by Helen Brenna
“Never been married. Never plan to be.”
Erica took a step toward Garrett. “But if you think anything is going to happen between us, guess again. You are so not my type it isn’t even funny.”
They might as well have been alone in the apartment for the charge in the air. Flirting with her was dangerous. Still, Garrett couldn’t rein himself in. “So what is your type?”
“Not a cop, that’s for sure,” she said.
“What do you have against cops?”
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
“Don’t think so.” Erica’s dark brown eyes were laced with something he couldn’t put a finger on. Something that looked an awful lot like fear.
Someone had badly hurt her and the little boy. All Garrett wanted was to get his hands on the guy who had.
Dear Reader,
I can’t tell you how proud I am to be a writer of Harlequin romance books. For me to find myself included in the company’s 60th anniversary celebration is nothing less than a triple scoop of double fudge ice cream topping my writing cake.
See, me and Harlequin Books—we go back a long way. Harlequin stories became a part of my life as a young teenager, and I’m quite sure I will never have read my fill of romances. There’s nothing that can make me smile, cry or turn pages faster than the expectation of that long-awaited first kiss and those wonderful happily-ever-after endings. As long as these eyes can see there’ll be a romance book on my bedside table. And it’ll likely be a Harlequin book.
More than anything, though, I want to thank you, our readers, for keeping Harlequin Books alive and vital and publishing some of the bestselling books on the market today. Without you, I couldn’t have so much fun writing. Thanks for picking up this book!
I hope you enjoyed Noah and Sophie’s story in First Come Twins, the first in my AN ISLAND TO REMEMBER series. With any luck, reading about Garrett and Erica will feel a little like coming home to a place you love and people you’ve missed.
Watch for Then Comes Baby, another Mirabelle Island story, coming in December 2009. And welcome back to Mirabelle!
Helen Brenna
Next Comes Love
Helen Brenna
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen Brenna grew up in a small town in central Minnesota, the seventh of eight children. Although she never dreamed of writing books, she’s always been a voracious reader of romances. So after taking a break from her accounting career, she tried her hand at writing the romances she loves to read. Since her first book was published in 2007, she’s won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award, a Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewer’s Choice Award and Virginia Romance Writers’ Holt Medallion.
Helen still lives in Minnesota with her husband, two children and far too many pets. She’d love hearing from you. E-mail her at [email protected] or send mail to P.O. Box 24107, Minneapolis, MN 55424. Visit her Web site at www.helenbrenna.com or chat with Helen and other authors at RidingWithTheTopDown.blogspot.com.
Books by Helen Brenna
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1403—TREASURE
1425—DAD FOR LIFE
1519—FINDING MR. RIGHT
1582—FIRST COME TWINS*
HARLEQUIN NASCAR
PEAK PERFORMANCE
FROM THE OUTSIDE
For Jerry Twomey
Thanks, Dad, for helping me believe
I could do just about anything!
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to friends who help make my days a little brighter.
Carolyn Fletcher, Pam Hoyt, Linda Maxwell, LaDonna Fallen, Sybil Crevier, Ann Kyrilis, Carol Tlachac, Denise Tatryn, Jan Abbott, Roxanne Dayton, Maureen Wenner and Kerry Adelmann. Thanks, guys, for always being there.
As always, my editor Johanna Raisanen’s pearls of wisdom, and in this book’s case several carats’ worth of diamonds, helped make this book the best it could be. Thanks, Johanna, for all you do.
And to my agent, Tina Wexler, for your encouragement and calm in the face of my creative outbursts—okay, meltdowns—thanks, and I luv ya.
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
NO MALLS. NO CLUBS. No nightlife.
This place is gonna suck.
Erica Corelli kept her thoughts resolutely to herself while the ferry cruised by Mirabelle Island’s shoreline, passing gingerbread houses, sailboats and yachts, manicured gardens and white picket fences. A couple of Southsiders from Chicago fit into this idyllic setting about as well as gum wads on the streets of the Magic Kingdom.
The late-April afternoon sun moved lower on the horizon. Erica pushed away from the boat’s metal railing and hid her misgivings with a smile. “It’s pretty, isn’t it, Jason?” She ruffled the six-year-old’s short hair. She’d hated having to cut and dye brown his naturally blond curls, but there’d been no way around it.
“Like a fairyland,” Jason whispered, his eyes wide. It was one of the few times he’d put down his handheld video game long enough to take in the view. “Are you sure they’ll let us live here?”
No, Erica wasn’t sure. “We’re as good as anybody here, kiddo, and don’t you let anyone tell you any different.”
She glanced at the employment ad she’d found in the local newspaper back on Wisconsin’s mainland for a place called Duffy’s Pub. She would’ve preferred to cook, but she could bartend with the best of them, and waitress if there were no other options. If she could find a job, any job, and a place to live, they’d be all right. For a while, anyway.
Jason stuffed the video game into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and shuffled closer to her side. “Are you going to make me go to school?” he asked.
There had to be kids living on the island, right? So there had to be at least one school. “Don’t you want to go?”
His brow furrowed as he shook his head in short motions back and forth. It didn’t seem right for a kid to be this somber and introspective.
“We’ll see.” Erica flipped through a glossy tourist brochure looking for details. Over ten square miles, it said. She had no idea what a square mile looked like, but it sounded small.
She’d been to Mirabelle only once when she’d been about ten and back then everything had seemed big. She’d loved that noisy cars and city buses weren’t allowed on the island. Everyone walked or took carriages, or rode bikes and horses. She remembered thinking that this island had to be the most perfect place on earth. The kind of place where happily-ever-afters hung on trees like bright red apples waiting to be picked. The kind of place where, any minute, a knight might ride out of the forest, scoop up a princess and carry her off to his castle.
Right. These days, she’d settle for Mirabelle still being the kind of place a child could feel safe, if only for a few weeks.
A chilly spring wind blew across the deep waters of Lake Superior and hit the back of her neck. She flipped the swea
tshirt hood over Jason’s head and zipped her own leather jacket up tight.
As if sensing Erica’s doubts, Jason said, “Is this my fault? Did I do something wrong?”
“Don’t you ever think that, okay?” She knelt in front of him, eye to eye. “Okay?”
Jason nodded.
“It’s gonna be all right. Better than all right, even. We’ll have fun here. Before you know it you’ll be back home. Safe and sound.”
With a short toot of its horn, the ferry announced its arrival at the Mirabelle Island marina. A slight tremor ran through the deck as the huge boat settled against the pier. With a short burst of activity, ramps were lowered and the other passengers, a sum total of five other people, trotted off the boat.
“This is it.” Erica helped Jason hoist up his own backpack, then she grabbed their suitcases. “You ready?”
He nodded.
“Here we go.”
They stepped off the ferry and headed toward what looked like the center of town. Although it was early spring and the overflowing baskets of flowers hanging from the black iron lampposts were noticeably absent, the island was much as Erica remembered. Stately trees, oaks, maples, on the verge of leafing out, and several types of evergreens, lined the cobblestone road. Cobblestone. For real.
A candy shop, painted fire-engine red with white shutters, like something out of a painting, sat at the nearest corner. A blue-and-white restaurant, the Bayside Café, claimed to grill up the best half-pound cheeseburger in the entire state of Wisconsin, while the ice cream shop next door offered a selection of gourmet coffees. An art gallery, bank, post office and flower shop all sported identical green-and-white-striped awnings. To top it all off, a chapel, an immaculate white building with narrow, stained glass windows, sat up on the hill, overseeing it all. They probably had perfect white weddings in that church.
She glanced longingly back at the ferry already pulling away from the pier. So much for that. Erica took a deep breath and glanced down at Jason. Smiling awkwardly, she handed him the Green Bay Packers cap she’d bought at a gas station. “Do you mind wearing this?”
He looked from the hat to her and back again and without a word jammed it on his head.
She rested her hands on his bony shoulders, doing her best to comfort him. “Would it be okay if we came up with a nickname for you?”
He looked at her quizzically and then, understanding, he whispered, soft and small, “Sure.”
“Do you have any ideas?” She grinned, trying to lighten things up. “Ralph? Pedro? Maynard?”
As if he hadn’t even heard her measly attempts at humor he frowned in concentration. So serious. “How ’bout Zach?” he said.
“Zach. Sounds good.” Erica’s heart swelled with admiration. “This is going to be hard, kiddo, I know.” She hesitated, taking Jason’s small hands into her own. “From now on you have to call me Mom.”
GARRETT TAYLOR SAT AT THE counter next to several other residents in the Bayside Café and washed down with a gulp of water the last of his early dinner, a dry, relatively tasteless tuna salad sandwich. What he wouldn’t have done at that moment for a genuine, spicy, saucy Chicago-style pizza. Might have to learn how to cook one himself, he thought ruefully as he watched the comings and goings in the harbor.
This time of year, there were only a couple ferry runs a day. By all accounts, come June and the start of the summer tourist season there’d be a ferry scheduled practically every hour, each one overflowing with wedding guests and travelers all looking for quaint and quiet. Garrett let the rest of the island residents handle quaint. For the last eight or so months, as Mirabelle’s new chief of police, he’d taken care of the quiet.
The late afternoon ferry docked and a few Mirabelle residents who worked or had been running errands on the mainland hopped onto the pier and headed home or to their respective businesses. The last to step onto dry land was a young boy with his mother. She dragged a couple suitcases behind her, making it look as if they intended to stay a short while. He’d never seen her before or the kid.
Not that Garrett minded strangers. Tourism was the island’s bread and butter, but Mirabelle’s strangers were usually vacationers or college students looking for summer jobs, a lot of them from Chicago or the Twin Cities. This one, with her dark, chin-length blunt haircut, leather jacket and high-heeled boots was neither. She stuck out like a Harley parked in a row of Cadillacs.
“Well, lookie what the cat dragged in.” Herman Stotz, Mirabelle’s assistant police chief, whistled softly and nodded toward the street.
During the off season, Garrett and Herman both worked part-time, generally splitting daily shifts, so they’d gotten into the habit of meeting for lunch or dinner several times a week to discuss police business. “Know her?” Garrett asked.
“No, sirree. Her, I’d remember.”
Garrett flipped a ten onto the counter and pulled on his uniform jacket. Herman followed suit.
“Have a good evening, Dolores,” Garrett called to the café owner.
“Thanks, Garrett. Herman. See ya later.”
As Garrett turned, Hannah Johnson, Sarah Marshik and Missy Charms, the three women sitting at the table directly behind Garrett and Herman, glanced up. Hannah, a blue-eyed, blond-haired daisy of a woman, taught at the island’s only school. Sarah owned the flower shop and doubled as the island wedding planner. And Missy, a horoscope-reading new-ager, owned the gift shop next door to Sarah.
Someone or another was usually trying to hook him up with one of the island’s three most eligible women, but Hannah was the only likely match for Garrett. Missy was too far out there and Sarah was far too classy for the likes of Garrett, not to mention she was a widow with a young son. Although moving to Mirabelle was a first step in changing his life, getting married and having kids were whole different issues he wasn’t ready to tackle. Besides, his Mirabelle plan called for settling in slowly. No quick decisions. No acting on impulse.
“Bye, Garrett,” Sarah said, smiling widely.
“Hey, Garrett,” Missy said, grinning, “Why don’t you stop by the gift shop later and I’ll give you a tarot reading.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Missy.” Chuckling, he nodded at Hannah. “See you later, Hannah.”
“Bye, Garrett.” She gave him a small wave. “Herman.”
“Ladies.” Herman nodded at their table.
Garrett stopped by the café’s glass front door and watched the woman who had come off the ferry cross the street before hitting their block. On closer examination, he wouldn’t have called her pretty. Sexy was more like it. Those boots alone with spiked heels and buttons up the back set her in a whole different category of woman. The only boots he’d ever seen on Mirabelle were of the rubber sole and thick lining variety. Add skinny jeans and cleavage—no, he was not going to look again—to the package, and this was a wild one. Those lips. So full they hardly even dipped in the middle. Brown eyes. Wide-set and intense. Man alive.
Garrett got ready to head outside. If he timed it for right…about…now…He pushed open the door, impeding sidewalk progress. “Whoops. Excuse me.”
The woman stopped. After one wary glance at his face, her focus dropped to the badge on his police-issue jacket. Caramel highlights ran through her dark curls like milk chocolate ribbons in a dark chocolate cake. After a so-quick-it-was-barely-there flash of uncertainty, she looked as if she might bite his head clear off given the right motivation.
Mmm, mmm, mmm. From cub to tigress in seconds flat.
Something primal fired to life at his core, and he immediately tamped it back down. Not your type, G.T. “Need some help with that suitcase?” he asked, holding her gaze.
“Do I look like I need help?” She didn’t even smile. A raised eyebrow was the only expression of emotion on her face.
“You look completely self-sufficient. But we could all use a hand every now and then.”
“I’d be glad to help you with one of those suitcases, ma’am,” Herman said, sucking u
p. “Or the boy’s backpack.”
“We’ll be fine.” She glanced at Herman.
Garrett slipped on his mirrored sunglasses and glanced down at the boy. He couldn’t see much of his face what with the baseball cap pulled low on his brow, but at this angle a bruise on his neck was visible under the shadow of his hooded sweatshirt. “What’s your name, buddy?”
“Um…Zach,” he said, glancing up at his mom with a worried expression.
“As in Zachary?” That bruise was a thumbprint if Garrett had ever seen one. The only question was whose thumb.
“Just Zach.” The mom started to turn.
Before she took a single step, he held out his hand. “I’m Garrett Taylor. This is Herman Stotz. And you are?”
“Unless I’ve broken any of your laws—” she ignored his outstretched hand and continued down the sidewalk, holding her son’s hand “—none of your business.”
Garrett resisted the urge to pull her back and explain in no uncertain terms that everything that happened on Mirabelle was his business. Everything and everyone. But this was Mirabelle, he reminded himself, not Chicago, and that hotheaded, shoot-from-the-hip-regardless-of-the-consequences Garrett Taylor was best kept under wraps. For everyone’s sake.
“Whooeee,” Herman whistled quietly. “That one’s going to cause you some trouble.”
Garrett watched them walk away. “Only if I rise to the bait.” That, he resolved, was not going to happen, even after he found who had caused that boy’s bruise. And he would soon find out, no doubt about that.