01 - The Heartbreaker

by Carly Phillips

  She walked into Norman’s at nine A.M. sharp and was greeted at the door by Izzy, wearing the same white apron from yesterday, her hair pulled back in a bun.

  “I knew you’d be back.” The woman gave Sloane a hug as if they were old friends. “I’m glad you’re in one piece. I never would have sent you over to that old coot Samson’s if I’d known the house was going to blow up like that.” Izzy squeezed her harder, her relief obvious.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Sloane said, trying to gasp for air.

  “Don’t you worry. Rick told me to keep my mouth shut about sending you there and I will.” Finally Izzy let her go, stepping back to pull menus from beside the register. “But it’s someone’s fault. Dang Samson anyway. The man doesn’t pay attention to his shoe size. It’d be asking too much for him to notice the smell of gas and call the proper authorities.” She waved menus in her hand as she spoke. “So you need a table?”

  “Actually, I’d like breakfast to go,” Sloane said, grateful for the change of subject.

  Izzy leaned closer. “For two?” she asked, and winked. “I’ve known Chase since he was a boy and the man’s got a solid appetite.”

  Sloane sighed. Apparently, Chase wasn’t kidding about word traveling fast in this town, at least about some things. “Well, I’d love a large coffee with milk and sugar and one of those delicious-looking blueberry muffins.” She pointed to the mouthwatering display of cakes and pastries. And since Izzy already knew whom Sloane was staying with, she might as well go for broke. “And I’ll also take whatever is Chase’s favorite.”

  Izzy patted her face and treated her to another wink, and an immediate burn rose to Sloane’s cheeks. “I’ll take care of breakfast for you,” Izzy promised.

  Sloane wondered how long before the rest of the town knew she’d spent the night with Chase Chandler. She shifted back and forth on her feet, waiting for her order to be filled. Luckily, no one else approached her, and within minutes, she had paid, received a bag full of food, and was ready to leave.

  “You take care and I’ll be seeing you later.” Izzy added a few extra napkins into the bag.

  “Thanks, Izzy.”

  The older woman grinned. “My pleasure.”

  The lines around her eyes and on her friendly face were a testament to the years she’d lived and many smiles she’d given. If Izzy was an indication of the people in this town, Sloane figured her mother had probably stored some good memories here. At least Sloane hoped she had.

  And for the time she was here, Sloane decided she’d like to get to know this place too. She’d start by visiting shops and meeting people and hopefully finding out more information about Samson at the same time. “What time does Charlotte’s Attic open?” Sloane asked Izzy.

  “Beth Hansen, the manager, usually gets the place open around ten. Unless she’s had a late night with her boyfriend. Then it’s closer to ten-fifteen.” Izzy nodded knowingly.

  Sloane immediately recognized the older woman’s intention to impart more gossip, but she wouldn’t have privacy if she didn’t respect others’. “I’ll try to stop by later.”

  “Make sure you do. They’ve got sexy stuff. Items that’d make a normal man drool, if you get my drift. Not that my Norman cares anymore.” She wagged a finger back toward her husband, who was busy cooking in the kitchen.

  That was more information than Sloane needed to know, but Izzy was oblivious and continued without missing a beat. “Now, a virile young man like Chase”—she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively—“I’m sure I don’t have to say more.”

  Definitely not, Sloane thought. But Izzy was friendly and meant well, so Sloane smiled. “I’ll be sure to let Beth and Charlotte know you’re a talking advertisement.” She decided to get out before Izzy could share any more.

  Turning, she started for the door and bumped into a blonde about the same age as herself. She grabbed her bag tighter so as not to drop breakfast. “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem.” The other woman stepped back to make room for Sloane to pass. “You’re new in town.”

  Not a question, Sloane mused. Apparently, a new face was something immediately recognized around here. Nothing like D.C., where she saw different people every day.

  Sloane nodded. “I’m just passing through.” She didn’t want to be rude, but she could feel the minutes ticking by since she’d left the house. She didn’t want Chase to wake up and have him think she’d slipped out on him to avoid talking.

  The pretty blonde smiled. “I was just passing through too, when I came to Yorkshire Falls. Then I decided to make my stay permanent. Oh, I’m Kendall Sutton. I mean, I’m Kendall Chandler.” She shook her head and laughed. “I guess I’m still not used to the new name. I’m a newlywed,” she explained.

  Recognition dawned. “You’re Rick’s wife.”

  Kendall nodded, smiling.

  “I’m Sloane—”

  “Carlisle,” Kendall whispered. “I know. Rick told me about you. But unlike the rest of this town, you can trust my discretion.”

  Something about Kendall’s warmth told Sloane she could believe her. That and the fact that she was married to Chase’s brother. The Chandlers struck her as smart men, wise in their dealing with people. “I appreciate that,” Sloane said.

  Kendall held open the door for her. “I don’t know how long you plan on staying, but if you ever need a friend or want company or whatever, call.”

  “I will.” Sloane liked Rick’s wife. As she walked to her car, she realized she liked an awful lot about this quaint upstate town, including the warm people who said hello to her as she passed, and the more leisurely pace compared to D.C.

  And as she pulled into Chase’s driveway and parked around back, she discovered she liked coming home to him most of all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The car door slammed and the front door creaked on opening before shutting closed. Chase relaxed in bed, listening to the sound of Sloane’s return. Opening his eyes, he saw two delicious sights, Sloane and a tray of his favorite breakfast, French toast and bacon.

  He eyed the food and his guest with gratitude. “You didn’t have to go to any trouble.”

  “I did if I wanted to eat.” Laughing, she settled in across from him, curling her knees beneath her so the tray separated them. “Besides, it was no trouble. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

  It was a novelty he wasn’t used to. Such a small gesture, yet one that had his heart opening toward Sloane.

  She picked up a napkin and handed it to him, then pried the plastic lid off his coffee cup.

  “And you wanted to keep busy while we talked?”

  “You’re too perceptive.”

  He recognized the nervousness in her voice. She was a combination of strength and vulnerability, caring and independence, and Chase was drawn to all facets. “Thank you for the food.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Reaching across the tray as if to breach a divide, he squeezed her hand. “Don’t be nervous. I’m not out to hurt you.”

  She wrinkled her nose, obviously thinking about his words. “It’s funny how much I trust you despite the fact that there’s that reporter inside you.”

  His smile came without warning. “I’m glad.”

  She paused for a sip of her coffee and he did the same, but he didn’t need the jolt the caffeine would give. Sloane provided enough of a jump start to his system. “Want to tell me why this sudden trust?”

  She shrugged. “You saved my pretty behind as you so eloquently put it.”

  “That’s gratitude, and a far cry from trust.” And why did he need that trust so badly, when every journalistic fiber of his being screamed to him that her story would make his career. Translation—he shouldn’t get any more personally involved.

  “Why did I have to find a perceptive man?” She glanced down at the tray and pulled a fork into her hand. “There are other reasons too. For one thing, I already trusted you in a completely intimate way. I don’t do that often o
r lightly as I said once before.” She toyed with the uneaten muffin on her plate, mashing bits with her fork and not meeting his gaze. “And I wouldn’t have repeated being with you if you hadn’t come to mean something to me,” she admitted.

  His rapidly beating heart nearly stopped. “You mean something to me too,” he said in a rough voice.

  “Not even Madeline knows some of what I’m going to tell you, Chase. You can’t report on this. At least not until it’s safe,” she added, and swallowed hard. “But at some point you’ll have to decide what’s right for you.”

  She looked at him with such hope and belief in him shining in her eyes, he wondered if she was doomed to disappointment. He couldn’t believe fate could be so cruel as to make him choose between Sloane’s approval and his own long-held desires.

  But that time hadn’t yet arrived. “Talk to me, Sloane. You said Samson’s your father?” He still couldn’t reconcile the news or put this beautiful woman together with the reclusive loner in any way.

  “Believe it or not, yes.” She dropped the fork.

  Her muffin remained untouched, and because he hurt for her, he couldn’t bring himself to eat either. “How did that happen?”

  “I’d guess the old-fashioned way.”

  He laughed. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.” She shifted positions, uncrossing and recrossing her legs beneath her. “Apparently before my father—I mean Michael—came into the picture, my mother was in love with Samson. From everything people have said about him around here, I take it he’s not the most upstanding citizen?”

  Chase hesitated, grappling for diplomatic words to describe the old man. “He’s . . .”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it,” she ordered. “Be as honest with me as I’m being with you.”

  He nodded, admiring her strength. “He’s eccentric and antisocial. Those are the most usual words bandied around.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t always that way?”

  He shrugged. He really had no idea. “It’s possible. I’m sure my mother would know, and considering she’s always been kind to him, I’d guess you were right.” But Chase had never thought to question the man’s past or what made him into the odd creature he’d become. He didn’t like realizing he’d been so negative and close-minded against a man who, it turned out, was Sloane’s father.

  Sloane met his gaze, a forced smile on her lips. “I just may ask her one day.”

  “Then be prepared to answer questions of your own,” Chase said wryly.

  She laughed. “I really liked your mother. She has spunk.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That’s one word for it.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it. It’s obviously something my parents lacked.”

  “Why do you say that? You’re full of spunk and fortitude and you had to have inherited those genes from them,” he said, seeking to reassure her about an emotional and upsetting subject. One he still had many questions about.

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes, wide and full of hurt, shimmered with unshed tears. “What kind of people let themselves be bought off?”

  He sat up straighter, every journalistic nerve ending on high alert. “What do you mean?”

  “It seems that my grandfather, Jacqueline’s father, threatened Samson with something strong enough to get him to leave my mother and he took money to do it.”

  Chase blinked, startled by the admission. Bribery? And did Senator Carlisle have anything to do with it, Chase wondered. He held back accusatory-sounding questions for now, in favor of keeping Sloane calm and rational. He was worried about her feelings and her bruised emotions.

  He shook his head, knowing that wasn’t the path any self-respecting journalist would take. But he’d never felt less like a reporter and more like a man than he did around this woman. “Let’s go under the assumption that Samson had good reason to take the money. At least until we know otherwise, okay?” He wasn’t sure if he believed his own words, but Sloane looked as if she needed hope. The least he could do was give it to her. “If it’s any consolation, Samson never lived like he took money from anyone.”

  “I know. I saw the house before the explosion. I walked inside.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It was scary. And sad.”

  He nodded. “I can understand why you feel that way.” He pinched his nose, trying to assimilate his thoughts. “Why did you come looking for Samson now?” he asked, taking her back to the beginning. With her father’s campaign under way, this had to be the least opportune time for her to seek out her real father.

  “Because I just found out. The night we met, actually.” She rose from the bed and began to pace. “I was supposed to have dinner with my parents and had arrived at the hotel room early.” She twisted her hands together as she spoke, the rapid movements and perpetual motion obviously necessary for her to work up the nerve to continue.

  “Go on.”

  She cleared her throat. “Michael and Madeline weren’t there, but his campaign manager was, along with an assistant. Men I’d grown up knowing. They were talking in hushed, frenzied whispers about Michael not being my real father and needing to eliminate a threat to the campaign. Frank never makes idle statements or promises.” Her shoulders straightened, her path clear. “And so after I stopped reeling from the news that Michael wasn’t my real father, I realized I had to come here and warn this man I’d never met. The man who is my . . . father.”

  And the man whose house had just exploded, Chase thought. Either that fire was one hell of a coincidence or Michael Carlisle’s men had carried through with their threats. He clenched his hands around the bedsheets, realizing how serious this situation really was. Apparently, Sloane wasn’t as concerned about danger to herself as she was about finding Samson. Which meant he’d have to be concerned for her.

  She was too busy focusing on other things and he had a hunch he knew why. The truth about Samson was still raw and fresh. “So you heard the news and you ran.” He rose, coming up beside her and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “Right into your arms.”

  She turned toward him and tipped her head upward.

  He grinned. “Good thing I was there to catch you.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled back. “Good thing.”

  “You said when you finished reeling, you decided to warn Samson. But I don’t think you have.”

  “Have what?”

  “Finished reeling.” He curled his fingertips into her skin, brushing the pad of his thumb over her soft flesh. “Because it would be perfectly normal if you hadn’t.” And he wanted to help her through the conflicting, confusing feelings.

  “I haven’t had time to worry about myself. I’ll deal with all these leftover feelings once I find Samson.”

  “I think you need to deal with your emotions, Sloane. It’s not like Samson’s here now or you can do anything about finding him. At least not this minute.” He caressed her cheek and her eyes sparkled with gratitude, and thankfully a helluva lot more. “Why don’t you let me take care of you?”

  “Because I bought you breakfast so I could do the same for you. Take care of the man who’s always taking care of everyone else.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You did.” She laughed, her gaze never leaving his. “I can take care of myself, but I appreciate the offer.” Standing on her toes, she pressed a quick kiss on his lips, one not nearly long enough to suit him. “Your French toast must be cold. Let me warm it in the microwave.”

  She turned for the door, but he caught her hand in time. “I’m not hungry.” He didn’t want her running from her feelings. She’d already glossed over her emotions as unimportant, then changed the subject to food.

  He wasn’t buying her nonchalance. She was hurting and Chase didn’t want her suffering in silence. “Even self-sufficient people need a shoulder every now and then.”

  She inclined her head, acknowledging his point. “And when we have time, maybe I’ll take you up on your offer. R
ight now I need to talk to your mother. You said she knows Samson, so she might have some clues about where he’d go.” She glanced down at her hand, still entwined with his.

  “Either you let me go or I drag you with me into the shower.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean that literally,” she said, blushing at her words.

  “Why not?” He lifted her hands to his lips and feathered soft kisses over her knuckles. “I can’t think of anything more soothing than a hot shower.” He let his tongue take over, tracing the soft slopes of her hand, tasting her salty skin. “Or anything more mutually satisfying.” He blew on the moist patches he’d left behind.

  She let out a low moan. “You do tempt me. But you were right the first time, when you said we weren’t finished talking. I need to know you’re not going to tell anyone about Michael Carlisle.”

  From her flushed face and dilated eyes, he knew ignoring the passion wasn’t easy for her. He ought to know. Pushing aside the connection they’d found while she revealed her deepest pain was even harder to do. But her question was valid and couldn’t be avoided.

  Would he tell anyone? He couldn’t print the news, not while Sloane’s or Samson’s life was at stake. He didn’t want to turn her into a walking target. But how could he keep the truth from the police?

  “Chase, please,” she said in the wake of his silence, squeezing his hands tighter. “If the public found out the senator kept such a secret from me, it could destroy their trust in him and ruin not just this campaign but his career aspirations.” She pinned him with her stare, waiting for an answer.

  Chase was floored. Despite the senator’s lies, Sloane supported him. “I admire your loyalty.”

  “He raised me as his own child and never treated me any different than my”—she hesitated—“than my sisters and they’re his flesh and blood.” She swallowed hard. “He loves me. I’ve never not felt that love. Whatever his reasons for keeping my parentage a secret, I won’t let his life’s work be destroyed. So promise me you’ll keep quiet.”