He could hardly bear to look at her as emotion welled up inside him. “How long have you known?”
“A few weeks.”
“When I came to the flat?”
She nodded.
“When were you going to tell me?”
He had to ask, even though he knew how it would torment him to know how close he’d come to losing her and abandoning everything he loved for a misplaced sense of duty and a blind, selfish obsession with his own pain.
Then he looked at her, saw the anguish in her blue eyes, and knew he had to push his guilt aside again for both their sakes.
“Tom, I just couldn’t tell you that night, because if I had, you would have stayed.”
“You’re damn well right I would!” Seeing her face drop, he hugged her against him.
“I didn’t want to make you do anything. I loved you. I have for a long time, but I don’t want any man to stay with me out of pity or duty.”
He groaned out loud. To think he might have lost both of them… “Oh, sweetheart.”
“It was wrong, but you see, I didn’t know how you felt back then.”
“Having you and a baby is more, far more than I ever expected or deserved from life. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world, and I’m never going to let you go.”
He held her tightly, hoping she couldn’t see the tears in his eyes, and quietly waited for the scalding feeling of them to go away so he could look at her beautiful face and tell her again how much he loved her.
Epilogue
Eighteen months later
“Tom…”
“Um.”
“What was that noise last night?”
“What noise, Keira?”
“That flapping thing in the hut after you had…” She shivered with remembered desire. She couldn’t say out loud what he had been doing, but it had, partly, taken her mind off the noises. “That thud and the scurrying noise?”
Tom smiled as he helped her into the canoe. The river was a glassy mirror reflecting thatched-roof huts on stilts, and behind them the jungle swayed slowly in the thick, hot breeze.
“The flapping and the thuds were probably fruit bats hitting the wall. The scurrying was probably mice. Maybe you had a nightmare, and no wonder after what you got up to yesterday.”
Her lip jutted out.
“Ow!” She felt his fingers tap lightly on the small of her back. The tattoo she’d had the day before had hurt like hell. In fact, it had had to be turned into a teeny tiny flower, not the gorgeous butterfly she’d intended.
“I don’t believe you about the mice,” she said, laughing. “No mouse in England ever made a racket like that. You’re just teasing me.”
He squeezed her hand. “I decided discretion was the better part of valour. Now smile,” he said, “and wave.”
Keira lifted her hand as they waved their farewells to the villagers they’d been staying with for the past week. When they’d arrived, palm fronds and oranges had adorned the balcony of their guesthouse, and there were coconuts, heavy with sweet water, waiting for them. She could see why Tom loved these people, this place, and she wanted their son to share it.
“I wish Henry could see all this…” she said.
“He will. One day,” said Tom firmly, feeling that fierce twinge of joy and pain that struck him at unexpected moments. He was happy he’d shared this place with Keira, even if it meant they’d had to leave little Henry with his grandmother and uncles for three long weeks. He’d wanted so much for his wife to share this experience, and she’d been incredible with the children as he’d supervised the new medics he’d helped to fund. Now, like her, he ached to be with his baby son again.
He turned to Keira and saw her eyes, knowing she was thinking exactly the same as him. Then he cradled her beautiful face in his hands and kissed her, long and deep, as the canoe wobbled away from the bank.
About the Author
Phillipa Ashley read English at Oxford University before working as a freelance copywriter and journalist and is the author of five romantic novels. Her first book, Decent Exposure (Dating Mr. December in the US), topped the Play.com romance charts and won the UK Romantic Novelists Association New Writers Award 2007. It was later adapted into a Lifetime movie called “Twelve Men of Christmas”, starring Kristin Chenoweth and Josh Hopkins. Phillipa lives in a Staffordshire village with her husband and daughter but also spends part of the year in the English Lake District.
www.phillipa-ashley.com
www.facebook.com/phillipa.ashley
Follow her on Twitter @PhillipaAshley
The heart takes no prisoners.
Secrets and Seduction
© 2011 Jane Beckenham
The only emotion Leah Grainger can muster when thinking of her dead husband is relief. Until she learns his gambling debt threatens her beloved farm and the child she wanted to protect from the rootless existence she grew up with.
The last straw? Her husband’s brother demands a meeting. When she charges into his office to tell him she won’t let another Grainger screw up her life, the startlingly handsome, former oil rig wildcatter goes for the jugular. He’s claimed legal guardianship of her daughter, bought her mortgage…and he’s moving in.
The final email Mac received from his suicidal brother blamed Leah for everything. If it’s the last thing he does, he plans to protect his niece. Even if it means using his millions to gain the upper hand. And hardening his heart against the beautiful Leah’s protests of innocence.
Yet something seems off. Leah is nothing like the uncaring woman his brother described. She’s warm, loving…and when a new threat to her child surfaces and she reaches out to him in need, his body won’t let him say no. Even when her last secret forces him to make a decision that exposes his most closely guarded possession. His heart.
Warning: Contains tug-your-heart love, raise-the-roof lust, a marriage of convenience and hot sex that will give a whole new meaning to the word “wildcatter.”
Enjoy the following excerpt for Secrets and Seduction:
Mac Grainger leant against the porch railing, arms folded across his broad chest. He stared at her, full mouth curling at the corners.
Leah swallowed back the sudden lump in her throat.
He’d changed from the suit he’d worn at his office into a pair of jeans and Polo shirt, making him appear deceptively approachable. Almost—because Leah knew Mac Grainger wasn’t a man to toy with.
A few yards behind him, parked beneath the copse of cabbage trees, was a red Ferrari. Expensive, classic, with a hint of the devil. She shouldn’t have expected anything different.
Leah backed up a step, hoping the shadow cast from the overhanging trees would hide the shock she felt heating her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
“Exactly what I said I would. I take my role as uncle seriously.”
The bush she’d been holding slid from her grip and landed at her feet. “You can’t just walk in here any time you like. This is my property. I’ll…”
He stepped away from the porch and took a few steps toward her. “I’m not going away, Leah. We need to talk.”
She glanced to the house. Charlee, please stay asleep. “Not now. Not here,” she countered.
He came another step closer. “You can’t run away.”
Could he read her mind?
“You don’t get a choice, Leah,” he reminded her.
Choice. That word highlighted their differences. Rich versus stone broke.
“We can talk here,” she prevaricated.
“We could, but we won’t.”
“Pardon?”
“Look, why make this harder than it has to be?”
“It’s already hard. I don’t want you here.”
“And I told you I’m not going away. So I guess we’re at an impasse.”
For the count of several heartbeats, his dark eyes held her captive. He wasn’t about to budge. Somehow she had to get him on her side and appeal to his better nature.
Of that, Leah wasn’t certain. He was, after all, Curtis’s brother.
Steadying her nerves, she exhaled a choppy breath and wiped her hands down her jeans. She hooked her gaze with his, tilting her chin up a tad higher. “Five minutes. That’s all. Then you go.”
She jumped off the back of the pickup and walked right past him, refusing to offer a whiff of weakness, even though resignation soured in her stomach and desperation constricted every breath. She took the front steps two at a time up to the wooden porch, where she peeled off her gumboots, entered her house and switched the light on in the entry hall.
A crackle of electricity exploded above her, a current shooting from her fingertips and up her arm. “Ouch.” She yanked her hand back. The bulb above flickered momentarily, then a loud popping sound bounced off the walls, and the bulb died, sending the hall into darkness. “Damn.”
“Problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she snapped. Darn it. How many more bulbs would blow? “I might as well take out shares in the company that makes those blasted bulbs,” she grumbled. “It’s an old house and dates back to the eighteen hundreds. There’s bound to be…problems,” she said, unsure why she was trying to explain the shortcomings of her dilapidated house.
“So get them fixed,” he countered.
If only it were that easy.
“Follow me.” She beckoned to Mac and led him down the hallway and into the welcoming kitchen-cum-dining-and-lounge area, grateful no more bulbs exploded overhead.
Leah knew he followed. She felt him right behind her, just as she’d done when she’d left his office. It was a sensation that was disconcerting and scarily exciting at the same time. Mac Grainger didn’t exactly frighten her, though she was uncertain what he really knew or didn’t know about Charlee. But she did, however, fear his power and what he could take away.
A coffee, a chat, then she’d see him out. Easy.
Confident she could cope with at least that, she washed her hands at the sink, wiped them on the towel she kept close by and busied herself in the kitchen. She reached for two mugs from a cupboard and, without asking him, tossed a spoonful of coffee into each. “Sugar?” she queried, holding a sugar bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.
He shook his head.
He stood at the entrance to her tiny kitchen, so close that heat burned off him. Her mouth dried, and she slid her tongue across parted lips, only to catch him watching her like a falcon focused on its prey.
“You don’t have to stand guard, Mr. Grainger. I’m not running.”
“Yet,” he answered smoothly.
Nerves spun taut, her fragile control tilted precariously. She directed her attention to the steam rising from the kettle, though her awareness of him burgeoned as she tried desperately to remember what, if anything, Curtis had said about him. Though in truth, her husband’s brother had barely rated a mention during their marriage, and while Curtis had been good-looking, charming her easily, Mac doubled the quota in the good-looks department. She peered at him through the wispy steam rising from the kettle.
He was tall, imposing and sexy as hell, and even though it shouldn’t, her heart did a flurry of flip-flops.
Don’t let him charm you, Leah!
The kettle’s reedy whistle echoed across the silence, breaking her thoughts, which was just as well. Those sorts of thoughts weren’t a good idea, and she chastised herself for even noticing him.
She filled both cups and handed one to him, holding hers with both hands so he wouldn’t see them shaking. She walked right past him and back into her tiny lounge and stood beside the rough-hewn table. “I’m not letting you walk in here on a whim, so you can get that idea right out of your head, Mr. Grainger.”
He took a sip from his coffee, his expression unreadable. “Tough. Curtis asked me to look out for her.”
Leah’s heart constricted. “Why?”
“Because I’m his brother and Charlee’s uncle.”
Focusing on keeping her voice calm and controlled, she put her cup down on the table. “And I was his wife. As far as I’m aware, you’ve never been around, too busy for family. Curtis died weeks ago. Where were you then?”
Instead of answering her, he scanned the room, and Leah found herself bristling, knowing what he saw: the faded and peeled paintwork, a tired house in need of repair.
She challenged him with an upward flick of her chin. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.”
His gaze returned to her, his mouth severe. “Not quite.”
“Pardon?”
“Running this place must take a lot of time, energy and money.” He pointed toward her mail scattered on the table. The mail she didn’t want to read. Bills she couldn’t pay.
“I’m not complaining.”
“Borrowing money, spending it when you know you can’t pay it back.” He wagged a finger at her as if she were a spoilt child. “Tut, tut.”
A sting of heat curled across her skin. “That’s not true.”
“I’m no fool. You’re Curtis’s wife.”
“His widow,” she corrected.
“He said you never had enough money.”
Leah met Mac’s gaze full on. Big mistake. He stepped closer. Not so close that he touched her, but still too close, his expression unyielding and full of condemnation.
But it was her reaction to him that scared her the most. The awareness that fired up all over again. She shook her head, willing away thoughts that had no right being there, and backed up.
“I’ve seen the loan documents, Leah. Your signature is quite clear, and according to an interesting conversation I had with Curtis’s solicitor, your big problem runs into five digits.”
Leah’s shoulders slumped, and Mac bit out a harsh laugh, his tone as arrogant and brutal as the expression he wore. “Finally, I’ve got your attention.”
“You have no right to nose into something that doesn’t concern you.”
“You’re wrong. As Charlee’s uncle, I’ve made it my business. I promised Curtis to look out for his daughter.”
“His… Curtis barely registered her existence.”
Mac frowned, but even her uttering the truth didn’t swerve him from his self-proclaimed purpose. “I always keep my promises. Your husband insinuated certain…allegations.”
Her heartbeat skidded to a standstill. “Rubbish.” But she had to ask. “About what?”
“That you’re not a fit mother.”
Leah threw her hands up, then shoved back the hair that had fallen across her eyes. Her palms were sweaty, and a sticky sheen of nervous perspiration slicked across her pores. “That’s ridiculous. Curtis was sick and not in his right mind.”
“That’s your story, but don’t worry, I intend to find out the truth.”
She’s a dreamer. He’s a realist. Somewhere in the middle is love—and danger.
Where Dreams Begin
© 2011 Phoebe Conn
After her husband’s death, Catherine Brooks is ready to go back to work—almost. She volunteers at a shelter for homeless teens, Lost Angel, thinking it will ease her return to the classroom. There’s nothing easy about irascible shelter manager Luke Starns, though. His cool detachment rubs her the wrong way, especially when he warns her not to get too attached. Still, the soft heart she senses beneath his stern exterior keeps her coming back—and his face pervades her thoughts.
It’s not that Luke finds Catherine’s easy charm and free spirit unappealing—quite the opposite. Life on the streets is hard, and discipline is the only ladder that’ll get and keep these kids out of trouble. He knows what it’s like to care too much, only to have the rug yanked away. He tells himself he’s simply trying to save her the same heartache.
Yet Catherine has him rethinking his approach to life. Just as he lets his guard down, though, a murderer begins stalking the mean streets near the shelter, putting everything they care about at risk. Including their lives.
Warning: This book
contains a gritty setting, a serial killer in a red satin dress, and a couple who think sizzling sex is the only kind worth having.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Where Dreams Begin:
On Wednesday, Catherine visited the charity thrift shop and dropped off the clothes and shoes she and Joyce had sorted. By Thursday morning, her garden looked beautiful, and she’d run out of excuses to stay away from Lost Angel. She drove on over to Hollywood, but she was determined to avoid Luke Starns and felt certain he would do his best to avoid her.
Pam again put Catherine to work opening the mail, and when she finished, she carried the stack of new flyers over to the hall to post. She’d nearly completed the task when a slender girl in a fuzzy pink sweater and tight jeans came up to look over her shoulder. Catherine turned to smile and found the girl had the remarkable prettiness of Alice in Wonderland, with startling blue eyes and long, blonde hair.
“Hello,” Catherine greeted her. “I hope if you recognize anyone, you’ll encourage them to call home.”
The girl shrugged and slid her hands into her hip pockets. “I don’t see anyone I know.”
Like so many of the teens Catherine had seen on Friday, the girl looked painfully young. Catherine doubted she would have approached her if she hadn’t wanted to talk, but uncertain how best to initiate a conversation, she adjusted the angle of a bright pink flyer and kept quiet.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” the girl asked without glancing Catherine’s way.
“Yes, I am.” Catherine offered her name as she posted another flyer, but she had a lengthy wait before the girl responded.
“My name’s Violet. I just come here sometimes to look at the books, but I didn’t find anything good today.”
Catherine had noticed the sagging shelves which contained the center’s paperback library. “I’ve got quite a collection of paperbacks at home,” she said. “What sort of books do you like?”
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