Unexpected Attraction

by Stella MacLean

  “We will,” she said, overcome with all the feelings of love and caring racing through her for this man.

  “Let’s get to the market before it closes. I’ve got a recipe in mind that I know you’ll really enjoy,” he said enthusiastically. “We can share a bottle of champagne.”

  “Do your cats drink champagne?” she asked, the happiness he’d brought her bubbling over.

  His laughter filled the car. “They’d better not. I’ll lock them in the laundry room tonight. Should stop them from messing with us,” he said, taking her hand and kissing each finger slowly and deliberately, driving her crazy with desire.

  “We’d better get a move on,” she said, her voice low and husky in her ears.

  “I’ve got something else I want to ask you, but it can wait for the right moment,” he said as he started the car.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” he said.

  They left the school parking lot and drove through the tree-lined streets, kissing at every stoplight like a pair of teenagers.

  * * * * *

  Be sure to check out the books in

  Stella MacLean’s recent miniseries,

  LIFE IN EDEN HARBOR

  THE DOCTOR RETURNS

  TO PROTECT HER SON

  SWEET ON PEGGY

  All available now from

  Harlequin Superromance.

  And look for the next book

  by Stella MacLean, coming soon!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HER AMISH PROTECTORS by Janice Kay Johnson.

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  Her Amish Protectors

  by Janice Kay Johnson

  PROLOGUE

  HEARING HIM TALKING on the phone behind her, she risked opening her eyes a slit. Her best friend still looked back at her with the shock and vacancy of death, a line of blood drying where it had trickled from her mouth. Without moving, she could see only Colin’s legs and feet where he lay sprawled on creamy plush carpet. Carpet splashed with scarlet splotches, as was the glass-topped coffee table. Keenan, now...

  His fingers twitched. His shoulders rose and fell slightly with a breath. In. Out.

  Her terror swelled. If his father saw any hint of life, he’d pump another bullet into his eight-year-old son. He thought they were all dead—Paige, eleven-year-old Colin, Keenan and the baby of the family, six-year-old Molly.

  And Paige’s friend, who had happened to drop by this evening with a book of quilt patterns that Paige had wanted to look through. Wrong time, wrong place.

  Except, she’d managed to inch over when Damon’s back was turned so that she could shield Molly’s small body. Molly was breathing. Damon couldn’t be allowed to see. Once she’d laid a hand over the little girl’s mouth to stifle a moan.

  She ached to whisper reassurance to Keenan, who wasn’t within reach. To beg him to stay absolutely still.

  Every breath was agony, searing pain flaring from her abdomen. Blood had spurted when the bullet struck and she had gone down with that first shot. She vaguely remembered hearing Colin’s terrified scream. Damon had turned away to shoot his son and forgotten her. Probably, she thought dully, her wound would be fatal. But she desperately wanted Molly and Keenan to live. All three of them might survive if the police stormed the house soon.

  There’d been a bullhorn earlier, before Damon answered his cell phone. That could have been fifteen minutes ago, or two hours ago. She floated in a dreamlike state. Only the pain anchored her here.

  No. Not only pain. Molly and Keenan.

  It took an enormous effort to comprehend what Damon was saying.

  “Hell, no, I’m not going to let that bitch talk to you! If you don’t quit asking, that’s it. Do you hear me?” The savagely angry voice bore little resemblance to the smooth baritone she knew from phone calls and the times Paige had invited her to dinner with her family.

  Pause. “They’re with their mother. No, I’m not going to upset them by putting them on the phone, either.”

  They’re dead or dying. Paige is dead. Please, please. We need you.

  Time drifted. Occasionally, she heard him talking.

  “I lose my job and she’s going to leave me?”

  Molly was still breathing. Keenan...she wasn’t sure.

  Whoever was on the phone with Damon listened, sympathized, gave him all the time he wanted to air his furious grievances.

  While we die.

  She quit listening, quit peeking at a dying boy. She let herself float away.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “NOW, WE BOTH know you want that quilt.” The auctioneer had strolled down the aisle between folding chairs until he was only a few feet from one of the two bidders on a spectacular album quilt. “And for a cause this important, you can spend a little extra. Isn’t that right?” He thrust the microphone toward the woman next to the man holding the bid card.

  She giggled.

  Nadia Markovic held her breath. She’d put in a huge amount of work to make tonight’s charity auction at Brevitt House happen, and it was paying off beyond her wildest dreams. The ballroom in this restored pre–Civil War house was packed, and bidding had been lively on the least-coveted quilts, intense on the stars of the evening. Watching from beside the temporary stage, she felt giddy. Profound relief had struck when the trickle of first arrivals had appeared two hours earlier then had gathered strength, until her current ebullience made her wonder if she’d bob gently toward the ceiling any minute.

  “We’re at twenty-eight hundred dollars right now,” the auctioneer coaxed. “What do you say to twenty-nine hundred?”

  The poor guy glanced at the woman, sighed and raised his bid card again.

  The crowd roared.

  The other bidder’s number shot up.

  The silver-haired auctioneer, lean in his tuxedo and possessing a deep, powerful voice, looked around at the crowd. “Three thousand dollars, all for the victims of the recent tornadoes!”

  This time, he couldn’t persuade the second bidder to go on. He declared the album quilt sold to the gentleman holding bid number 203.

  Sturdy, middle-aged Katie-Ann Chupp, the Amish woman who had been Nadia’s assistant chair, exclaimed, “Three thousand dollars! Colleen will be so glad.”

  Colleen Hoefling was a superb quilter. Standing at the back of the room and smili
ng at what was presumably congratulations from others clustered in her vicinity, she did look pleased, but not surprised. Nadia had recently sold another of Colleen’s quilts through her shop, that one in the classic Checkers and Rails pattern, for $2,800.

  As the bidding began for a lap-size Sunshine and Shadows quilt, Nadia found herself trying to add up what they’d already earned but failed. She should have made notes in the catalog—

  A woman in the ballroom doorway signaled for her, and Nadia slipped out to the foyer where the reception and cashiers’ tables had been set up. The auction software program being used tonight was new to all of them. Nadia had entered the original information—the quilts, estimated values and the names and addresses of all registered bidders—which made her the de facto expert.

  A woman who had won the bidding on two quilts was trying to check out, but her name didn’t appear on the computer. Realizing the woman was an unexpected walk-in, Nadia added her to the software, took her money then printed a receipt.

  “Quite an event you’ve put on,” the woman said, smiling. “I don’t really need any more quilts, but one of those April tornadoes missed us by less than a mile. Could have hit our house.”

  Nadia thanked her again, realizing anew that she’d hardly had to sell the cause to the people who lived in northern Missouri. They saw the devastation, year after year.

  The good news was that at least a third of tonight’s attendees had come from outside Missouri, either as a way to help or because they were passionate collectors excited by the mix of antique and new quilts being offered tonight. The Amish-made were among the most prized.

  Nadia added the check to the gray metal lockbox. At her suggestion, they’d offered an express pay option, but surprisingly few auctiongoers had taken advantage of it. At charity events she’d helped with in Colorado, hardly anyone had paid cash. Here, apparently people were used to the fact that few Amish businesses accepted credit cards. The piles of actual cash already in the lockbox, much of it from the earlier sales tables, bemused her. It awakened something a tiny bit greedy, too. She itched to start counting the bills, even though the software would supply totals.

  Able to hear furious bidding on a queen-size quilt from an elderly Amish woman, Ruth Graber, Nadia lifted her head. She expected this one to surpass the $3,000 that had been the evening’s high so far. The Carpenter’s Square pattern was intriguing but not complex; it was the elaborate hand quilting with incredibly tiny stitches that made this one stand out.

  “Do you mind covering for me while I race to the bathroom?” one of the volunteer cashiers asked.

  Nadia smiled. “No, I’ll be glad to sit down for a minute.” With a sigh, she sank into the chair behind one of the three networked laptop computers, not so sure she’d be able to get up again.

  Of course, she’d have to make herself. Closing out and cleaning up after the auction would be a job in itself, all those display racks to be dismantled, chairs to be folded and stacked onto the rolling carts, the vast ballroom to be swept. It had to be pristine by morning. This gorgeous historic home was open to the public from 9:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. daily except Sundays. Tomorrow was Saturday.

  She couldn’t crash until she got home, however late that turned out to be. Lucky adrenaline was still carrying her.

  The cause was what mattered, of course—she’d seen for herself some of the devastation left in the paths of giant twisters. She had hoped, too, that her willingness to take on organizing the event would help earn her a place in this town that was her new home.

  And, okay, she was selfish enough to also hope that the success would bring in more business to A Stitch in Time, the fabric and quilt shop she had bought and was updating. If the quilters in Henness County adopted her and came first to her store both for their fabric and to offer their quilts on consignment, she would survive financially. Otherwise...she’d gone out way too far on a brittle limb when she moved to the county seat of Byrum in a part of the country she’d never been until she decided she needed to begin a new life.

  She had quickly discovered the local Amish kept a distance from everyone else—the Englischers—that was difficult to erase. Their goal was to live apart from the world, to keep themselves separate. But Nadia felt she was making friends among them now, Katie-Ann being one.

  Just then, Rachel Schwartz appeared, hurrying from the direction of the bathrooms. She was another Amish woman Nadia counted as a friend. When she saw Nadia, she headed toward her instead of the ballroom door. Tonight she wore a calf-length lilac dress and apron of a slightly darker shade as well as the gauzy white kapp that distinguished Amish women.

  “Have they gotten to Ruth’s quilt yet?”

  “They’re bidding on it right now,” Nadia said.

  A swell of applause coming from the ballroom made her realize she’d missed hearing a total for Ruth’s quilt. But the cashier beside her leaned closer. “Thirty-five hundred dollars! Boy, I wish I had that kind of money to throw around.”

  Nadia laughed. “I’m with you, but what a blessing so many people who do showed up tonight.”

  Rachel beamed. “Ja! Didn’t we tell you? Trust in God, you should.”

  Her Amish volunteers had all insisted that any endeavor was in God’s hands. They hadn’t insisted the night would therefore be a success, which was quite different. They’d all worked hard on making tonight happen, but they were unwilling to worry about the outcome. If a thunderstorm struck so that the auctiongoers stayed home, that would be God’s will. A person couldn’t be expected to understand His purpose, only to accept that He had a purpose.

  No thunderstorm, thank goodness.

  But Nadia only smiled. “You did tell me.”

  Rachel rushed toward the ballroom, brushing against a man who happened to be strolling out at just that minute.

  He drew Nadia’s immediate attention, in part because of his elegant dark suit, a contrast to what everyone else was wearing tonight. The Amish, of course, wore their usual garb. Otherwise, most of the people who’d come to bid or volunteer were dressed casually, some in khakis, some even in jeans.

  Along with being beautifully dressed—although he’d skipped the tie, leaving his crisp white shirt open at the neck—this guy personified tall, dark and handsome. His every move suggested leashed power. From a distance, his eyes appeared black, but as he approached she saw that they were a deep, espresso brown. And those eyes missed nothing. Nadia had caught occasional glimpses of him all evening, strolling or holding up a wall with one of those broad shoulders. His gaze swept the crowd ceaselessly.

  She had yet to meet him, but another volunteer had identified him when she asked. Byrum police chief Ben Slater was a Northerner, Jennifer Bronske had murmured, as if the fact was scandalous. From New Jersey. No one knew why he’d sought the job here or accepted it when it was offered.

  Apparently, Chief Slater felt an event of this size and importance demanded his watchful presence. Or else he was suspicious of all the outsiders. Who knew? She hadn’t had so much as a shoplifter in her store, but he might have been conditioned to expect the worst.

  His dark eyes met hers for the first time. It felt like an electrical shock, raising the tiny hairs on her arms. Nadia couldn’t imagine why she’d responded that way. His expression was so guarded, she didn’t have the slightest idea what he was thinking as he walked toward her.

  She was peripherally aware she wasn’t the only one transfixed by his approach. The other two cashiers were staring, too, although she couldn’t tear her own gaze from him long enough to tell if they were admiring a gorgeous male specimen, or frozen the way a small mammal is when a predator locks onto it. Nadia wasn’t even sure which she felt.

  He stopped on the other side of the table from her, his lips curved but his eyes remaining watchful. And he held out a hand. “Ms. Markovic, we haven’t met. I’m Ben Slater, chief of the Byru
m police department.”

  She focused on that hand, long-fingered and powerful enough to crush a man’s throat—and she knew what her reaction meant. That was a spike of fear she’d felt. When she made herself accept his handshake and looked into his eyes again, she saw a flicker that told her he hadn’t liked whatever he’d seen on her face.

  “Chief Slater. Several people have pointed you out,” she said pleasantly, suppressing her completely irrational response. The antipathy she felt toward law enforcement officers was one thing, this something else altogether. Although she had to wonder if he wore a holster beneath that perfectly fitted jacket. The sight of a handgun could send a shudder of remembered pain and terror through her. “Thank you for coming tonight. I don’t suppose you’re planning to bid on one of those quilts, are you?”

  She was pretty sure he was amused now. “As beautiful as they are,” he said, in a velvet deep voice, “I’m afraid I can’t bring myself to spend thousands of dollars on a bed covering.”

  “They’re more than that,” she protested. “They’re works of art.”

  “I won’t argue.” His smile was devastating in a lean, beautiful face. “Unfortunately, I don’t spend thousands of dollars for wall art, either.”

  “A Philistine,” she teased, even as she marveled at her daring.

  He laughed. “I’d call myself a man who lives on a modest paycheck.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Oh, well. I guess you’re excused, then.”

  “What about you? I didn’t see you bidding, either.”

  This time, she made a face. “I can’t afford what the quilts are going for, either. I do own several beautiful ones already, though.” She hesitated. “Actually, I’m a quilter. I donated one of the lap-size quilts that already sold. That was all I had time to do, what with getting a business up and running.”

  “The fabric store.”