You're Still The One

by Janet Dailey

  He continued to look at the screen.

  “It’s the messiness, the irrationality, the impulsiveness that’s what’s so beautiful about people finding each other.” She swallowed. “Or re-finding. It can turn the second runner-up Little Miss Blackberry of 1988 into a Juliet. Twice.”

  They remained silent for a moment, but her thoughts weren’t quiet. Her brain sizzled and snapped with ideas, plans, urgency. Roy was leaving today. She couldn’t let him go. Or maybe . . .

  Carl finally released a long sigh. “Well, this is a big fat pile of awkward. Maybe you’d like to—”

  “Would it be okay if I took a vacation?” she asked at the same time. “A long one?”

  “As in . . . a permanent one?” He considered this. “Roy?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He thought for a moment. “Maybe it would be the best thing if you did,” he said. “You want to go now?”

  She nodded, already antsy to leave.

  “E-mail me when you get to Seattle,” he said. “I’d like to know how you’re getting along . . . and whether I should be advertising for a new vet.”

  She headed for the door. “Thank you, Carl.”

  “Good luck.” He smiled back at her. “Oh, and when you e-mail me, could you include the names of those ten women?”

  She laughed.

  “You’re taking them all with you?” her mother asked, exchanging a doubtful look with Erin.

  “Roy might as well know what he’s getting into.” Jane loaded the third cat box into the van. Squeak could ride up front. The last thing she had to do was secure Luther’s cage and then load up her own belongings, some of them stuffed haphazardly into Hefty bags for the voyage.

  “When worlds collide,” Erin said.

  Brenda held tight to Buddy’s leash. “But you can’t uproot this one again,” she said. “You’d better leave him with me.”

  Buddy looked up at her and wagged his tail.

  He had started life keeping Wanda company after Roy left home. Now . . .

  Jane swallowed. She wasn’t going to cry. This was the beginning of an adventure. Maybe a foolhardy one, maybe even the craziest, worst decision she would ever make in her life, but it would not be launched with tears. She stopped and hugged her mother.

  “Take good care of him, Mom,” she said. “And take care of yourself.”

  Her father came down with her big suitcase and put it in the back. “Be careful driving. Do you have enough money to handle an emergency?”

  Jane couldn’t help laughing as she gave her dad a squeeze. “I’ll be fine. Don’t be a worrywart.”

  She and Erin got in the van while her parents stood in the drive and waved her off.

  “I knew she was a goner the minute I saw the gleam,” she heard her mother say.

  “Thanks for helping me,” Jane told Erin when they’d rounded the corner. It was only a minute’s drive to the salon, thank goodness. Squeak was squirming and panting in Erin’s lap.

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to catch Roy?” Erin asked.

  “I hope so. He didn’t pick up the phone, but I texted him to wait for me in front of the airport.” She intended to breathe deeply, but struggled to take a shallow breath. “I hope he does.”

  “I know he will,” Erin assured her.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  Erin smiled. “I just wish I’d had time to cut those bangs.”

  After dropping Erin off, Jane sped the rest of the way to the regional airport. Alone for the first time since making her decision, with Squeak shivering unsteadily next to her and intermittent outraged meows and squawky chirps sounding off behind her, she began to sense doubts crowding in. This is insane. You’ve never been to Seattle. Living with Roy might be a disaster. You might never find another job . . .

  At a stoplight at the turn-in to the airport, she reached for her phone. No messages. The man definitely needed to work on his telecommunication skills.

  Or maybe he’d taken an earlier flight.

  The light turned green, and she stepped on the gas. Her heart thumped nervously as she approached the passenger area. It was deserted.

  She crawled past slowly, glancing often in her rearview just to make sure she hadn’t missed him standing beside a pole or something.

  But he wasn’t there. The one-way corridor forced her to keep going, and as she approached the fork where one lane led to the exit and one led to the turnaround to circle back to the terminal, she hesitated. The last shred of her sensible self was still trying to dig in its heels.

  I’ve been happy here. Mom and Dad are getting older, too. And all that Northwest rain . . .

  The van hovered between lanes.

  It’s a nice town. And safe.

  Safe.

  She wrenched the wheel to the left and took the turnaround, speeding back to the airport. At the entrance, she squealed to a stop, flipped on the emergency lights, and hopped out. Just then, the terminal’s sliding doors opened and Roy stepped out with his laptop bag slung jauntily over his shoulder, rolling a suitcase behind him. His doubtful look morphed into a huge smile when he saw her. He hurried over.

  “I saw the van go by earlier,” he said. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “It was.” She felt ill at ease standing before him, grinning like an idiot. But she didn’t care. “Can I give you a lift?”

  His eyes narrowed on the van. “What have you got in there?”

  “Three cats, a dog, a bird, and all my worldly belongings.”

  If the menagerie worried him, he didn’t show it. In fact, it seemed to delight him. He dropped his case and wrapped his arms around her. A long kiss turned into a joyful hug that lifted her off her feet. The last fleeting doubts seemed to be squeezed out of her as he swung her in a half circle. “When do we start?” he asked.

  A start. A fresh start. Nothing had sounded so wonderful to her ears in a long time. They’d waited so long to get to this moment.

  “Will there ever be a better time than now?” she asked, taking his hand.

  THE DEVIL AND MR. CHOCOLATE

  Janet Dailey

  Chapter One

  Kitty Hamilton, owner of Santa Fe’s renowned Hamilton Art Gallery, lolled in the expansive tub, surrounded by mounds of scented bubbles. Her long chestnut hair was pinned atop her head, no longer contained in its customary severe bun.

  Scattered about the spacious bathroom were pillar candles. Their wavering yellow flames created a certain ambience to accompany the first movement of Mozart’s Serenade No. 13 playing softly in the background.

  A bottle of champagne poked its neck out from the bucket of ice sitting on the tub’s ledge. On the opposite side sat a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. Kitty selected one, took a bite, and moaned in her throat at the delicious combination of juicy sweet berry and decadently rich chocolate. A sip of champagne provided the perfect complement to the treat. She dipped the partially eaten strawberry into the champagne and took another bite.

  “Perfect,” she murmured with her mouth full.

  Beyond the bathroom’s long window, with its view of the high desert mountains, a crimson sun hung on the lip of the western horizon. The sky was a wash of magenta, rose madder, and fuchsia bleeding together. Its flattering pink light spilled into the bathroom, but Kitty took little notice of it.

  Having lived in Santa Fe most of her life, she had grown used to the spectacular sunsets and sharp clear air for which the city was known and with which artists were so enamored. At the moment she was much too busy luxuriating in her sensuous bath to admire the view. It was too rare that she had the time to indulge herself this way. But tonight was a special night. Very special.

  Remembering, Kitty smiled in secret delight and sank a little lower in the tubful of bubbles, convinced she had never been this happy in her life. Perhaps the world always seemed this glorious when one was in love; Kitty honestly couldn’t say. But she knew she wanted to revel in this giddy contentment she felt. It was a thing t
o celebrate—and an evening to celebrate. Hence the strawberries and champagne, the music and candlelight. She wanted everything about this evening to be special, from beginning to end, with nothing to spoil it.

  On that note, she splashed more champagne into her glass and plucked another chocolate-dipped strawberry from the plate, then alternately sipped and nibbled. She silently vowed again that, for once, she was not going to be hurried. She wanted the evening to begin with sensuous pleasures and end with sensual ones.

  Suddenly the bathroom door swung open, startling Kitty. Surprise quickly gave way to annoyance when Sebastian Cole walked in, all six feet two inches of him. He was dressed in his usual T-shirt, jeans, and huaraches, but for a change he didn’t reek of turpentine and oils. Judging from the wet gleam that darkened the toasted gold color of his hair, Kitty suspected he had come straight from the shower.

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were in here.” He threw her an offhand smile and walked straight to the vanity table.

  “Now that you do, you can leave.” Irritated by the sudden sour note in her evening, Kitty set her champagne glass down and reached for the loofah sponge. Having known Sebastian for nearly twenty years she was well aware that even if he had known she was in there, he would have walked in anyway.

  “First I need to borrow your razor.” He began rummaging through the contents of the top drawer. “Don’t you usually keep your spare ones in here?”

  “It’s the drawer on the other side.” She rubbed the soap and sponge together and wished she was rubbing the lathered bar over his face. “With the fortune your paintings are bringing, I should think you could buy your own razors.”

  “But with the commission you make from selling them, you can afford to supply me with a razor now and then. Besides, I ran out.” He opened the other drawer and took out a disposable razor. “Why should I go all the way to the store for one, when you live right here in my own backyard? Correction, my front yard.”

  “You really need to find a larger studio, Sebastian. That one is much too small.”

  “It suits me.” Razor in hand, he turned to face the tub and sat down on the vanity, stretching out his long legs and giving every indication that he intended to stay awhile.

  Stifling the urge to order him out, Kitty struggled to ignore him. But Sebastian Cole was much too compelling to ignore. She had never quite identified the exact cause of it. At forty, he still possessed the kind of leanly muscled physique guaranteed to draw a woman’s eye. His rugged features stopped just short of Hollywood handsome. And there was something striking about the contrast of golden blond hair and dark, dark eyes. Or maybe it was all in his eyes, and that devilishly lazy way he had of looking and absorbing every minute detail of his subject, not with an artist’s typical dispassion but with a caress.

  And he was doing it to her now. Kitty could feel his gaze gliding along her outstretched arm, the slope of her shoulder, and the arched curve of her neck. Her nerve ends tingled with the sensation of it.

  She flicked him a glance, feigning indifference, although, of all the feelings Sebastian had ever aroused in her, indifference had never been one of them. “Was there something else you wanted?”

  “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” he said in response, and pushed away from the vanity table, crossed to the tub, reached across its width to lift the champagne bottle from its icy nest. Taking the water glass by the sink, he filled it with the bubbly wine, then returned the bottle to its bucket. “And strawberries drenched in chocolate, too. Perfect.”

  He popped one into his mouth while somehow managing to extricate the cap from it, and chewed with relish. “Mmm, good,” he pronounced, and washed it down with a big swallow of wine. “The chocolate is obviously from La Maison du Chocolate. Had another batch flown in from Paris, did you?”

  “Wrong,” Kitty replied with some pleasure. “The chocolate is Boulanger’s.”

  “Boulanger’s?” Sebastian frowned in surprise. “That’s a new one.”

  “It’s Belgian.”

  “Ahh.” There was a wealth of understanding in his nod. “In that case, I’ll have another.”

  Kitty watched in disgust as he consumed another chocolate-covered strawberry in one bite. “How can you devour it like that? It’s a treat that should be savored.”

  “My mistake. Let me try again.” He picked up a third and nipped off the end, the gleam in his eyes mocking her.

  “Oh, eat it and be done with it,” Kitty declared with a flash of impatience. “That’s what you want to do anyway.”

  A blond-brown eyebrow shot up. “My, but you are in a bad mood tonight.”

  “I was in a glorious mood until you showed up,” she retorted, and switched from lathering her arms to soaping her legs.

  “Of course you were,” he replied dryly. “That’s why you’re here lazing in bubbles, surrounded by candlelight and music, sipping champagne and eating strawberries dipped in chocolate. Consolation, I imagine, for spending another lonely evening all alone. If I had known, I would have asked you to join me for dinner.”

  She hated that smug look he wore. “For your information, I already have a date.”

  “Johnny Desmond’s back in town, is he?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Not Johnny, huh. Then it must be—”

  Kitty broke in, “It’s no one you know.”

  “Really?” The curve of his mouth deepened slightly. “Something tells me you’ve been keeping secrets from me.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a secret,” Kitty replied smoothly. “My private life is simply none of your business.”

  “Then, this isn’t a business dinner,” Sebastian concluded.

  “Not at all.” This time it was her smile that widened. “It’s strictly pleasure. Wonderfully glorious pleasure.”

  He released an exaggerated sigh of despair. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen hopelessly in love again.”

  She paused, staring off into space with a dreamy look. “Not again. For the first time.”

  “That’s what you said about Roger Montgomery and Mark Rutledge,” Sebastian reminded her, naming two of her former husbands.

  Doubt flickered for a fleeting second. Then Kitty mentally shook it off. “This time it’s different.” Lifting a leg above the mound of bubbles, she reached forward to run the loofah over it.

  “You have beautiful legs,” Sebastian remarked unexpectedly, studying her with an artist’s eye. “It’s a pity I don’t have my sketch pad with me. You would make a marvelous study with the soft froth of the bubbles, the porcelain-white gleam of the tub and tiles, and the cream color of your skin. The darkness of your hair, all tumbled atop your head, and the flaming sunset behind you adds the right shock of color.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But I would need to move a couple of the candles closer.”

  She could see the painting in his mind and knew exactly where he wanted the candles placed. It was something she took for granted, dismissing it as the result of the two of them working so long and so closely together over the years.

  “Stick to landscapes. They sell,” was her response.

  “So speaks Kitty Hamilton, art dealer,” Sebastian replied with a bow of mock subservience.

  “Well, it’s true. The painting you described might be appropriate for the cover of a romance novel, but for something more artistic, it needs to be midnight-black beyond the window, creating a reflection in the glass, with a vague scattering of stars and a pale crescent moon. Now, that would be a great study in blacks and whites.”

  “Probably.” Sebastian was clearly indifferent to the suggestion. “But any artist can do a black-and-white. I’m talking red-and-white.”

  Kitty was momentarily intrigued by the thought. “You would need a redhead for that.”

  “The glow of the sunset has given your hair a red cast.”

  “Really?” She looked up in surprise, then curiosity. “How does it look? I’ve been toying with the idea of having Carlos add some red highlights. It
’s so in right now.”

  “Don’t.” He drank down the last of the champagne in his glass, set it aside, and reached for the loofah sponge in her hand. “Here. I’ll wash your back for you.”

  Distracted by the shortness of his answer, Kitty automatically handed it to him. “Why?”

  “Why what?” He soaped the sponge into a thick lather and rubbed it over her back in slow, massaging strokes.

  “Why wouldn’t I look good with a few red highlights streaked through my hair?”

  “I know you too well. You wouldn’t be content with a few. Before it was finished, you’d be a flaming carrottop.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Everything is always whole-hog or die with you.” His voice had a smile in it. “It can be love or business; it’s always both feet. Speaking of which, who is the new love of your life?”

  The hint of ridicule in his voice made Kitty loath to answer. Which was childish. After tonight, it would be public knowledge.

  “Marcel Boulanger.”

  “Sounds French.”

  “Belgian.”

  “My mistake.” The drollness of his voice was irritating, but the kneading pressure along the taut shoulder muscles near the base of her neck made it slightly easier to overlook. “Boulanger,” he repeated thoughtfully. “It seems as though I’ve heard that name before. What does he do?”

  “His family makes chocolate. In fact, many consider it to be the finest in the world.”

  “Ah,” he murmured in a dawning voice. “The strawberries.”

  “Dipped in Boulanger chocolate,” Kitty confirmed, and sighed at the remembered taste of it. “Even you must admit, it’s absolutely exquisite chocolate. And it’s no wonder, either. Marcel regularly travels to Central and South America to select only the best cocoa beans.”

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t been kidnapped and held for ransom.”

  Kitty stiffened in instant alarm. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it!”

  “Sorry. So, when did you meet Mr. Chocolate?”

  “Almost three weeks ago. He came by the gallery with the Ridgedales. He’s staying with them,” she added in explanation. “So of course, I saw him again that evening at the Ridgedales’ pre-opera cocktail party.”