Enchanted Heart

by Felicia Mason

  “It’s not that kind of cruise,” Lily said, “though I suppose the decks have those shuffleboard grids painted right on. But I know for a fact there won’t be any honeymooners and not a single snot-nosed little kid. This, my friend, is a singles cruise.”

  Once again, Lance found himself on the interstate headed east, his plan to swing by Guilty Pleasures to see Viv. As the car ate up the miles, he sang along with the radio, scowling when they broke in with news and reached for a CD.

  “Metro traffic report. If you’re on I-64 East, a three-car accident with injuries is blocking all lanes near Norfolk’s Ocean View Avenue exit. Alternate routes include the Monitor-Merrimac Memorial Bridge-Tunnel. Better take it, folks. This jam looks like it’ll be a while.”

  Lance swore.

  Already trapped, there was nothing he could do except impatiently bide his time. As Norah Jones’s smooth voice filled the car, he checked his messages. One waited from Rochelle, whom he called.

  “Hey, sweetheart.”

  “Lance,” she said, her voice soft and sweet. “I got your flowers this morning.”

  He smiled. Like taking candy from a baby. “I hope they’re as beautiful as you are.”

  “Oh, Lance. They are.”

  He shook his head, knowing she didn’t even realize what she’d just said.

  “What happened to you last night? I was worried.”

  “Something came up,” he told her. Then a grin split his face at the pun, unintentional but right on target. “I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

  He waved a classic Mustang through, then inched up behind it before a hooptie with rusted-out wheel caps could claim a crawl space in the bumper-to-bumper mess. He’d give road props to cars made worth a damn.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “But you know I can’t stay mad at you too long.”

  With his mind on Viv, he didn’t linger on the line with Rochelle. Despite her wrangling for an evening with him, he made a date for lunch and quickly got off the phone. Spying an opening on the shoulder, Lance darted over and followed a Lexus.

  She saw the Jaguar pull into a spot at the front of the shop and quickly turned for her office.

  “You can’t run forever,” Dakota said, her voice flat and wry.

  “I just . . .” Viv paused.

  Dakota was right, there was no need in hiding from the man. She’d slept with him. Big deal. She’d slept with a lot of guys. And like Lance, they all thought that one roll in the hay gave them rights. She had to admit though that her time with Lance had been pretty spectacular. The man had skills. He was almost as good as she was.

  Vivienne turned, winked at Dakota and stood at the pedestal counter waiting for him. She could play this role. She knew it well.

  Part of her thrilled at seeing Lance Heart Smith again, but she couldn’t claim to be entirely pleased to see him back in her store. The resolve she’d set for herself where he was concerned crumbled when faced with the powerful physique in front of her.

  The phrase tall, dark and handsome had been coined just for this man.

  He was again dressed in a fabulous suit, this one dark blue, the color of true sapphires. She loved the line of his brow, the strength of his jaw. And she knew what it felt like to have his whiskers brush the delicate skin of her inner thigh. Viv’s breath caught. She reached a hand out to steady herself.

  He smiled and tiny lines formed at his eyes.

  “Hello, Vivienne.”

  Resolve melted away completely when the whisper of her name crossed his lips. “Hello, Lance.”

  Dakota cleared her throat and Viv straightened, adding some spine to her back. Life was more than a feel-good party. And she could beat this thing. She had to.

  “Excuse me,” Dakota said. “I have some inventory to check in the back.”

  Since they were the only two employees in the store, Viv knew the game Dakota played. Viv watched her lifeline disappear.

  “How are you, Vivienne?”

  When she faced him, Vivienne the woman had been replaced with Vivienne the entrepreneur. “I’m fine. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Did you have an opportunity to review the material I left for you? Did you have any questions ?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I have one.”

  Her smile was brightly solicitous, the type reserved especially for customers with free time and high credit limits who came into the store frequently. “What’s that?”

  “Why’d you run away from me?”

  “It was a lapse in judgment.”

  He cocked his head. “Sex with me was a lapse or leaving me was a lapse?”

  Both, Viv thought. “I’d had a very tough day, Mr. Heart.”

  “My last name is Smith.”

  “Mr. Smith,” she corrected.

  He grinned. “Call me Lance.”

  She tried to ignore the teasing. To focus on business. “You caught me at a vulnerable moment.”

  Lance considered that for a minute. “Are you feeling vulnerable now?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d like to ask you out. On a date. We can go to dinner. Check out a gallery.”

  Her mouth quirked. “Do you really like galleries or do you suffer through them in an attempt to be the Sir Gallant like your namesake?”

  He laughed at that. Viv allowed herself to enjoy the hearty sound. It came from a deep place and was filled with the lust and abandon that surrounded him.

  He leaned close. “Don’t tell any of my friends, but I do enjoy art. Not so much the contemporary stuff, though there are some contemporary sculptors I like.”

  Viv called him on it. “So did you see the Pablo Diego Munoz exhibit at the Chrysler?” Norfolk’s Chrysler Museum had hosted the opening show for an up-and-coming local sculptor. His wife was a frequent shopper at Guilty Pleasures.

  Lance nodded. “My favorite piece was Venus Rising.”

  Figures.

  Lance chuckled and Viv realized she’d said the thought aloud. “What about you?” he asked before the blush stole up her face. “What pieces did you like in that show?”

  Viv thought about it for a moment. She hadn’t liked any of them—with the exception of Venus Rising. They’d all seemed fractured, disjointed. The sort of art created and favored by people who didn’t trust their true emotions. Every piece, with the exception of Venus Rising, struck her as an attempt to tame beauty.

  “I prefer the furniture. But my favorite parts of the museum are the Renaissance Galleries,” she told him. “The vivid colors, the full-bodied people on the canvas. That’s more my speed.”

  “I’d have pegged you for a glass fan. Tiffany or Chihuly.”

  Viv shook her head. “Very pretty, but too delicate. I like things that stand the test of time or at least look as if they could.”

  Lance glanced around at the store. When his gaze fell on the chaise, he pointed toward it. “That being an example?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The chaise. It’s contemporary, but one hundred years from now, it’ll still be here, still a classical beauty.”

  A smile curved her mouth and she reluctantly changed her assessment of him. That’s exactly why she loved the piece so much. Though handcrafted today, the chaise could very easily have been around for two or three hundred years.

  “Have dinner with me,” Lance said. “Afterward, we can go to the Chrysler and visit your furniture gallery and Renaissance paintings.”

  She wanted to. She really wanted to. But was that because he’d shown a moment of sincerity or because she knew that any date with him would end up back in bed?

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea. We can get to know each other.”

  Her mouth twisted for a brief moment. “Some would say we already know each other.”

  “Well,” he said, “there is that.” His gaze dipped to her breasts.

  Viv hated that they responded by perking up, and she was grateful for the l
ayered duster that shielded the physical betrayal from his view.

  His gaze meandered across her form. When he again connected with her face Viv fought a flash of disappointment that rushed her. On some level, she’d wanted him to be different. To be someone worthy of her consideration, a man who looked beyond her physical attributes. By hopping into bed with him, she’d ruined any chance that he might view her as anything except a little afternoon delight. Lance was like so many others she’d known—and dismissed.

  All she could do now was attempt to salvage her business plan though she feared it might already be too late. If he truly wanted to make an investment in Guilty Pleasures, which she doubted, he’d cease the games and get down to business. Business, however, didn’t seem to be at the forefront of his mind.

  “But,” he added, “we can also discuss your plans for Guilty Pleasures while we’re at it.”

  Viv didn’t fall for it. She’d grant him smooth. He saw the thread and chased it, but he got no points on the fine art of subtlety.

  “A moment ago, you weren’t interested in my store.”

  “I never said that,” Lance told her. “I said my interest was conflicted. A beautiful woman. A beautiful proposal.”

  “You’re telling me you read my business plan?”

  “No,” he said, not bothering to lie. “I wanted to hear the pitch from someone who is passionate about the project.”

  “Passionate?”

  He nodded. “Devoted. You have your time and energy invested in the proposal. So you can convey that energy and enthusiasm in ways no static words will ever be able to.”

  She eyed him, unsure what to make of this.

  “You know,” he said, “going out with me is a terrific idea.”

  “Oh?”

  “Um-hmm,” Lance said. “I’ll even let you choose where we go.”

  “That’s big of you.”

  Lance leaned forward, resting his elbow on the counter and propping his chin in his hand. “I detect a touch of sarcasm.”

  “Just a touch, huh? I must be getting rusty.”

  Lance’s mouth curved, but the slow perusal of her body left little doubt as to his thoughts.

  “See, that’s why I’m not going out with you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a dog.”

  He put on his best wounded puppy look, eyes and mouth drooping. He batted his eyelashes at her until Viv, laughing, held up her hands in surrender. “All right,” she told him. “I’ll go out with you.”

  He grinned. Triumphant.

  “But . . .”

  “Anything.”

  He was so transparent she almost laughed out loud. “I pick the place for Saturday. And it won’t be a gallery.”

  He shrugged. “Fine with me.”

  We’ll just see about that, Viv thought. Lance Heart Smith didn’t know what he’d just gotten himself into.

  Sonja Pride waved at her husband’s secretary and after a quick two-rap knock pushed open his office door.

  “Cole? I have a surprise,” she announced. She stepped into the office, a large wicker picnic basket in tow. She’d spent much of the morning holed up in her own office strategizing on how to put the spark back in her marriage. If they were truly headed toward the rocks, she’d at least go out fighting.

  Cole looked up. So did Jack Spencer.

  Jack rose.

  “I didn’t realize you had a guest,” Sonja said.

  Cole made the introductions. “Jack, this is my wife, Sonja Pride Heart.”

  Sonja’s gaze darted to Cole. What game did he play now? She’d never adopted the Heart name.

  “Sonja, this is Jack Spencer, my oldest and dearest friend.”

  She sized up the man, wondering just who he was. A divorce lawyer? He hardly looked the type. But neither did that TV lawyer who always wore the fringed leather jacket. This guy looked like Indiana Jones’s long-lost black brother. Cole had never mentioned any Jack Spencer. And Sonja was sure she’d never seen a photo of this man. He was someone she’d have remembered.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Jack touched his forehead as if he were tipping a hat to her.

  A Texan, Sonja surmised.

  She put her hand in his and wasn’t at all surprised by the strength she found there.

  His eyes widened a bit at her grip. She’d clearly surprised him, and Sonja was pleased.

  Jack turned to Cole. “Your woman shakes hands like a man,” he said. “I like that.”

  Sonja didn’t quite know what to make of that compliment. She placed the picnic basket on a round table. “I thought I’d surprise you, but it looks like you’re busy. I’ll just leave this.”

  “All right,” Cole said.

  Nothing in his voice revealed pleasure at her attempt to mend their fences. Nothing in his expression gave away what he was thinking. He just stood there. Stoic as always.

  “Well,” Sonja said, “I guess I’ll be leaving.”

  Cole nodded.

  Jack looked first at Cole and then at Sonja. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he said. “We can finish our business later, Cole. I can see you’ve gone out of your way,” he told Sonja.

  She smiled at him. “It’s not a problem. Is it, Cole? Business always comes first.”

  On that she turned on her heel and left the office without another word.

  Jack ran a finger along his cheek. “Mighty fine woman you got there, Heart. How’d you manage to mess things up with her?”

  “What makes you think things are messed up or that I’m the one at fault?”

  Jack shook his head, looking at the basket she’d left. He went over, lifted the top and peeked inside. “Looks like she put some thought and effort into this. And you just turned her down. In my book, that’s messing things up with a good woman. Woman like that wants to be treated like a woman.”

  “Advice from the world’s most dedicated bachelor.”

  “I’ve had my share of heartache, but I’d never admit it.” He indicated the wicker basket. “Aren’t you going to see what she brought you?”

  “No.” Cole sifted through a stack of papers on his desk. “Here’s the consultant’s report. Projections are broken out in three categories.”

  Jack didn’t say anything. He just stroked his chin and looked at the door Sonja had walked through. “Mighty fine woman,” he muttered.

  Later that night, Sonja walked into her kitchen with the intention of making a cup of chamomile tea to soothe her nerves.

  “You want a chaser with that?”

  Sonja screamed, dropped the cup and whirled around.

  “Sorry,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She clutched her terrycloth robe to her throat. Her heart continued to pound erratically. “You scared the Jesus out of me.”

  Jack grinned. “Now there’s an expression you don’t hear every day. Where you from, Miss Sonja?”

  Sonja stepped back as he bent to pick up the pieces of the shattered ceramic mug.

  “Here. I mean Hampton. What are you doing here?”

  Jack shook his head. “I told Cole he should’ve called you to make sure my staying here wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Sonja heard only the pertinent words. “Staying here?”

  “I can go to a hotel. There’s plenty of ’em up here in these parts. I had reservations at the Lodge. Where should I put these pieces?”

  Sonja stared at his large hands for a long moment. He held the pieces of the cream-colored mug, and for a moment she thought she might burst into tears. It was as if he held out to her the pieces of her ruined marriage. “I . . . under the sink. And no, Mr. Spencer, it’s fine if you stay here. Do you have everything you need?”

  “I’m just fine, but I’m a little worried about you. You’re looking kind of pale.”

  Sonja reached for another mug. “I just came to get some tea.”

  “Can I interest you in some Kentucky bourbon? It’s Cole’s so I know it’s the best.”


  “No, thank you.” She started to add, “I don’t drink,” but something in his eyes or maybe it was something inside her begged a question. “Who are you?”

  He smiled. “Jack Spencer.”

  Sonja relaxed a bit. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Mr. Spencer.”

  “Please, call me Jack.”

  “All right, Jack.”

  He poured her two fingers and she came around to join him on the sofa in the great room that abutted the kitchen. The air between them was easy, companionable, but laced with an expectancy that Sonja wasn’t willing to examine too closely.

  “So,” she said, settling her legs under her and facing him. “Tell me about yourself, Jack Spencer. Cole says you’re his oldest friend, but I don’t know a thing about you.”

  Jack stared at her for a long time, so long that Sonja glanced down to make sure she was completely and appropriately covered.

  “The main thing you need to know,” he said, “is that I’d never ignore a woman who brought me lunch for two in a picnic basket.”

  Sonja’s breath caught. Their gazes connected and held, one beat, two. She cleared her throat and then downed half of the liquid fire in her glass.

  “Time’s up, Khan.”

  Dean Khan nodded toward the prison librarian. “I’m almost done.” His consistent good behavior had earned him extra time on the computer. But so far, his searches had come up empty.

  From what he could tell, Rachel had pretty much vanished from the face of the earth. The number he’d had for her back when he’d first been convicted had long since been disconnected. Letters sent to the two addresses he had for her came back, one stamped Unknown Occupant and the other Address Unknown.

  And he didn’t get a single hit using the search engines available to him. He’d been searching for her for a while, but had come up against nothing but dead ends. Now though, with his release date from Fairton imminent, he knew it would take little, if any, time to find her once he had the proper resources available to him. And the best place to begin the hunt for his former girlfriend was with her roommate.

  But before reclaiming his business enterprises, before tracking down Rachel and her ditzy roommate, before seeing if there was anything salvageable from his previous life, including the stuff he’d put in storage, before anything, Dean wanted to feel the sun on his face knowing that his access to it wouldn’t be restricted. He wanted to swim in the ocean again. And he wanted—no, he needed—to get laid. Prison sex served a purpose. But he hadn’t entered Fairton a punk and he wasn’t leaving that way.