Driven To Distraction

by Judith Duncan

  Tony looked dangerous and disreputable, dressed in worn blue jeans and motorcycle boots, sunglasses obscuring his eyes, a five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw.

  Lethal was the first word that popped into Maggie’s mind.

  Feeling suddenly very nervous, she folded her arms, swallowing against the crazy flutter in her throat. Her heart started to pound, her mouth went dry, and common sense warred with a fierce longing.

  Tony glanced up then and caught her watching him, and his expression went very still. He stood with his back braced against the window frame, his arms folded, one foot flat against the wall. There was something in his stillness, in the steadiness of his gaze, that made her heart skip a beat.

  She took a deep breath and turned away.

  Lord, he was driving her to distraction….

  Dear Reader,

  We’ve got six drop-dead-gorgeous and utterly irresistible heroes for you this month, starting with Marilyn Pappano’s latest contribution to our HEARTBREAKERS program. Dillon Boone, in Survive the Night, is a man on the run— right into Ashley Benedict’s arms. The only problem is, will they survive long enough to fulfill their promises of forever?

  Our ROMANTIC TRADITIONS title is Judith Duncan’s Driven to Distraction, a sexy take on the younger man/older woman theme. I promise you that Tony Parnelli will drive right into your heart A Cowboy’s Heart, Doreen Roberts’ newest, features a one-time rodeo rider who’s just come face-to-face with a woman—and a secret—from his past. Kay David’s Baby of the Bride is a marriageof-convenience story with an adorable little girl at its center—and a groom you’ll fall for in a big, bad way. Blackwood’s Woman, by Beverly Barton, is the last in her miniseries, THE PROTECTORS. And in J.T. Blackwood she’s created yet another hero to remember. Finally, Margaret Watson returns with her second book, An Honorable Man. Watch as hero Luke McKinley is forced to confront the one woman he would like never to see again—the one woman who is fated to be his.

  Enjoy them all, and come back next month for more great romantic reading—here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Yours,

  Leslie Wainger

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Driven To Distraction

  Judith Duncan

  Books by Judith Duncan

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  A Risk Worth Taking #400

  Better Than Before #421

  *Beyond All Reason #536

  *That Same Old Feeling #577

  *The Return of Eden McCall #651

  Driven to Distraction #704

  *Wide Open Spaces

  Silhouette Books

  To Mother with Love 1993

  “A Special Request”

  JUDITH DUNCAN

  is married and lives, along with two of her five children and her husband, in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. A staunch supporter of anyone wishing to become a published writer, she has lectured at several workshops for Alberta’s Department of Culture and participated in conventions in both British Columbia and Oregon. After having served a term as 2nd Vice President for the Canadian Authors’ Association, she is currently working with the Alberta Romance Writers’ Association, which she helped to found.

  To my good fairy, Marlene Dunn,

  for doing what she does best. I couldn’t

  have done it without you, Marlene.

  Chapter 1

  Maggie Burrows felt as if her eyes were being sucked out of her head as she stared at the computer screen, a pencil clenched between her teeth, aggravation making her jaws ache. She entered the final numbers from the stack of checks clipped together on her desk, aware that a headache—a very big headache—was only moments away. Taking the pencil out of her mouth, she tossed it in the shoe box of receipts on her desk, then hit the Return key. The numbers froze on the screen as the figures compiled, then a total appeared. Frustration, blood and raw adrenaline rushed to her head, and she clenched her fists in her hair. “Aggghhh! This is driving me nuts!”

  Frank Lucciano poked his head around the door, then rested his hand on the frame and studied his employee. The round, stocky businessman was totally bald on top, with dark, curly hair from the crown down. With his thin mustache, narrow, intent eyes and short stubby fingers, he looked like an overweight gangster. In one sense, Maggie supposed he was. He regularly robbed Revenue Canada of expected tax dollars.

  And that was because Frank Lucciano was one of the shrewdest accountants around. His customers loved him, government auditors hated him and most of the time Maggie would have sold her soul for him—except right now. Right now she wanted to strangle him, along with her client.

  He moved farther into the doorway. “You still fighting with the Macinrow account?”

  He even sounded like a gangster. Maggie glared at him, resisting the urge to smash her brand-new keyboard over her brand-new computer. “Yes,” she snapped, “I’m still fighting with the Macinrow account!”

  He shifted his hand higher on the door frame, and sunlight glinted off his obscenely large diamond pinky ring. “I tolt you,” he said, in something that sounded like a Bronx scold, “not to bail him out. This is the third year in a row he’s been late with his corporate tax return. Then he comes in here with three shoe boxes full of receipts? Let them Revenue guys take a bite outta him. Next time he’ll hop a little quicker.”

  Maggie glared at him. “Thanks so much for your support, Frank. As if you’d let ‘them Revenue guys’ take a bite out of anyone.”

  There was something that looked suspiciously like amusement lurking around his mouth. “Him I would. He’s always late getting his books in and he never pays on time. Him they could have.”

  She shot him a hostile look. “This is Calgary, Frank, so cut the Capone act. I’m not in the mood. If I had a match right now, I’d torch the whole damned mess.”

  He straightened and lumbered over to her work station, leaning over her shoulder as he studied the screen. “So what’s the problem?”

  She let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. “I can’t get a damned thing to balance. I’ve checked it so many times, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

  He straightened and flapped his hands at her in a shooing motion. “Move.”

  She compressed her jaw into a stubborn line. “I’m not—”

  He gave her a long level look and flapped his hands again. “Just move it, Burrows. Let me see what that old bugger’s done this time.”

  Relenting with another sigh, Maggie got up, and Frank settled his heavy frame in her chair. He adjusted the slant of the monitor, then hunched his shoulders. “Go home,” he said to the screen. “Have a shot of gin or a Valium or something. If anybody’s going to torch Macinrow’s box of crap, it’s going to be me.”

  Maggie released another heavy sigh. “I can’t leave you with this. Especially when I’m taking holidays next week.”

  Frank scrolled through the entries. “Go home, Burrows,” he reiterated firmly. “If this old bugger kept decent records, he wouldn’t end up in these damned messes. Besides, who in hell in their right mind would have set a corporate year-end for the end of May? Doesn’t he know when personal income taxes are due in this country?” Maggie’s boss gave a disgusted snort. “He probably never filed those, either.”

  “Frank—”

  “Go home, Maggie.” A grin worked its way around his mouth. “Hell, you’re over forty—what can you expect? Miracles?” His grin broadened. “Maybe it’s menopause.”

  Narrowing her eyes at him
, Maggie bit back a humorous retort and considered slugging him with the complete volume of the Income Tax Act. Instead, she picked up a shoe box of receipts and dumped it from shoulder height onto the desk. “Then go to it, Lucciano.” She reached out and grabbed her handbag from the top shelf of her computer station. “And I hope this mess gives you hives and ulcers.”

  Frank Lucciano chuckled. “Women,” was all he said.

  Maggie had her hand on the door when she stopped and turned, guilt and gratitude warring within her as the spring sunshine taunted her. “Thanks, Frank.”

  His gaze was riveted on the screen as he waved off her comment. “Yeah, yeah.”

  She stared at him a moment, then responded, the guilt giving way to amusement. “If you decide to murder him, let me know. I’ll raise bail.”

  The older man chuckled again. “You’re all heart, Burrows.”

  Hooking the strap of her bag over her shoulders, she pulled open the door. “See you next week.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t slam the door on your way out. And don’t take any wooden nickels.”

  She grinned at him. “Yes, Mother.”

  “Just go home, will you?” he said, scrolling through the figures on the screen. “You’re getting on my nerves.”

  Maggie gave him a rude salute and left, making darned sure she slammed the door after her.

  If she hadn’t been forty-three years old and somewhat sane, she would have immediately jumped up and down on the accounting firm’s steps and shouted hallelujah. Tax season was over, it was spring and she had a week off. The feeling of freedom left her feeling almost giddy.

  Straightening her shoulders, she took a big, cleansing breath and started walking down the street toward home, humming “Spring Is in the Air.” Lord, it was a relief to get out of there. And today she was going to enjoy the walk home.

  Every step was as familiar as her own face. She’d grown up in Calgary, in this neighborhood. And though there was “big city” all around it, the Marda Loop district somehow managed to maintain a small-town feel, even through a major revitalization. Trendy new businesses were now mixed in with the old, and a significant number of young, upwardly mobile professionals had moved in, restoring old homes or building sleek new in-fills.

  But in spite of the changing complexion, the small-town feeling had remained. Named for an old city transit stop and tucked into a hilly southwest corner of the city, Marda Loop had all the energy of renovation, but it also had the history and flavor of an old, established area, and Maggie loved every square inch of it.

  After her divorce twelve years ago, she had moved back to raise her three kids. Her mother had died years before and her father was alone, and he had wanted her to come home. So she had, and she’d never once regretted it.

  Heaving a deep, contented sigh, she turned down a side street, the sunshine and scent of spring filling her up, putting a bounce in her step. She was simply going to enjoy the day and the rare feeling of freedom. And she was not going to think about all the things she had to do on her week off— things like paint. Nope, she wasn’t going to think about that. She didn’t feel this lighthearted very often, so she was going to revel in it as long as she could.

  She crossed the street, relishing the smell of new leaves and green grass, all laced with the scent of fresh bread coming from the bakery a block over. Skirting the storm grate, she stepped up on the sidewalk and snapped off a single bud from a lilac bush as she passed, twirling the stem between her fingers. Once she got the living room painted, she’d pick herself a big bouquet.

  She looked up and immediately tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, stumbling a few steps before catching her balance. Then she stopped and stared, horror paralyzing her as she stared at the no-longer-vacant tire shop next door to her home. The two-story building, for sale for the past year, ever since her neighbors, the Millers, had retired and moved to Arizona, was set back from the street. On the cement apron in front, four sinister, black Harley Davidson motorcycles were parked, their heavy chrome glinting ominously in the sun. The two bay doors were open, and as Maggie stood there, trying to assimilate the sight before her, a blare of rock-and-roll music came from one of the bays. Her heart lurched in her chest, and icy alarm washed through her.

  A motorcycle gang. Oh, God, the Millers had sold out to a motorcycle gang. Oh, lord! Clasping her hand against her chest to try to stop the wild pounding of her heart, Maggie stared at the nightmare before her. She knew about this. About gangs buying houses in older neighborhoods. Bringing crime. Terrorizing the residents. But she couldn’t believe it was happening here. Not in this quiet corner of the neighborhood. Not next door to her!

  Feeling as if there was a race horse loose in her chest, she dragged her gaze away and stared numbly down her oncepeaceful street, too stunned to move. She was living next door to a nest of Devil’s Angels.

  A fresh shot of alarm slithered up the back of her neck, and she started walking, a hard little ball of fear taking shape in her belly. Her gaze fixed straight ahead, she hurried past the property and turned up her sidewalk, feeling as if the dogs of hell were hot on her heels. Devil’s Angels. Right next door.

  Fumbling with her keys, she unlocked her front door and practically fell into the glassed-in porch, her heart still beating a wild tattoo in her chest. Extracting the key, she pushed the door shut, threw the dead bolt and leaned back against the heavy wood panel, her knees suddenly shaky. Taking a steadying breath, she opened her eyes and stared at the brass knocker on the inside door. Now what in hell was she going to do?

  Determined to draw on her usual common sense, she tried to will away the panic in her abdomen. Okay, maybe she was overreacting. Maybe it wasn’t a gang. Maybe whoever had bought it was going to open a motorcycle shop next door. Not a great addition to the street, but definitely better than a Devil’s Angels’ fortress. In any case, the first thing tomorrow, she was definitely going to call Johnson’s Securities and get them to install new dead bolts, and security bars on the basement windows. And outside lights and—

  The inside door opened abruptly, and Maggie jumped and clamped her hand to her chest, her heart going into overdrive.

  Her fifteen-year-old daughter stood staring at her as if Maggie had lost her mind. “What are you doing home? It’s only 3:30.”

  Certain that if she got one more bad scare today, she’d be needing a cemetery plot instead of security bars, Maggie managed a weak smile. “Frank gave me the afternoon off.”

  A frown appearing, Kelly studied.her mother. “What’s the matter? You look weird.”

  Determined not to alarm her daughter until she had a chance to find out what was going on next door, she put more effort into her smile. “I spent all morning working on Mr. Macinrow’s taxes.”

  “He’s the guy that always brings in his receipts in shoe boxes, right?”

  “Right.”

  Kelly grinned and opened the door wider. “Well, this must be your day, Ma, because there’s also a letter from Dad in the mail. Which means he’s delivering one of his lectures. I wonder what’s ticked him off this time.”

  Digesting this piece of news, Maggie stared at her daughter, then released a long sigh. Just what she needed. Devil’s Angels next door and a letter from Bruce on the same day. If she had a choice, she’d rather have the Devil’s Angels. Expelling another heavy sigh, she followed her daughter into the house and tossed her purse onto the easy chair just inside the living room. Then she went into the kitchen, experiencing a twist of distaste when she saw the stack of mail on the kitchen table. It wasn’t that she and her ex-husband had an unpleasant relationship. In fact, for the most part, it was quite civil. As long as he kept his opinions to himself.

  With not an ounce of well-being left, Maggie stared at the pile of mail. She knew darned well what the letter was about. Haley, their twenty-year-old daughter, who was attending university in eastern Canada, had landed a summer job on a cruise ship. Bruce had wanted her to spend the summer in Vancouver, working f
or him. Haley and her father had got into a battle royal over that, and she had finally phoned her mother, asking her opinion. Haley was on the dean’s list at university, held down a part-time job, managed her money like John Paul Getty and still found time to volunteer at a women’s shelter. She was one of the most levelheaded, sensible, independent kids around. She was also nobody’s doormat.

  Maggie was well aware that her daughter would make more money working in the accounting firm for her father, and she also knew that Haley’s expenses in Vancouver would be next to nothing. After all, Bruce had made a point of informing her that he and Jennifer had fixed up the guest room just for Haley, so she could have a “decent, suitable” place to liveinsinuating, of course, that Maggie had never provided such accommodation for their children. In spite of Bruce’s pointed little dig, she had bit her tongue and kept out of the battle— until Haley phoned her.

  Knowing full well that her daughter’s practical side was warring with her thirst for adventure, Maggie had advised her not to let her father talk her into doing what he wanted, and that maybe this once she should forgo a better paycheck and take the job that was going to be fun. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. If Haley was short of money when she went back to university in the fall, they’d work it out somehow. But Maggie did not want her daughter to give up an opportunity like this. She didn’t want Haley making the same mistakes she had.

  Consequently, this letter had come from Bruce, probably reprimanding her for not supporting him in his attempt to do the best thing for his daughter. Maggie sighed again and raked her hair back from her face with both hands, wanting to scream. Instead, she turned toward the kitchen counter. Picking up the electric teakettle, she filled it under the tap and plugged it in. If she’d been smart, she would have walked the other way when she’d left work this afternoon.