Luck Be a Lady

by Cathie Linz

  “They’re very discreet,” Buddy had said.

  Megan smiled at the memory. Her Art Deco filigree-style engagement ring flashed on her finger. Logan’s actual proposal to her had taken place later on Valentine’s night in her bedroom, when he’d taken off her clothes and slipped on her ring. He’d gotten down on one knee beside the bed and simply said, “Please marry me.”

  She’d cried and simply said yes. She’d never forget the love in his blue eyes.

  Her breath caught as she saw the way Logan was staring at her now. He’d communicated his feelings for her in so many ways—by talking to her about the things that mattered to him, by opening his heart to her, by sharing his thoughts. None of that was easy for a cop trained to control his emotions, but he’d done it . . . for her. He looked incredibly sexy in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and black tie.

  The minister, the same one who’d officiated at Faith’s wedding, eyed the couple warily as he went through the short ceremony.

  “The bride and groom want to say a few words,” the minister said.

  “Here we are,” Megan said, holding on to both of Logan’s hands with both of her own. “Returning to the scene of the crime, where you stole my heart. And a good part of my sanity as well.” Their families laughed. “But I’m not just crazy in love with you, I love you for the incredibly strong and caring man you are.”

  “I was in a dark place back then,” Logan admitted. “And trying to hide it from the world. But you brought me back into the light.” He touched her cheek with their joined hands. “I’m so lucky to have you and your love.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” Pepper called out. “It was destiny!”

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the minister hurriedly declared.

  Logan took Megan in his arms and kissed her as the sound of “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow” and white confetti snowflakes magically filled the air.

  Luck or destiny, Megan knew deep in her heart that she’d made the right choice in loving Logan. Sometimes taking a chance was definitely worth the risk because the reward was totally awesome.

  Turn the page for a preview of Cathie Linz’s next romance

  Tempted Again

  Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

  Chapter One

  When in trouble, seek shelter. Marissa Bennett had learned that lesson at an early age. She’d had to. Seek shelter from the storm. And there was no safer haven than her hometown of Hopeful, Ohio.

  Or so Marissa hoped. Not that hoping, wishing or even praying had helped her out much lately. The bottom line was that her life had completely fallen apart over the past year. And now here she was, heading back home in a used and dented lime green VW Bug. The eyesore of a car was a necessity, not a choice.

  Hopeful hadn’t changed much since Marissa had left to go to college over a decade ago. As she traveled along Washington Street, the main highway into town, she drove past the oak tree-filled campus of Midwest College. The ivy-covered brick buildings glowed in the May sunshine. It was Saturday afternoon, so the campus wasn’t as bustling as a weekday when classes were in session, but groups of students sat out under the trees, enjoying the fine weather.

  Her father was a history professor at the college and had been for years. One of her earliest memories was of him carrying her on his shoulders to touch the abundance of crab apple blossoms in the trees lining the entrance to Birch Hall, where he had his office.

  Marissa’s parents had wanted her to stay and attend Midwest College, but Marissa had had her heart set on attending Ohio State. She’d been eager to spread her wings and fly, excited about the world of possibilities open to her.

  No, Hopeful hadn’t changed much . . . but Marissa had. Divorce and disillusionment did that to a woman. Knocked the stars from her eyes and turned her dreams to dust.

  How different would her life be right now if she’d stayed in her hometown instead of leaving?

  She wouldn’t have met and fallen for Brad Johnson. Wouldn’t have married him. Wouldn’t have caught him in their bed with another woman.

  The humiliating memory cut clear through her so Marissa shoved it out of her mind for the time being. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Shoving thoughts away and locking them up somewhere deep inside her as if they were radioactive waste. It was the only way for her to cope with the fact that she’d lost the life she’d built. Living a mere hour outside of New York City had given her the best of both worlds—the culture and excitement of the big city and the suburban lifestyle. But that was all over now. Gone.

  Infidelity had ended her marriage. Budget cuts had ended the job she had loved at the local library. The divorce had ended her ability to stay in the compact English-style cottage home of her dreams she’d shared with her husband. Her situation had started to seem hopeless before she’d been given this second chance in her hometown.

  “What makes you want to return home?” library director Roz Jorgen had asked during Marissa’s interview at the Hopeful Memorial Library several weeks ago.

  The fact that my life is a mess was not a suitably professional response so Marissa had come up with an alternative statement about not realizing the value of something until you were away from it for a while.

  Marissa must have said something right during the lengthy interview with Roz and the library board, because they eventually offered her a job, and in doing so, offered her a lifeline when she desperately needed one.

  So now she had a position at her old hometown library, where she’d gone to Story Hour as a kid and worked as a page shelving books while in high school. She slowed as she drove past the library building on the corner of Washington and Book Streets.

  There were so many memories here. Her father had taken pride in telling her that the white Doric columns guarding the library’s front entrance were the same style found on the Parthenon in Greece. She wondered if her dad was proud of her now that she’d returned home after messing up so badly. Beyond the words, “Good luck,” he hadn’t said much when she’d come for the library interview several weeks ago.

  Marissa had felt so stupid and useless after the divorce. Signing the divorce papers on her one-year anniversary hadn’t helped. She couldn’t even stay married for twelve months. How lame was that?

  “You are notfalling to pieces,” she fiercely ordered herself. “Not in front of the library’s book drop. It’s been six months. Your falling-to-pieces days are done. You’re starting over. Focus on that. Your new life. New job.”

  Yes, the pay was low, but it was a job and Marissa was grateful to have it. And yes, she’d have to stay at her parents’ house for a week or two until she got her act together and her first paycheck. But there were worse things, right?

  The threat of tears came suddenly and intensely as it often did since walking in on Brad in their bedroom doing the nasty with a female intern from his office. Blinking frantically, Marissa turned onto Book Street and found an empty parking place along the curb. Needing a moment to collect herself, she put the demon VW into park. She missed her Ford Five Hundred, but she hadn’t been able to afford the car payments so she’d had to trade it in. This rust bucket was the only thing in her price range. She’d told the car dealer, “Any color but green.” Yeah, right.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Marissa muttered, glaring at the rusty lime green car hood.

  “Are you lost?” The question came from a woman leaning on the open passenger window. “Do you need help?”

  Yes, Marissa wanted to reply to both those questions.

  “Marissa, is that really you?” the woman asked.

  That was the question. Was Marissa really sitting there staring at her high school guidance counselor, Karen Griffith, who always described her as “smart and perky”? Or had Marissa fallen into some alternative universe? Was this all just a bad dream and she’d wake up to find herself in her sleigh bed with her husband . . . her totally committed, non-adulterous husband?

  Not gonna happen,
her inner voice told her.

  “Are you okay?” Karen was staring at her with concern. In high school, she’d always invited the students to call her by her first name, and she cared about their well-being.

  “Yes, I’m okay.” Marissa wished she sounded a little more confident.

  “Are you sure? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m sure.” Not really, but Marissa had become a fairly good liar. Sometimes she could even lie to herself. “Are you still working at the high school?” She’d learned that diverting attention away from herself was a useful tactic.

  “Yes. I saw your mom at the grocery store the other day, and she was bragging about how you’re coming home to work at the library. I remember you were an avid reader in school. You always had a book in your hand. You knew early on what you wanted to do with your life. You had a plan. Not many students do.”

  Yes, Marissa had had a plan but it certainly hadn’t included a failed marriage or ending up broke.

  “Well, I’d better get going. It was nice to see you again. Welcome home.” Karen waved and walked away.

  Before Marissa could put the car in drive, her cell phone rang. The ringtone of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” let her know her mom was calling. At fifty-two, Linda Bennett was a huge Bon Jovi fan and a self-confessed worry-wart. She’d called Marissa every hour since she’d set out very early this morning from just west of New York City, her former home.

  “Where are you?” her mom demanded.

  “On Book Street by the library.”

  A souped-up Camaro pulled alongside her VW with rap music blaring at rock concert decibels, making it hard for Marissa to hear what her mom was saying. “What?”

  “ . . . go around the barricade.”

  “What barricade?” Marissa asked.

  No answer. Marissa’s phone was dead. She’d forgotten to charge it last night before heading out. No big deal. She was only a few blocks from home . . . her safe haven.

  Connor Doyle surveyed the crowd gathered for Hopeful’s Founders’ Day Parade. As the town’s sheriff it was his job to make sure that things remained peaceful. Not that Hopeful was a hotbed of trouble or crime. Coming from Chicago, where he’d been an undercover cop in the narcotics division, he knew all about trouble and the worst that humanity had to offer. The brutal murders, the gang violence.

  Connor had been a third generation Chicago cop. His grandfather, his dad, his brothers—all Chicago cops. Well, his younger brother, Aidan, had recently moved to Seattle, but he was still a big city cop. Connor’s family didn’t understand why Connor had left Chicago two years ago for “a hick town.” Their words, not his.

  Connor had his reasons, and they were nobody’s business but his. No one expected him to spill his guts. That wasn’t the way his family worked. It certainly wasn’t the way a cop worked.

  The bottom line was that his years working undercover had left a mark on him. A permanent mark. Connor absently rubbed his left shoulder where a jagged scar remained to remind him of a knife fight that had almost ended his life.

  Connor’s older brother, Logan, had once told him that undercover cops were great liars. They had to be.

  Connor had certainly been damn good at his job. So good that the lies had nearly consumed him.

  His gaze traveled over the crowd. He knew most of the people he saw. The six Flannigan kids, all age eight and under, were present with their parents front and center. The kids had dripping ice-cream cones in their hands. The only exception was the baby still in the stroller, who was reaching for her sister’s cone, her face screwed up on the verge of a hissy fit.

  Farther down, the older generation was well represented by a group from the Hopeful Meadows Senior Center. The women outnumbered the men by ten to one today.

  Beside them was Flo Foxworth in her folding chair. Flo always reserved a curbside front row seat for every city event—from parades to concerts to fireworks. She worked in the post office and knew who subscribed to what magazines, although she didn’t share that knowledge with many. Not far behind her was Digger Diehl, the best plumber in town, who proudly wore his “Drain Surgeon” T-shirt with his denim overalls.

  The mayor, Lyle Bedford, wore his customary red vest with his suit as he walked at the head of the parade with the Girl Scout troop holding the large Founders’ Day Parade banner in blue and gold. Looking at him now, you’d never know that the guy had had open-heart surgery six months ago. A lifetime resident of Hopeful, Lyle had been mayor for nearly two decades now, and his popularity showed no signs of decreasing. Lyle loved Hopeful and the town loved him back.

  Behind him was a Brownie troop, and then a group of Boy Scouts. Then came one of the town’s shiny red fire trucks with Connor’s buddy Kyle “Sully” Sullivan at the wheel, followed by the fully decorated Chamber of Commerce float.

  Next came the Hopeful High School Marching Band playing the theme song from Star Wars—playing it badly but with a lot of enthusiasm. The teenagers’ faces were already hot and sweaty from the above-usual May temperature, which was already in the low eighties. At least the predicted storms had held off for the parade.

  The arrival of the perky cheerleaders waving their pom-poms was greeted with cheers from the men at the senior center—both of them. The football team was met with cheers from everyone for their impressive winning record last season.

  Connor looked away to check the crowd. A second later he heard a murmuring among the parade watchers. Turning back to the parade he was surprised to see a rusty lime green VW Bug crawling along the parade route at about three miles an hour, blaring some rock song he didn’t know.

  He expected to see some rebel teenager at the wheel, someone who’d pulled this stunt on a dare. Instead he saw a woman. Not a senior citizen who might have gotten confused, but a fairly young woman. Her smile was a little strained as she held up her hand and waved at the crowd as if she were royalty. Her face was flushed and she wore no ring on her left hand.

  There were no markings on the car to indicate that it was part of any city organization or group.

  Who is she?

  Connor didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until the woman beside him turned to answer him. “That’s our new librarian,” library director Roz Jorgen told him.

  “Is she part of some library entry in the parade?” he asked.

  “The teenage pages and members of Friends of the Library are participants in the book cart drill team ...”

  “That VW may be small but it’s no book cart.”

  Roz shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “No problem. I know what to say.”

  Connor walked around the barrier and headed for the rowdy VW with the out-of-state license plates. “Stop your vehicle, ma’am,” he said.

  “What?” she yelled.

  “Turn down the music.”

  “I can’t. It’s broken. It turns off and on by itself.”

  “Green Day,” a teenager yelled from the sidewalk. “‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams.’ Awesome song.”

  “Pull off at the next intersection,” Connor ordered the librarian, shouting so he could be heard over the music.

  She flashed her brown eyes at him, startled by his bossiness perhaps. She shouldn’t be. He was a cop, after all. Giving orders went with the badge. And he was in uniform, complete with sunglasses, so there was no mistaking who he was.

  Several things about her startled him. Her eyes, for one thing. They weren’t just brown, they were a light brown that reminded him of fine whiskey. Her shoulder-length brown hair was loose around her face.

  He moved a barricade so she could turn off the parade route onto a side street.

  Putting the car in park, she hopped out of the car before turning to face him. “If you can figure out how to stop the music, I’d appreciate it.”

  He reached in and twisted the keys in the ignition, turning the car off.

  “I should have thought of that. But then I’d be stuck in the m
iddle of the parade and I didn’t want to do that.” Her smile was a little wobbly. “I wasn’t expecting a police escort.”

  “I wasn’t expecting an unauthorized rusty VW to appear in the parade,” he said.

  “Are you going to give me a ticket?”

  The dread in her voice made him curious. Not that most folks were eager to get a ticket. But there was something more in her case.

  “Since you’re new in town, no,” he said.

  “What makes you think I’m new?”

  “Aside from the out-of-state plates, you mean?” he said.

  She nodded and nervously twisted a strand of her hair before tucking it behind her ear.

  “Most local folks would know better than to crash a parade,” he said. “And Roz told me that you were the new librarian.”

  “She saw me in the parade?”

  He nodded, watching as a blush covered her face. She looked good all hot and bothered. “License and registration, please,” he said.

  “Of course. Um, do I take them out of my wallet or just hand you the wallet?”

  “Have you ever received a ticket before?”

  “No, of course not!”

  She seemed upset that he’d even ask such a question.

  As she reached for her wallet he noticed the paleness around her left ring finger.

  According to the New York driver’s license she handed him, her name was Marissa Johnson. She was born in 1983 and was five foot six.

  “Well, Ms. Johnson, welcome to Hopeful. I’m Sheriff Connor Doyle.” He removed his sunglasses to give her one of his trademark reprimanding don’t-mess-with-me stares. Did he imagine her startled recoil just then? Hell, on the don’t-mess-with-me scale, the look he’d just given her barely rated a two. He could be much more intimidating without even breaking a sweat. “You really do need to pay attention to the barricades and other traffic signals in town.”

  The signals he was getting from her abruptly changed from nervous uncertainty to downright irritation. He wondered what caused the transition. He’d let her off with a warning and even welcomed her to town. What more did she want? Why was she eyeing him as if he was rodent shit all of a sudden?