It was dangerous work then, and it was dangerous work now, and when his Sarah died it seemed Alistair had made it his business to take on the riskiest assignments available. He had grown older, more jaded with every passing day, and Maggie's heart had ached each time she saw him.
But since meeting Holland Masters two years ago, Alistair Chambers had become a walking advertisement for the fountain of youth. Who would have imagined it was hidden right in the heart of Manhattan?
Alistair would never see sixty again, and Holland was floating delicately in the region of forty-plus, yet every time Maggie was around them, she caught the unmistakable scent of orange blossoms and the thrill of young love in the air.
Not that the scent of orange blossoms wasn't everywhere in the Poconos. For over forty years, couples from every part of the country had been converging on those quiet Pennsylvania mountains to spend a blissful week in one of countless honeymoon hotels scattered throughout the countryside.
Although they seemed better suited for the Swiss Alps, Alistair and Holland obviously liked the all-American Poconos. They'd come up from Manhattan three times in the past three weeks, treating Maggie to wonderful dinners and delightful conversation.
Maggie couldn't help but wonder if there was some deeper reasons for this sudden interest in honeymoon hotels but, knowing her uncle as she did, she'd find out soon enough.
As it was, Maggie was savoring the opportunity to enjoy the very romantic courtship of her favorite uncle and his ladylove who, at the moment, seemed to have an unholy fixation with mirrors and lights.
"Okay," Maggie said, gesturing with her dessert spoon. "Why all this talk about mirrors on the ceiling? The White Elephant doesn't have mirrors on the ceiling. The only way you could –" She stopped at the guilty expression on her usually unflappable uncle's face. "You didn't!"
"I'm afraid we did," said Alistair.
"You went over to the competition?"
"It seemed a marvelous idea at the time." He glanced at Holland for support. "How better to understand what battles you've yet to face? A little discreet investigation seemed apropos."
"I fought the good fight," said Holland. "I brought up family loyalty, moral rectitude and possible public humiliation." She shrugged eloquently. "Nothing worked."
Maggie polished off her last spoonful of chocolate mousse and took a quick, longing peek at Holland's strawberry tart. "My own flesh and blood goes over to the enemy camp."
"Don't you want to know what the competition is doing, dear girl? Holland and I can give you an on-the-spot description of everything that goes on at the Love Cottages."
Holland blanched visibly. "Not everything."
"We can supply you with demographics on the clientele."
"We didn't see any of the clientele all weekend."
Alistair winked at Maggie. "We can supply pictures and –"
"Oh, no, we can't," Holland broke in "Not unless I retouch the negatives."
"Go ahead," said Alistair, puffing on a Gauloise. "Ask me anything about the Love Cottages."
Maggie, who was consumed with curiosity, feigned indifference. "Purple shag rugs and lava lights aren't my idea of class. I have loftier aims for The White Elephant."
Alistair pierced her with a look. "Some people find purple shag rugs very romantic."
"I'm not some people."
"Do you find anything romantic these days, Maggie?"
She faked a swoon at the sight of the dessert cart rolling by their table. "Be careful, Holland," she said. "Your strawberry tart is in peril."
"Don't change the subject," said her uncle. "I'm concerned. Certainly there must be some eligible men here in honeymoon heaven."
Maggie groaned. "I get enough of the romance-is-where-you-find-it routine from the Douglass clan."
"And well you should. You're much too young and beautiful to bury yourself in that monstrosity you call an inn. When was the last time you were out on a date?"
"Last month," Maggie shot back to Holland's applause. "Craig Watson. Three hours trapped in a bowling alley with a man whose idea of a good time is a seven-ten split." In the four years since her husband Rick's death, Maggie was certain she'd suffered through more blind dates than Helen Keller.
"So Mr. Watson was an unmitigated boor," said Alistair. "Surely you've had some good dates recently."
"That was a good date." She turned to Holland. "Tell him there's nothing wrong with being single, please !"
"Not I," said Holland with a short laugh, "That's a definite conflict of interests."
In retaliation Maggie swiped a piece of Holland's unguarded strawberry tart. "I like where I live. I like how I live. I like with whom I live." No one dared dangle a preposition around Alistair Chambers.
"You live with a foul-tempered parrot." Alistair brushed away breadcrumbs scattered by a bird-brained waiter. "Yours is hardly the usual housemate."
She thought of The White Elephant with its spires and turrets and occasional newlyweds."Mine is hardly the usual house."
"You're a difficult woman, Magdalena," said Alistair. "I'm only thinking of your happiness."
Maggie groaned. "Alistair, so help me, if you say one more word about my social life, I'm leaving you with the bill."
"Listen to her, darling," said Holland with a grin. "We ordered champagne and caviar."
Maggie couldn't help laughing, but a sharp edge of truth poked through. "Besides," she said, "you're asking for the impossible. Single men in the Poconos are rare as truffles."
Holland gestured toward the man across the room. "How about that gorgeous specimen? He's been watching you ever since he sat down."
So she hadn't imagined his interest.
Maggie glanced in his direction. "He's probably a bubble bath salesman with a wife and eight kids waiting for him at home."
"So you did notice him!" Holland patted Alistair's forearm. "See? There's hope for her yet."
"This has to be the most ridiculous conversation I've ever had." Which was saying a great deal, since water beds and mirrored ceilings had been the featured topics earlier in the luncheon. "Just because I refuse to paper the guest rooms with scenes from the Kama Sutra doesn't mean I'm ready for a rocking chair yet."
"Then prove it, darling," said Holland. "Go over there and strike up a conversation with your admirer."
Maggie took a long look at him as he demolished a piece of Chicken Kiev.
"Forget it," she said. "He's not my type."
Holland's coffee cup clattered against its saucer. "Not your type? You have something against tall, dark and handsome hunks?"
"Yes," Maggie replied cheerfully. "They're usually stupid."
Alistair cleared his throat. "I, for one, am feeling inordinately uncomfortable at this moment."
"So am I," said Maggie. "I suggest we leave the subject of my social life alone."
Alistair recovered his composure in record time. "I have but a few more things to say on that subject, and then we can –"
"Remember what I said before," Maggie warned, with a wicked gleam in her eye.
"—move on to other items. You're too young to resign yourself to a –"
"Alistair! I'm warning you . . . "
" – life of loneliness and –"
Maggie pushed back her chair and stood up. "Thank you," she said, flashing a triumphant smile. "Lunch is on you."
#
Damn it to hell!
The woman in the white dress was leaving.
Not ten feet away from him she was making her way through the crowded dining room and heading straight for the door.
For the last thirty minutes he'd toyed with the idea of sending her a bottle of Moet or a note inviting her out to dinner. He'd even considered sauntering over to her table and introducing himself.
But, in the end, he sat there drinking Bud under Claude's disapproving eye, and wondering why some things got harder to do as you got older.
It didn't seem fair.
In a logical world, age
and experience would make this sort of thing easier.
Hell.
Ten years ago he wouldn't have hesitated.
Ten years ago he would have walked right up to her and stated his intentions, and he wouldn't have given her the chance to say no.
But he was thirty-five now and as far removed from The Animal as Santa Claus was from Satan. He'd learned the hard way that you don't always get what you want – and that what you get isn't always what you need.
He cut into his chicken and took a long ahrd look at the fancy butter and herbs running all over his plate.
Who ate Chicken Kiev anyway?
He was getting soft, that's what it was.
Old and soft.
The hard edge that saw him through the low spots had vanished along with money problems and touring and the rush of excitement he'd felt each time he took the stage.
The kamikaze waiter raced past with a tray of sizzling steaks, and he just missed bumping into the woman in white who was stopped near the door, chatting with a tall skinny guy who'd interviewed John for the Pocono Bugle.
John cut another piece of chicken and watched her. The reporter said something, and she threw her head back and laughed, a low, slightly husky sound that was everything he'd imagined her laugh would be.
What the hell was he waiting for anyway?
In another second she'd turn and walk out of the restaurant and out of his life.
Say something, you idiot! Don't let her get away!
He pushed back from the table before he'd even finished chewing his last piece of chicken.
He didn't see the doomsday waiter racing back toward the kitchen until it was too late.
"I'm s-sorry, sir," the waiter stammered. "I didn't see you – sir?" The waiter's eyes bugged out as he stared at John. "Sir? Say something, sir!"
I can't say anything, you jackass! I can't even breathe!
What a way to go: choked to death by a piece of Chicken Kiev at the Bronze Penguin in East Point, Pennsylvania.
If asphyxiation didn't kill him, he was damned sure embarrassment would.
It was going to make one hell of an obituary.
Too bad he wouldn't be around to enjoy it.
He dropped to his knees as everything around him swirled white, then red, then finally faded to black.
end of excerpt
About the Author
BARBARA BRETTON is the USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of more than 50 books. She currently has over ten million copies in print around the world. Her works have been translated into twelve languages in over twenty countries and she has received starred reviews from both PUBLISHERS WEEKLY and BOOKLIST.
Barbara has been featured in articles in The New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Romantic Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Herald News, Home News, Somerset Gazette,,among others, and has been interviewed by Independent Network News Television, appeared on the Susan Stamberg Show on NPR, and been featured in an interview with Charles Osgood of WCBS, among others.
Her awards include both Reviewer's Choice and Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times; a RITA nomination from RWA, Gold and Silver certificates from Affaire de Coeur; the RWA Region 1 Golden Leaf; and several sales awards from Bookrak. Ms. Bretton was included in a recent edition of Contemporary Authors.
Barbara cooks, knits, and writes in New Jersey.
How to contact Barbara:
Barbarabretton.com - Website
BarbaraBretton = Facebook -Twitter
Wickedsplitty - Ravelry
Barbarabretton AT gmail DOT com E-mail
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