay? You didn’t get in an accident, did you?”
“No, I’m fine. I just want to—”
“Oh, thank goodness!” A wave of relief rushed through her. “How horrible would that be—you having to hobble up the aisle in your handsome tux on a pair of crutches.”
“Can you shut up for a second? I’ve been trying to tell you something for the last five minutes, but you just keep jabbering on and on.”
Wait. Did Brett just tell me to shut up?
“I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching the last couple months,” Brett said. “And I just . . . I can’t do it.”
Maggie’s stomach lurched as her world, her happy-ever-after future, suddenly swerved off course. She felt both removed from her body and hyperaware of her surroundings, like she was an alien observing the events of her own life. The water dripping from the faucet, the beating of her heart, it all sounded loud, loud, loud. Her mouth tasted like chalk, throat constricted.
“Can’t . . . You can’t do what?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.
2
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Rosemund Harris asked. There were violet shadows under Maggie’s mother’s eyes, as if she, too, hadn’t been able to sleep for the last three nights.
“I’m totally fine, Mom.” Maggie managed a smile. She glanced at the departure display board. Good. Their flight to Tampa was on time. Another couple minutes and her parents would have no choice but to go through security.
Her sister, Eve, had taken the red-eye back to New York last night, and the plane’s departure had been delayed twice. While they’d waited, Eve had managed to extract a promise that Maggie would go on vacation with her. Who knew what kind of concessions her parents would’ve wiggled out of her had their flight been delayed.