“I may not be the writer here, but I did put a lot of thought into this.”
Curious, she unfolded the note and read it. It had only two words but there was a golden ring taped right beneath them.
Marry me.
She blinked. “I — ” Once upon a time she would have expected such words to fill her with panic and send her running. There was nothing like that now, only a thrilling sort of shiver down her spine and a feeling that everything was exactly as it should be now.
“Yeah … ?”
“I … I think you’re a very good writer,” she said finally in a voice that had gone all husky on her.
He kissed her shoulder, and then her lips. “I love you, Callie. In my whole life, you are the best chance I have ever taken.”
Her voice grew even thicker. “I love you, too.”
“So is that a yes?”
“Oh — yes,” she agreed with a slow-spreading smile. “Yes, it is.”
He took the ring from off of the note, and Callie held her left hand out to him. The ring slid on smoothly, and its single diamond sparkled in the sunlight.
Danny wrapped his hand around hers. “What do you think?”
“I think my mom is going to give me the biggest ‘I told you so’ in recorded history — ” Callie smiled at him, “ — when I tell her I’m going to marry Danny McCutcheon.”
About the Author
Christine S. Feldman writes both novels and feature-length screenplays, and she has placed in screenwriting competitions on both coasts. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her ballroom-dancing husband and their beagle.
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
(From Unattainable by Leslie P. Garcia)
Jovani Treviño slipped from the pickup, his boots thudding dully on the dry soil as he looked around carefully but not with particular unease. A crescent moon climbed up over the far side of the interstate, but here darkness allowed considerable isolation. Cars speeding by on the freeway wouldn’t notice him, and if they did, hopefully they’d avert their eyes, assuming someone needed to take a leak.
Only moments passed before a second, dark vehicle pulled in behind him. The driver switched off the headlights but left the parking lights on. Jovi reached into the cab and pulled the lever to open the hood then moved to the front of the truck. Seconds later the newcomer joined him, extending his hand briefly.
“Jovi.”
“Hey, Rick.” Almost immediately, both turned their attention to the engine.
“So — you gonna apply for the job at Nueva Brisa?” the newcomer asked.
“Tomorrow,” Jovi agreed, turning at a slight rustle in the weeds that framed the roadside clearing, then relaxing when he realized the noise couldn’t have come from anything large.
“Still jumping at shadows?” Rick shook his head. “We leave the job, but the edge never leaves.”
“You don’t let anyone leave,” Jovi retorted, slapping a mosquito seconds too late, and rubbing his arm. “Tell me why I said yes again.”
“Cause you’re one of the good guys, we pay well, and you get to be close to your mom while she gets back on her feet. It’s win-win, Jovi.”
“Cut the bull, friend. I left DEA because no one wins — the work’s important, but the war’s unwinnable, Rick.”
Rick Ortega shrugged his thin shoulders. “Maybe.”
“And this one smells.”
“Why?” He nudged Jovi with an elbow. “Cause we’re looking at some honey the locals call untouchable?”
“Unattainable.” Jovi motioned Ortega back and slammed the hood. “Your reasons for looking at this woman are shaky at best, and if I’m investigating her, I damn sure won’t be thinking about her looks.”
“Touchier than ever,” the DEA agent muttered.
“And in a week or two, when my plane lands in Florida — I’m done, Rick. No more arm-twisting, no favors. I’m serious.”
“Look, I know you mostly came until your mom beats her pneumonia — not so much to help us. But you’re perfect, Jovi — the border’s home to you, but you’ve been gone long enough you’re an outsider now.”
“Hell, I was always an outsider. Everywhere.”
“Whining isn’t your style, amigo,” Ortega chided. “You know how things are. No trust left — our side or theirs. The cartels are winning. For Christ’s sake, they’re slaughtering innocents on the streets a mile from here.” He jerked his head toward the tree-framed skyline. Behind those trees, the Rio Grande whispered its newly violent song to the night. “Check her out, that’s all. She worked for a major importer, but quit suddenly. Her father left her some money, but — ” He shook his head. “Something’s not right, buddy.”
Jovi glanced at him. “Because her father left money?”
“No. Because insurance aside, her father shouldn’t have had money to leave. The ranch is a joke — big property value, but no livestock except horses. On paper, he sold horses — horses we’re not real sure existed. Horses! No market for horses right now, going on back even before his death. The man went through a bitter divorce from the wife, yet got big bucks from the ex father-in-law, Lionel De Cordova.”
“De Cordova? Man!” The name surprised him. “But for all his sins, I never heard he trafficked.”
“We know some of the younger cousins do. Nobody’s tagged him, true. But the foreman you’re replacing? Arrested in Sinaloa several weeks ago. Arranging to drive a load to El Paso.”
“So she has to know?”
Ortega shrugged. “Hard to say. The man’s a Mexican national, and the story wasn’t broadcast here. We only found out through our sources. But if he worked out of her barn … ”
“She either knows or she’s stupid?” he suggested.
Again, Ortega made a slight gesture of denial. “She’d been in New York and Houston more than home until recently. She worked for an import firm with headquarters in Houston and branches all over Mexico, as well as in several border towns. The horses were more or less at the mercy of the foreman and the two grooms.”
“Sketchy at best,” Jovi pointed out again. “This is my last call, though,” he repeated, walking to the driver’s side and pulling the door open. “This job’s too hard on the soul, Rick. Too much lying and too many half-truths — and to save what?”
Ortega paused by the open door as his friend climbed back in. “Did I tell you that little four-year old girl — Lisa, remember her? She turned seven yesterday. They put her photo on one of those news lead-ins.”
“Damn you,” Jovi snarled, thinking of the child he, Ortega, and others had found cowering in the corner of a crack house after a deal turned particularly violent. And her brothers, 5 and 8, lying broken on the floor in their own blood. His last official case — the last case he’d tried to stomach.
“Sometimes we win,” Rick insisted, and slapped his arm. “Suerte,” he ended, walking away.
Luck. Jovi shook his head, turned on the truck, and poked the radio button. He wouldn’t need luck if he kept his mind on work and on the stable full of thoroughbreds waiting for him in Florida. As he eased back onto the access road, blessed darkness and George Strait’s melodious voice surrounded him.
To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author, click here.
In the mood for more Crimson Romance?
Check out On the Fly
by Katie Kenyherez
at CrimsonRomance.com.
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