“Kojiro, I think I like making love even more than I like flying! Do you believe it’s possible?”
Kojiro’s eyes narrowed and he sucked in his breath. “Ah, it is a difficult question,” he said shaking his head. “But yes, I like making love to you better than I like flying. But that is just between the two of us, Libby. If the pilots in my squadron discovered my secret, I would lose face,” he added sheepishly.
Libby squeezed her husband’s hand. “Your secret is safe with me, Major Yoshida.”
About the Author
Juliet McCarthy’s adventurous life began in California, in San Francisco. She grew up in the Silicon Valley when it was still famous for its bountiful farms and luscious fruits, graduated from Los Gatos High School and later, Gonzaga University in Spokane Washington with a BA in history and English. Her goal upon graduation was to live in Europe, inspired by a trip to the British Isles and France when she was fifteen. She eventually landed a teaching position with the Department of Defense and taught for two years in England and then a year in Germany, at Ramstein AFB where she met her future husband, a dashing young fighter pilot.
As an Air Force wife, she feels as if she has lived her life in perpetual motion, moving from one state to another, from one continent to another. Her abiding passions are literature (reading and writing), Medieval English history, Japanese art and, of course, traveling.
A Crimson Romance Sneak Peek
The Matchmaker Meets Her Match by Jenny Jacobs
Summer Promises
Laura Simcox
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Laura Jane Simcox
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5466-8
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5466-7
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5467-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5467-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
For Pat
brilliant man, wonderful father and my husband
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Chapter One
Pacing the narrow shoulder of the road, Carly Foster tried to remember how far she was from the turn-off to the interstate. Could she really hike that far wearing new sandals? Didn’t it get scorching hot in the middle of the day out in this part of the country? Weren’t there rattlesnakes and stuff?
“Ick.” She squirmed in her damp, coffee-stained shorts and kicked at gravel. New Mexico sucked. And so did her judgment.
The unwelcome feeling that she’d chosen her latest adventure very poorly crept into her mind, but she brushed it away and took a deep breath. She had to focus. She’d been driving for two days with no company except the ancient car’s cassette tape deck. Until it chewed a tape to ribbons somewhere in eastern Colorado. After that, the radio died.
Since then, silence had prompted the conversation with her new boss to play over and over in her head like a crappy song and naturally, she’d gone just a touch nutso. Each time she thought about it, Carly got more nervous. The guy had sounded perfectly normal, right? But there were those tiny worries that she’d: A) never met him, B) never heard of him before she found his business on the Internet (How naïve could she be?) and C) driven halfway across the country to a job in a town that didn’t seem to exist. A “bona fide Old West ghost town.” That should have been a big fat clue right there. Ouch.
Picking out a summer job by closing her eyes and pointing at a map was probably not the best idea she’d ever had. Going online and finding the first theater in that location and calling the owner pretending to be a tourist was not super-smart either. And talking her way into a job out in the middle of the rattlesnake-infested mountains was proving to be, well, idiotic. She gave up trying to focus on how to get unstranded and sighed.
The hasty phone call from three weeks ago played like a crappy cassette tape on a loop in her brain.
“Ruby Spring Hotel, Daniel Day speaking. How may I help you?” The man’s voice on the other end had been calm and friendly. And she really needed to get out of the city. Chicago sucked in the summer and so did her dead-end temp job.
Carly cleared her throat. “Yes, sir. I am calling to inquire about space in your hotel for this summer.”
“Oh, well, I am afraid you’re wasting your time, ma’am,” he said, “Our hotel is reserved this summer for our theater employees.”
She fumbled on the desk for a pen and a scrap of paper. “Oh, really? What type of theater are you producing?”
“Normal type, I guess?” he said after a moment of hesitation.
Normal? This guy was not in the business. Warning flag for most people, but not for her. Curiosity killed cats, not women. She had to know. “Tell me about it,” she said.
That’s all it took, and the guy began babbling about the project. The theater really was in a ghost town called Ruby Spring, and it was in the mountains, about a half-hour north of Albuquerque. All of the buildings were intact and the theater itself was an old opera house with balconies and boxes. The hotel was already a tourist destination and apparently had been for some time.
Despite having no theatrical experience, he intended to revive an old play from the turn of the century, one that hadn’t been produced in seventy-five years. Carly was dubious about his plan, but if he would pay her to work there it was perfect, and so far removed from the cheesy musicals she’d been surviving on the past few summers. She listened to him talk about the play and the renovation of the theater, her excitement growing, while she took notes.
“So, you say that you are hiring a full crew this summer, Mr. Day?” she finally asked as she toyed with her coffee mug.
“It’s Daniel. Yeah. But I haven’t found half the people I need yet,” he said with a sigh.
“Aw, that’s a shame,” she sympathized. “Just what are you looking for?”
“I still need two actors, and a director, and a set designer. The only catch is the designer has to know how to do restorations, too. Now where I am going to find that?”
She grinned. Jackpot. She took a quick swig of lukewarm coffee, her mind racing for just the right words. All she could see in her head was the ghost town and her in it, lounging at the hotel with booted feet propped up on a porch railing. She’d have a big tin mug of coffee and fresh air. No subways. No dumpsters outside her apartment window. No crowds. And this summer, no men. She could make it happen.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?”
Taking a deep
breath, she spoke. “Sir, I have something to confess. I’m not looking for a hotel. I’m looking for a job. And you probably won’t believe this, but I am a scenic designer.” She paused, waiting for a response, but there was silence. “And I am sitting in an office right now doing research for an architect who specializes in historic restoration. In Chicago.” Silence. “And I have a friend who is a brilliant director who is also looking for work this summer.” Carly waited a bit longer. “But I don’t know any available actors. I’m sorry,” she finished lamely. There was still no response, and she sighed in frustration.
“Me and my big mouth,” she muttered as she reached over to disconnect the call. As she moved the receiver back to the cradle, she heard his voice again.
“When can you start?” he said.
Carly laughed and brought the phone back to her ear. “Seriously? Don’t you want to see my resume?”
Daniel chuckled. “I have caller ID. I can see the name of your company right here. We may be in the middle of nowhere, but we are not totally out of touch. If you feel better about it, e-mail it to me. But I can read people, and I know you’re not lying to me,” he declared.
“No, I’m not,” she said, “and I really appreciate the opportunity.”
After a few more minutes of chatting, she hung up and called her director friend, Ross. He was thrilled with new adventures and was even more impetuous than Carly. When he told her, “Sure, why the hell not?” she had already known he would come along for the ride. Except … Ross hated to drive, so he suggested that Carly drive his car out west. The car that by all rights should have died about ten years ago. He decided to fly out and meet her. Good for him, bad for her.
Now here she was, sitting in said car on the side of a mountain, starting her summer escapade in the grandest of ways. Stranded, lost, and freezing, with wet, coffee-stained shorts. Plus, it was probably six A.M. or something. Nice. Like she ever got up before nine. Just thinking about it made her yawn.
Making a new resolution to stay focused, she grabbed an old sweatshirt and wiped at the rivers of coffee in the driver’s seat. Frowning, she unfolded a paper map with a snap (GPS was for sissies, plus she couldn’t afford it) and began to trace her route south from Colorado with her index finger. Somewhere along this two-lane highway, somewhere very close by, was Ruby Spring, her very own custom-made, perfect-in-all-ways summer adventure. Probably.
Every summer for the past four years, though, she had come back to Chicago gushing about some guy she had met. Except … it never worked out. Sam turned out to be gay but straight-curious, Joey dumped her for one of the size four chorus girls, George accused her of being too absorbed … whatever that meant, and Ivan had never actually acknowledged the fact that she breathed the same air as him. Getting over Ivan was the worst. Theater sucked.
This summer had to be different. She was here to work, not develop adolescent crushes on men. In fact, on men who were emotionally little more than adolescents themselves. Most women her age were in serious relationships and in stable careers with amazing things like health insurance and retirement accounts. But she had chosen theater, not the other way around. And right now, she needed to make a decision about how to get herself out of this latest mess.
She looked up one side of the road. Scrubby bushes and dry brown dirt arched steeply into the mountainsides. The road quickly curved into nowhere. Wrinkling her brow, she squinted and looked the other way. The same desolate scenery greeted her. “No trees, no water,” she muttered to herself. Suddenly, she was very thirsty. Carly licked her lips and began to pace across the narrow two-lane highway. Someone had to come along soon.
With nothing better to do, she popped the trunk and began to rummage through her luggage for snacks and water. After a few minutes, she produced a small crumbled package of cheese crackers, but no water to go with it. Her stomach rumbled, but her dry mouth held her back. She walked back to the open window, reached in and turned the ignition. Maybe now that the fossil had rested, it would cooperate. Click, click. Sputter. Wheeze. Silence. Panic began to creep in and she tamped it down with ruthless determination.
“I am not going to cry. I am not going to freak,” she declared, even as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. As far as she could tell, no other vehicle had come by since she stopped … what was it … hours ago? But she had fallen asleep holding a cup of horrid gas station coffee. How could that have happened?
Hands shaking, she reached into her pocket for the cell phone. Turning it on, she squinted at the vibrant blue sky again and wished for a hat. As the phone came to life with a little beep, she breathed a sigh of relief and waited for the signal to appear. Calmer now, she smiled as the precious word “roaming” appeared on the screen. The smile soon turned into a frown when she saw the battery level. Low.
She had to swallow her apprehension and call Daniel Day. Maybe Ruby Spring was real. Maybe he wasn’t a psycho. The phone issued a tiny warning beep.
“No, no, no,” Carly screeched as she scrolled the contact screen for the number to the theater. When the phone beeped again, she grimaced and cursed her memory. Where had she stored that damn number? There was one final, mocking beep and the screen was blank. In stony silence, she threw the phone on top of her makeup case and slammed the trunk.
Less than thirty seconds later, the distant sound of an engine echoed through the mountain pass. Her head whipped around and she rubbed her at her blurry eyes. “Too good to be true,” she whispered as she peered down the road. The rumbling grew closer and she leaned back against the trunk in relief. Along with the engine, she began to hear the faint sounds of heavy metal music, and as the vehicle came around the bend, she straightened and waved her arms like a crazed fan at a concert.
“Hey!” she gasped in a hoarse whisper. The big white sedan with lights on top slowed and pulled in beside Carly. A sheriff’s car. She grinned. Then her mouth dropped open as the occupant stepped out of the idling vehicle. Holy shit. He had to be the hottest cop she’d ever seen. Her gaze raked him as he reached in and switched off the engine and her grin froze in place. A giggle threatened to erupt from her parched throat. Too good to be true for sure.
He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat and cocked his head to the side, smiling at her. He was movie star-beautiful, with long, lean legs and an impossible tan. “Having a little picnic, are we?” he grinned. His voice was like smooth honey.
“Uh … ” Carly croaked, “Uh … picnic?”
Hot Cop swaggered toward her, stopping inches from her body. He reached out and grasped her crackers with a strong, warm hand. “Doesn’t look much like a very good lunch to me, miss.” He smiled again and all Carly could think about was how hot the trunk of the car might be. Would it completely fry her butt if he lifted her onto it, leaned between her thighs and … bad. Bad, bad girl.
“No, I suppose not,” she attempted, “Lunch? I thought it was morning. I’m lost. I think. The car is old and I think it’s pretty cranky. Or not. No pun intended. Ha. And my cell isn’t working. Probably because I might have forgotten the charger. And I put it right by the door on top of the bills. Although it might be in a suitcase. The bills, too. Crap. Anyway. I, um … am babbling,” she finished. God, she sounded lame.
He reached over and pressed the crackers back into her palm. She wrenched her gaze from his hand and looked up into his crystal blue eyes. Big mistake. Carly tried to control it, but the nervous giggle came bursting out. Brear chicka brear brear. Porn guitar began playing in her head and another burst of giggles slipped out. She clapped a hand over her mouth and looked back down at the crackers. He gave a polite cough and she groaned to herself. Yep, he thought she was nuts. Great.
She had to focus. He was just a sheriff. He was here to help her. But he was also the hottest guy she’d ever met. She banished the cheesy porn music from her head and bit the inside of her cheek to suppress more maniacal giggles. Taking a deep brea
th, she inched her way along the trunk (which actually was hot enough to fry a T-bone) to put some distance between herself and the object of her sudden lust.
“I would appreciate some help,” she said and stuck out her hand in what she hoped was a professional manner. “My name is Carly Foster. And you are, Officer … ?”
The patrolman smiled and tucked his thumbs into his belt. He stared up at the sky for a second and then closed the distance between them again. Taking her hand, he bent forward. “Deputy Sheriff Barstow. Wheeler Barstow. And it would be my pleasure to help you, Mrs. Foster.”
“Oh, I’m not married,” she declared, and snapped her mouth closed. Dammit.
Wheeler grinned and released her hand. “I didn’t think you were, but I had to make sure,” he said with a laugh and stepped around her. Carly opened her mouth in annoyance and stared after him. Realizing she looked like a deranged fish, she clamped it shut again and pressed her lips together before sneaking a peek at Hot Cop. He was leaning into the driver’s side window of her car and the view was almost as spectacular as the mountain scenery.
Swallowing her giggle, Carly asked, “And just why do you have to make sure, um, Deputy Barstow?”
“It’s Wheeler,” he said from inside the car, “and I had to make sure because I normally don’t take married ladies out on dates.” He pulled his head out and turned to see her reaction. Stunned, all she could do was stare at him and blink.
A gorgeous smile spread across his face. “Don’t have a lot to say, do you, girl? Well, that’s OK. Let me, ah … jump you and we’ll discuss it over some drinks tomorrow night.” He ambled past her and walked to the trunk of his cruiser.
Jump her? Carly was tempted to play along, but it had been a crap-tastically long night. She looked down at her coffee-stained shorts and ran her hands through her hair. It probably looked like a nest for gophers. Gophers, really? She needed more sleep.
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