by JoAnn Ross
“I’m going to leave now,” he said, after he’d finished buttoning his shirt. “But there’s something you need to know.”
“What now?”
“Loving someone doesn’t necessarily mean losing them.”
He bent down, captured her chin in his fingers and held her wary gaze to his. “This time, I’m not going to get in my car and drive away, just because things have gotten a little rough.”
A little rough? Her heart was lying in tatters all over the floor and he was calling things a little rough?
“I love you, Nora Anderson O’Halloran,” he said, feeling an ache deep inside when his words and his use of her married name made her flinch. “Fully, totally, irrevocably. With every fiber of my being.
“And being an admittedly greedy man, I intend to spend the rest of my life making love with you here in this bed, or in front of a roaring fire, or even in the lake behind my cabin.”
“We’d drown,” Nora couldn’t resist saying.
He smiled at that and she knew she was in major trouble when the sight warmed her to the core. “Not if we’re careful.” He ran his finger down the slope of her nose. “How long can you hold your breath?”
Before she could respond, he gave her a quick, hard kiss. “What do you think about an August wedding? The weather should be warm and sunny and your grandmother’s flowers will be in full bloom, so we can hold the ceremony in her garden.”
He was doing it again—refusing to listen to a word she said. Nora welcomed the burst of irritation; it overrode her pain.
“Caine, we’re not going to get married.”
“Wanna bet? Or are you afraid to put your money where that luscious mouth of yours is?”
She’d never been able to resist that challenge in his eyes. “All right, dammit. Fifty dollars.”
“That’s chicken feed. Five hundred says you’ll be Mrs. Nora O’Halloran before the summer’s over.”
It was more than she could safely risk. But frustration at the way some things never changed made Nora rash. “You’re on.”
“Terrific.” He brushed a hand down her hair and followed the corn-silk strands around her jaw. “Remind me to remind you of this conversation on our fiftieth anniversary. When we’re sitting on the porch in our rocking chairs, holding hands and watching our grandchildren splashing around in the lake behind the cabin.”
“For the last time—”
He bent his head and touched his mouth to hers. “See you around, sweetheart,” he said when the brief, possessive kiss ended. “Call me when you’ve changed your mind.”
And then, to her astonishment, he was gone.
Nora sat there in the middle of the rumpled sheets still redolent of their lovemaking, and listened to Caine take the stairs two at a time.
Downstairs, the grandfather clock struck the hour with a flurry of Westminster chimes. She heard the front door open, then close. And then there was only silence.
Dark, lonely silence.
Chapter 13
Although Caine spoke with Nora on the phone almost daily, filling her in on the progress of the trauma center, he managed, with Herculean effort, to keep his promise to stay away for four long and lonely weeks.
Despite the fact that the charter business was booming, he made time to talk public-relations firms in New York, Washington, D.C., and Seattle into donating their services. In addition, he’d convinced the governor to agree to declare the first week in September Children’s Safety Week.
And if that wasn’t enough to make his ex-wife sit up and take notice, an Academy Award-winning movie director Caine had once met at a New York premier was traveling around the country, filming a documentary about children in the emergency room. The Dylan Anderson O’Halloran Memorial Foundation was only paying the director’s expenses; when contacted by Caine, the woman had agreed to donate her time and equipment.
Although Nora knew it took more than PR and governmental declarations and films to build a hospital, all the proclamations and public relations had already brought in a stunning amount of money.
As she watched Caine’s unflagging devotion to this cause, which was so important not only to her, personally, but to all the children of the state, Nora was forced to admit how badly she’d misjudged him.
And with that realization came a long hard look at her own life. It wasn’t that she’d purposely shied away from marriage since her divorce. In the beginning, work had required all her energy. Then, once she’d begun to date, she’d quickly discovered that although men might not be imbued with a woman’s biological clock, they all definitely seemed to possess a strong sense of dynasty.
After Dylan’s death, Nora had vowed never to give birth to another child. The risk was too great, the pain of loss too overwhelming. Whenever the man she was dating realized that she had no intention of bearing his child, he would drift on in quest of some woman who would, leaving Nora alone. Again.
The truth was, Nora was tired of being alone. The even greater truth was that there was only one man she wanted to share her life with. A month ago, Nora had been trying to convince herself that marrying Caine would be impossible. Now she knew that the impossibility would be not marrying him.
More nervous than she’d ever been in her life, and more determined, Nora left the hospital at the end of her shift and headed for the airstrip. Toward her future.
Caine had just landed a red-and-white six-seater aircraft and was taxiing to the hangar when he saw Nora’s car headed down the road toward the tarmac.
“It’s about time.” He was on the ground, but his heart was suddenly back in the air.
“Handles like a dream, doesn’t she?” the enthusiastic salesman beside him said, misunderstanding Caine’s murmured statement. “And the club seating in the back is perfect for your kind of recreational charter work.”
“She’s a sweetheart, all right,” Caine agreed, trying to keep his mind on bringing the turbocharged plane to a gradual stop when what he wanted to do was jump out of the cockpit, run across the tarmac, sweep Nora into his arms like some crazed guy in a shampoo commercial and never let her go again. She was parking next to his new blue Jeep.
“And the price is right,” the man added.
“I said, I like the plane,” Caine interrupted impatiently. He cut the engine, unfastened his seat belt and opened the pilot’s door. “But something’s come up. I’ve got your card. Why don’t I call you tomorrow morning?”
Nora was getting out of her car. Caine saw a flash of thigh. “Make that tomorrow afternoon,” he decided.
Business taken care of, he began briskly striding across the tarmac as Nora walked toward him.
They met halfway.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hi, yourself.”
“Nice plane. Is it new?”
“I’m thinking about buying it.”
“Nice truck, too. Where’s the Ferrari?”
He grinned. “I sold it. Figured it was time I bought a halfway grown-up car.”
“It still suits you,” Nora decided. Caine saw the flash of blue as she combed her left hand nervously through her hair. He caught her hand on its way down.
“I like your ring. It looks familiar.”
“I like it, too.” Breathless, Nora smiled up at him. “In fact, I was thinking about keeping it.”
It was going to be all right, Caine realized. They were going to be all right. “Oh? For how long?”
“How does fifty or sixty years sound?”
“Not bad. For starters.” He pulled her close and gave her a long, heartfelt kiss.
Nora threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, earning a rousing cheer from the ground crew.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Caine murmured huskily. “Let’s get out of here. Before we h
ave to start selling tickets.”
“Which house?”
“For now, yours, because it’s closer. But later, why don’t we live in the cabin and save your place for your clinic?” he suggested. “Until we get you pregnant. Then we can build that house with the picket fence.”
The minute he heard himself say the words, Caine realized he was pushing again. He held his breath, waiting for Nora to stiffen in his arms.
Surprisingly, the decision to have children, once Nora had accepted her feelings for Caine, hadn’t proved as difficult as she’d feared. She had no doubt that Caine loved her. And she loved him.
And it was that love which made the risk worthwhile.
“That sounds like a wonderful solution,” she agreed.
Relief came in cooling waves. With his arm wrapped around her waist, Caine began walking with her back to her car.
“By the way, Dr. Anderson, you owe me five hundred bucks.”
She’d forgotten all about their ridiculous bet.
Happier than she could ever remember being, Nora threw back her head and laughed. “Luckily for me, I’m going to have a rich husband to pay off my gambling debts.”
* * *
The room looked and smelled like an explosion at a Rose Bowl Parade. Flowers were everywhere; on the utilitarian pine dresser, the metal dining tray, the windowsill, the floor.
“Wow! Look at this!”
Eight-year-old Johnny O’Halloran, wearing a blue Little League uniform with O’Halloran Air Charters stenciled on the back in bright red letters, plucked a white card from an enormous white wicker basket overflowing with tiger lilies, creamy orchids, purple gladioli and trailing jasmine vines.
“Miguel Cabrera,” he breathed with wonder.
“How soon they forget,” Caine grumbled good-naturedly to Nora. “I can remember a time not all that long ago, when the kid had me up on that lofty pedestal.”
“That was before you put him to work painting all those pickets,” Nora reminded with an answering grin as she packed a box of fragrant dusting powder into her red overnight case.
Caine had surprised her with the scented powder while she’d been in labor. Using a soft, crystal-handled brush, with unerring accuracy he’d smoothed it over all her sensitive spots, making her forget, albeit for a short time, all about the pain.
“I didn’t mind helping Dad out with the painting,” Johnny said dismissively. “It was cleaning up those brushes and things that was such a drag.”
“I remember feeling the same way when my dad put me to work scraping barnacles off the hull of The Bountiful,” Caine said.
“That sounds a lot worse than cleaning paintbrushes,” Johnny decided. “At least Eric helped.”
“You boys were both a big help,” Caine assured him. He refrained from bringing up the slight argument over territory that had ended with both boys looking like snowmen, covered head to foot in Glacier White ten-year-guaranteed outdoor latex.
“I know.” Johnny roamed the room, scanning each card in turn, reading off the names that sounded like an All-Star roster.
He wove his way back through the colorful profusion of flowers and stood looking down at eight-pound, six-ounce Margaret Caitlin O’Halloran.
“You must be pretty special. To get all this stuff,” he said to the baby, who looked up at him with bright blue eyes and made a soft cooing sound. “Even if you are a girl.”
Sensing a possible sibling rivalry beginning to brew, Nora ran her hand down his arm. “You’re special, too, Johnny.”
“I know. Because you picked me out.”
“That’s right,” Caine added, ruffling the blond hair that was only slightly darker than the fuzz atop his daughter’s head.
Now that Johnny had put on some much-needed weight and his face had lost that worried, pinched expression, he looked like any other eight-year-old boy. He looked, Caine and Nora had agreed, as if he could have been their natural son.
“And you’ve no idea how glad we are that we did.”
Last year, while flying to Hawaii for a honeymoon, Nora had tried to come up with some way to broach the idea of Johnny becoming part of their family. She needn’t have worried. They’d no sooner arrived at their Kauai hotel when Caine suggested adopting the boy they’d both come to care for so deeply.
“I’m glad, too,” Johnny said.
He reached out a finger and touched one of Caitlin’s tiny pink hands; the baby closed a pudgy fist around his finger and held it with surprising strength. “And I guess I’m glad I’ve got a little sister. Even if I was kinda hoping for a boy.”
“I didn’t know that,” Nora said.
“So I’d have someone to play ball with,” Johnny explained. “Girls like dolls better than baseball.”
“Don’t say that too loudly around your mother,” Caine suggested mildly, “or you’ll have to listen to yet another lecture on women’s equality.”
“It sounds as if one is definitely in order,” Nora told them. “But we’ll save it for another day.”
She glanced around the room, checking to see if she’d forgotten anything. “I think that’s it.” She frowned at the wheelchair beside the hospital bed. “I hate that thing.”
“As a doctor, you should know it’s hospital rules,” Caine reminded. “Have a seat, sweetheart. Your chariot awaits.”
After Nora reluctantly sat down in the chair, Caine took their daughter out of the bassinet and placed her in her mother’s arms.
Feeling a surge of emotion so strong it rocked him, he brushed a quick kiss atop Caitlin’s head, then kissed his wife, lingering for a moment over the sweet taste he knew he’d never tire of if he lived to be a hundred.
“Ugh. More mushy stuff,” Johnny groaned.
“One of these days, you and I are going to have a long father-and-son talk,” Caine said with a laugh. “About girls and kissing and all that other mushy stuff.”
“I’d rather talk about batting averages,” Johnny replied.
Putting his arm around his son’s shoulder, Caine said, “Come on, gang, let’s go home.”
Nora smiled up at her husband of ten months. “Yes,” she agreed. Her heart was shining in her eyes. “Let’s all go home.”
Home. As he walked out of the hospital into the bright sunshine with his family, Caine decided there was no more wonderful word in the entire English language.
* * * * *
Hard Choices
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Allison Leigh
Dear Reader,
As a writer, I am often asked how I come up with new story ideas. And in the years since my first book was published, I still don’t have a hard and fast answer for them. The spark of a story can come from anywhere—a news story, a situation of which I’m personally aware, a song on the radio, even a television commercial. But what has always held true from the first time I put a sheet of paper into my typewriter (yes, I have been trying to be a writer for that long!) is that it isn’t the plot that is so interesting to me but the people themselves. What makes them tick? What makes them laugh and cry and love?
I first introduced the island of Turnabout and its residents in 2003. Some of the individuals living there are escaping their pasts; some are seeking their future. Annie Hess is just trying to survive. As a girl, she preferred walking on the wild side of life—her version of it, at least—as a defense against situations in her real life. She wore the mask of “bad girl” because it was safer than exposing her true self to more hurt. But now Annie is an adult, and even though she’s left her wild side long behind, her life is still ruled by it. Logan Drake was never the “bad boy” in his youth. But the career he’s chosen has him convinced he’s not exactly a good man. They’ve both made hard choices in their lives. Now they’re together agai
n, and linked in a way that neither expects. The choices they make now matter more than ever before.
I hope you enjoy your journey to Turnabout with Annie and Logan as they come to understand that a mask is just that. A mask. It can be set aside. Particularly when the person who loves you knows that the mask never did quite fit.
Best wishes and happy reading,
Allison Leigh
For my daughters, Amanda and Anna Claire.
Always a joy, continually challenging
and the greatest of blessings.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Prologue
“Don’t.”
She nearly sagged with relief at the deep voice that came out of the darkness. But she didn’t sag too long; she took advantage of Drago’s momentary surprise and twisted out of his loosened grip. The whitewashed stucco snagged at her dress as she pushed away from where he’d pinned her into the corner outside the boathouse.
Drago’s surprise didn’t last long, though. His hand shot out and sank into her hair, yanking her back toward him. She cried out, twisting her ankle as she tipped back, scrabbling at his hold on her. Tears stung her eyes. Her skin crawled as his mouth touched her cheek.
“I said, don’t.” The voice came again.
It was all she could do not to whimper—in pain at the agonizing pull of Drago’s hand on her hair, in relief that maybe her own stupidity wasn’t going to be the end of her, after all.
The moment seemed excruciatingly clear. Drago’s breath on her cheek. Her own whistling between her clenched teeth. And the faint scrape of a shoe on the damp walkway.