by Jacie Floyd
Wyatt Maitland, family man.
The concept boggled his mind, but he’d work on getting used to the idea. After getting to know his troubled nephew, Xander, in the last few years, he’d realized this parenting thing might be more rewarding than he’d first suspected. And he’d also realized there might be more than one area of his life that lacked substance.
But since Kara had once again run away from the idea of meeting with him like a frightened doe from a hunter, he was finished playing by the rules. Time to resort to his fallback plan. Not one he embarked on without a few qualms, but anything was better than continuing to stand idly by, waiting for her to rescind their agreement, and come to her senses about seeing him. His patience had reached its limit.
Before giving himself time to decide against it, he grabbed his phone and punched the number of one of his two best friends. One of the few people he trusted.
After Dylan answered and they traded insults for a few minutes, Wyatt got to the point.
“I need the phone number of a woman who lives in New York.”
“That’s a pretty general category,” Dylan said. “Can you be more specific or should I just pick one for you?”
“You know I don’t want your leftovers.”
Dylan chuckled. “Then what’s her name?”
“Remember that crazy, wild girl who went with us on a motorcycle trip through Europe?” The woman who had eventually fixed him up with Kara Enderley, but Wyatt wasn’t sharing that information. Not even with Dylan.
“Yeah, we stayed a few days at her uncle’s chateau on the Riviera. Regina Viviano? The one who jumped from your bike to mine, mid-trip?”
Of course, his friend would give Wyatt a hard time before giving him the phone number he wanted. “Not how I remember it, but, yes, that’s one.”
By the time he finished with Dylan, they’d made plans to meet in New York on Friday, and Wyatt had the telephone number he wanted.
He weighed the phone in his hand just as he weighed the decision to make a call he’d promised Kara he would never make. But the time had come. He had to do it.
“Regina? This is Wyatt Maitland.”
On Friday evening, Kara closed the heavy door of Manhattan’s Rothschild Gallery against the drizzly autumn rain. After checking her coat and umbrella, she squared her shoulders and pushed her way through the damp crowd milling around the mammoth room filled with towering sculptures. Jostled and elbowed from one corner of the room to the other, she muttered under her breath and wished she’d stayed home.
Everything had been off-kilter since Wyatt’s call on Tuesday. Her editor had pushed up the publication date of her art history manuscript. Her dreams at night had contained an emotionally confusing mix of hot, erotic scenarios and searing, incomprehensible loss.
And to make matters worse, Sean’s nagging cough had been diagnosed as a minor respiratory infection, just as she’d feared. The resulting stuffy head and sniffles had made him cranky all week. So tonight, she’d waited too long to tear herself away from him to get here on time.
Normally, she arrived for the media preview of a new show before the general public trooped inside. Otherwise, like now, it was almost impossible to block out the swirling opinions of the less-than-knowledgeable masses who attended every hot new exhibit.
The escalating level of cocktail chat prevented her from recording a lot of observations on her phone. In the morning, she’d come back for a more careful study of Samantha Davenport’s creations. Some of the California sculptor’s pieces seemed naggingly familiar as they soared in majestic relief toward the stark white of the vaulted ceiling. But Kara’s advance research indicated that the Rothschild had nabbed the artist’s first New York showing.
As Kara wove through the gathering, she scanned the crowd for her agent. Also her best friend, Regina had agreed to meet her here prior to dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant, but the vivacious woman had never been known for her punctuality. With one eye on the door instead of on her destination, Kara bumped into a sturdy figure dressed in black.
“Dylan! Hello.” She greeted the staggeringly handsome and wealthy Dylan Bradford with a touch of caution. Even though his family patronized the arts, Kara found him too smooth and good-looking for his own good. His wealth and high-profile name kept him from moving in her usual social circles, but he had his share of charm. More obvious and less subdued than Wyatt’s, but still, pretty lethal. “When was the last time you attended a new artist’s opening? Samantha Davenport should be honored.”
“Kara, love.” Dylan gathered her in for a hug and a kiss. Too late to avoid the inevitable grope, she planted her hands against his rock-solid chest and pushed herself away from the determined player. He’d pursued her with erratic levels of interest from the day of their first meeting. Normally, the attention amused her. But this evening, she was on edge and not in the mood.
Sometimes, late at night during a vulnerable or lonely moment, she grappled with the temptation to accept the next offer he made for some down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred sex. But he represented nothing but temporary—and if rumors could be believed—spectacular relief. In the end, he wasn’t the one she wanted, and she’d wind up lonelier than before.
He accepted the rebuff with a flicker of amusement in his dark and smoldering eyes. “I had started to regret the impulse. Seeing you here makes it almost worthwhile.”
“Almost?” she questioned with feigned indignation.
“Well, you know how I hate these crowds—unless it’s for one of my own causes or protégés.” He plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and handed her one. “But an old friend asked me to come and be supportive.”
“And you did as you were bid?” She raised her eyebrows and studied the generally self-absorbed prince of society as she sipped the bubbly. “I’m impressed. I want to meet the person who can bring you into line with just a request.”
He leaned forward to speak into her ear. “Let’s just say, there are favors owed that can never be repaid.”
“Blackmail or bribery, huh? I should’ve guessed.” Kara returned him to arm’s length and surveyed the room for Regina.
“If I had seen Samantha Davenport beforehand, I would’ve complied without the arm-twisting.” He downed his drink and nodded at someone across the way. “Have you met her yet?”
“No. What’s she like?”
“Judge for yourself. She’s standing with Irma over by the fountain.” He nodded in the artist’s direction. “Ebony waterfall of hair… long, shapely legs… voluptuous breasts you could balance a plate on. And she’s dressed all in black. Just my type.”
“If she’s breathing, she’s your type.” Kara shifted to get a glimpse of the paragon he’d described.
The beautiful sculptress towered over the diminutive gallery owner and leaned into a tall, well-built male who choose that moment to join her. The man placed an arm around her waist, and the woman relaxed into his embrace. An all-too-familiar twinge of longing twitched between Kara’s shoulders as she witnessed the couple exchange the simple gestures of affection.
Get over it. She turned her attention to Samantha’s escort. Apparently Wyatt’s phone call had lodged him stubbornly in her thoughts. If she looked at Samantha’s companion in a certain way, this rare specimen of supportive male resembled Wyatt a bit.
Resembled him a lot, actually.
Hmmm. The companion stroked the sculptress’s cheek with long-fingered, expressive hands. Just like Wyatt’s. Hands that had caressed, comforted, and excited Kara with urgent, silent eloquence.
And the man’s dark hair—with a hint of curl—fell stubbornly forward at the temples. Just like Wyatt’s. He thrust it off his forehead with an impatient shove and turned to the side, revealing a profile she knew all too well.
Kara gasped and pressed a hand to her chest to suppress her heart’s uneven thumping while she drank in every detail of Wyatt’s all-too-real, all-too-recognizable presence. She took one eager step in his direction
. And then another. A smile touched her lips.
And then she remembered.
Despite the compelling attraction that pulled her toward him, several horrific facts unfurled through her brain and kept her rooted to the floor.
She didn’t want to see him.
She especially didn’t want him to see her.
She told him she’d be out of town. On a cruise.
“Oh, God.” She thrust her glass into Dylan’s hand and dove into the crowd. Ignoring the toes she stepped on, she plowed a path across the black marble floor.
“What’s wrong?” Dylan followed hard on her heels.
She brushed a trembling hand across her forehead, but didn’t slow. “I’m not feeling well. If you see Regina, tell her—”
They reached the entryway and her friend materialized by her side. “Tell her what?”
“I have to leave.” Kara pushed onward, toward the door.
Regina grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. “But what about dinner? I have a yummy surprise for you.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I’ll explain tomorrow.” Kara shrugged off her friend and cast a worried glance over her shoulder. Wyatt no longer stood beside Irma and the female sculptor. He could be anywhere. He could be headed her way.
“It’s pouring outside.” Regina stepped forward and blocked the door. “Where’s your coat? You’ll need an umbrella.”
Kara pulled a claim check out of her purse and swapped it for Regina’s dripping tiger-striped umbrella and raincoat. “You take mine. I’ll take yours. We can trade back later. Sorry about dinner.”
She dashed out the door, plunging into the cold, wet darkness, desperate to protect the safety of the world she’d created for herself a little while longer.
Get Winning Wyatt now!
Meet Your Mate
Excerpt
Book 1 of the Good Riders
Chapter One
“And the winner of this year’s Community First award is—” Annabel heightened the imaginary suspense with a mental drum roll as she pulled into the local television station’s parking lot. Beelining for an empty spot at the end of the row, she allowed hometown favorite George Clooney to announce, “Challenging Destiny, Lasting Productions, Annabel Morgan and Howard Lasting, producers!”
Normally, she only conjured up her favorite career fantasy in dark and private moments, but today she’d paraded it out in bright sunlight to distract herself from a raging case of stage fright. After all, she didn’t appear on an afternoon talk show every day. Or in front of a television camera ever. Her nerves were stretched tighter than her budget.
Easing through the tandem parking slot from one side to the other, she pictured herself at the upcoming award ceremony. Dressed to impress in something sophisticated and expensive, she’d step up to accept the award that would change her life. Just as George took her in his arms for a meaningful exchange of glances and a long congratulatory kiss filled with infinite possibilities, a sickening crunch jolted her back to reality.
The front bumper of her ten-year-old Saab was metal-on-metal with a small, flashy vehicle attempting to back into the space she’d been sliding into headfirst.
Grimacing over her carelessness and the certainty of another insurance claim on the heels of her seventeen-year-old stepdaughter’s mishap the month before. Annabel shifted her car into park. She clutched the hem of her mini-skirt to keep it from rising to indecent heights as she stepped out to meet her victim. Good thing it was May, not January, or she’d freeze her butt off.
“Hey, lady,” a testosterone-laden voice growled over the slam of a car door. “You should keep your mind on your driving when you’re behind the wheel.”
Fresh from her bout of daydreaming, Annabel bit back the urge to tell the chauvinist where to stick his opinion. She glanced at the slight crease in her fender and the deeper dent in his, relieved that the damage hadn’t been worse. Shoulders squared, she turned to exchange info with the other driver and admit her guilt.
Damn. Investigative reporter ‘Mad Max’ Williams. An apology died on her lips. Even though he worked at the television station, he spent most of his time out on assignment. She’d hoped she wouldn’t run into him today. And now she had. Literally.
She crossed her arms and studied him with a chilling look. Professional acquaintances and personal opposites in work habits and lifestyles, he was her biggest rival for the community service award she coveted.
Aside from their award competition, she’d worked with him on several projects for Lasting Productions. Her work involved insignificant details like scriptwriting, casting, editing, and scheduling. His duties included the more challenging tasks of sitting in a booth and recording the voiceover, flirting with female assistants, distracting male interns with assorted hijinks, generally creating chaos, getting paid the big bucks, and receiving most of the recognition.
Everything about his flamboyant image and overbearing self-confidence rubbed her the wrong way. It annoyed her to admit that the broad shoulders and rugged good looks the television camera loved were even more compelling in person than they were on the small screen. But the less-than savory details she’d witnessed and heard about from others prevented her from lusting after the exterior packaging that rivaled Clooney’s.
Smoothing down her skirt, she waited for Max’s leisurely perusal to move from her new pointy-toed high-heeled shoes and past her uncustomary form-fitting outfit to her face. As expected, the interested gleam dimmed from his eyes and switched to disbelief as recognition kicked in.
“Nice legs, Morgan. First time I’ve seen you in anything but your Iron Maiden costume. You should show that figure off more often.” He lounged against the hood of her car and let his gaze travel her body a second time. “This new look is almost enough to excuse you from rear-ending me. But not quite. What had you so distracted?”
“What do you mean?” Like she’d be willing to share her hopes and dreams with him.
“You sure weren’t thinking about your driving, and you couldn’t have been preoccupied with your love life since everyone knows you don’t have one.”
“Whereas you,” she countered, poking a finger into his rock-solid chest, “were probably thinking about the bevy of mud wrestlers, rodeo queens, and strippers you’re currently dating.”
“Hey!” He straightened up with mild indignation. “Candy LaBar’s not a stripper. She’s an exotic dancer. Her act’s very artistic.”
Already running late, Annabel didn’t have time to trade childish insults with Max. She dismissed the response with a flick of the wrist. “I’ll bet.”
He whipped his phone out, then took pictures of the damage to both bumpers. As she stepped toward the television station’s main entrance, his fingers clamped around her elbow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He jerked a thumb toward his car. “Damage? Repair? Insurance?”
“It’s just a scratch.”
He shook his head at her dismissive attitude. “It’s just a scratch on the bumper of a vintage Porsche I’ve spent two years restoring. Whether they fix it or replace the bumper, it’s not going to come cheap.”
That figured. “I’ll have my insurance company contact you.”
“They better, or I’ll send the repair bill straight to you.”
“Fine, fine.” Annabel marched forward, eager to leave Mad Max behind. But he fell into step alongside her with his customary swagger.
“By the way,” he said, “congratulations on the Community First nomination.”
She slid a peek at him from the corner of her eye and examined his comment for sarcasm. His expression remained suspiciously sincere. “You, too.”
“Who’d have thought we’d be nominated in the same category?”
“Not me. The mind still boggles over my documentary about inner-city high school students competing with your four-part exposé on botched boob jobs.”
“That’s one way of describing them,” he said before urging, “Just remember what the
y say.”
“What do they say, Max? Sex sells?” Why does he always manage to bring out my inner bitch?
“No-oo. It’s an honor just to be nominated.”
She coated the smile she turned on him with pure sugar. “You remember that when they call out my name from the podium.” She prayed they’d call out her name. Her professional and financial future hinged on winning the award.
“Yeah, right. I’ve got the award all but in my hands.” He raised her show of bravado with an ante of overconfidence.
“And how many judges did you sleep with to make that happen?” The accusation almost shamed her as she made it.
“Talent earns its own reward.” A glint of real pride moved behind his dark brown eyes as he veered away from her, toward the news team’s entrance. “See ya later, Morgan.”
“Not if I see you first,” Annabel muttered to his retreating back.
Against her better judgment, she watched him stride masterfully toward the building. Then, he looked over his shoulder and caught her watching him. Lifting her chin, she turned to glide into the main entrance. Her face flushed when she twisted her ankle on the new heels. Damn, he probably saw that.
Putting the incident behind her, she hurried into the lobby where Carly waited. Her stepdaughter bounced in anticipation of their joint television appearance. A quick hug went a long way toward banishing Max from Annabel’s thoughts and quelling her preshow anxiety. “Been waiting long?”
“Long enough to find out everything we need to know.” Excitement widened Carly’s bright blue eyes to saucer-size. “First, sign in here, then follow me.”
Annabel had visited the station many times and knew her way around, but she allowed the bouncing teen to lead her the makeup room anyway. After they’d settled into chairs, an energetic elf with purple-streaked hair introduced herself as “Voila!” then set to work. She dabbed foundation on their faces, swiped blush on their cheeks, and applied goop to their eyes.