But she also couldn’t waste another minute sitting there and not going after Dylan.
So she took the mask off and rushed to her bathroom to do what damage control she could with makeup, taking her hair out of the rubber band that held it contained and brushing it into its naturally wild curls.
Then she tore off the pajama pants and top she’d already put on for the night and replaced them with jeans, a lacy tank top and an off-the-shoulder navy blue T-shirt that left the tank top’s bra-like straps showing with a sexy allure.
Because she might need a little ammunition.
She just hoped that some shoulder action was enough...
Dylan had been mad at her Tuesday night. Frustrated and hurt and angry.
And she doubted that that had gotten better since then.
In fact, it might have gotten worse.
He might have crossed the line between anger and hurt and frustration to hating her and not wanting anything to do with her.
Oh, how horrible would that be if it was true?
But she couldn’t think about that, either. If she did, she was never going to get out of her apartment door.
So she pushed the thoughts aside, picked up her purse and car keys and headed out.
Just hoping she wasn’t too late...
* * *
Boy, did she hate where Dylan lived!
Abby hated it so much that after finding parking and being forced to tell a doorman through a speaker who it was she wanted to see and waiting for the doorman to apparently call up to Dylan’s loft for permission to let her in, she had second thoughts as she walked across the lobby to the three private elevators.
But then she reached the elevator bank and discovered that the doors to Dylan’s were already open.
He’d told her that he did that from his loft to let guests come up. Which meant that not only had he given permission to let her into the building, he was giving her access to him.
So those open elevator doors looked a little like open arms to her.
But then she stepped into the elevator and got nervous all over again when it started to rise. It struck her that she didn’t know what she was going to say when those elevator doors opened again.
Dylan was standing in front of them when they did. He looked much the way he had Tuesday night—shadows under his eyes, scruff on that face she just wanted to reach out and touch.
He was wearing jeans and a plain gray short-sleeved crewneck T-shirt that reassured her that he was not entertaining anyone. She was relieved that even in his posh surroundings he looked like someone she could relate to.
But she still didn’t know what to say and there he was.
“Hi,” was all she could come up with.
“Hi,” he said in a voice that sounded craggy and worn, and made her think once again that he was in bad shape, too.
“I guess it’s your turn to ask what I’m doing here,” she said softly.
“Guess it is.”
So much for feeling like those open elevator doors were welcoming open arms. Because that was not what she was being met with. Instead his arms were crossed over his chest, as if he was protecting himself from her.
“Would you like it better if I wasn’t here at all?” she asked, remembering that that was how she’d felt on Tuesday night.
He shook his head and sighed. Then he said, “No. Come in.”
He turned his back to her, freeing the way and giving her a view of what she thought was the best derriere in the world. But still, it wasn’t a warm invitation.
She left the elevator, hesitating to follow him but deciding there was nothing else for her to do. She trailed behind him into the living room portion of his loft, reaching it just as he turned to face her again, propping one hip on the corner edge of his sofa and staring at her. Waiting for her, she assumed, to tell him what she was doing there.
So she did. She just didn’t know what else to do but lay her heart out the same way he had on Tuesday night, telling him all she’d thought about after China had lit into her and left earlier.
“I’m sorry, Dylan,” she concluded when she’d completely opened herself up to him. “It’s just that you’re...you. And I’m just the foster kid people get freaked out about because of their own weird ideas. And...” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought that mattered.”
“It doesn’t,” he said firmly. “Not to me. Not to my family.”
“Not now. But what about later?” she just had to ask. “Later, when it might come up with someone that I was abandoned in a hospital waiting room when I was two and grew up in thirty-some different homes without parents of my own? Or if it should come up that I didn’t know either of my parents or even who they were until after they were dead, when my father died in prison for killing a man? What happens when I have to say no, I never went to college, I was lucky to graduate high school? That in my whole life I’ve never traveled out of the state or—”
“If I ever run into anyone who hears or knows any of that and can’t handle it, then they’re people I don’t ever need to run into again. They’re not people I want or need in my life. And certainly not in place of you.”
It was the first sign he’d given her that maybe he hadn’t crossed that line into hating her.
Then it finally got better because he said, “I want you, Abby. Just you. I don’t care about the rest. I told you where I stand on that.”
“But are you sure...”
He dropped his head back and shook it in frustration before he drew it upright again to scowl at her and said facetiously, “No, I’m not sure. I went out and bought a ring and asked you to marry me but I still have my doubts.”
Abby smiled sheepishly. “Did you take the ring back to the store?”
“No, I don’t give up that easily. I was going to talk to China next to see if I could get her to talk some sense into you.”
“Good plan but she did it on her own tonight.” Then something else occurred to her. “Is it the ring you bought for that crazy woman?”
He laughed again and once more shook his head at her. “The crazy woman had a family heirloom ring, so no, your ring is just your ring.”
“Is it mine?”
“Not until you damn well say yes!”
“You never actually asked. You just sort of said it was what you wanted,” she pointed out.
He pushed off of the sofa and disappeared into his bedroom. When he came back he had the ring box in his fist. He brought it with him to stand in front of her.
“Do you want me on one knee? Or both?”
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, not liking the idea of having this man of all men on his knees to her. “No.”
He stayed standing but he didn’t give her the ring box. He kept hold of it, tipped her chin up with the crooked index finger of his other hand so he could look into her eyes, and said, “I’m in love with you, Abby-of-the-crane-blanket. I want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife. I want you to come and be a part of my family. I want us to make a family of our own and let that be the family you didn’t have before. I just want you to be mine...now and forever...”
Tears swelled in her eyes once more but this time they were only from that happiness that was finally right there in front of her for the taking.
“That’s what I want, too. All of it. But mostly just you,” she whispered around the lump in her throat.
He sighed in relief then and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her to him tightly enough to let her know that holding her like that was something he’d ached for and needed.
But it was what she’d ached for and needed, too, so she just melted into him, curling her own arms around him and resting her cheek to his chest.
They stayed that way for a few minutes before he again raised her
chin to kiss her, a long, deep kiss that reclaimed all they’d almost lost.
Only then did he let go of her with one arm and bring the hand with the ring box in it back around, opening his fist to offer it to her from his palm.
With her pulse racing, Abby took the velvet box they’d volleyed on Tuesday night and opened it.
Inside was a platinum engagement ring with a diamond bigger than any she’d ever seen on any bride she’d worked for.
“Oh, dear...” she said, flabbergasted by it. “It’s gigantic...”
But Dylan didn’t pay any attention to that.
He took the ring out of the box, reached for her left hand and put it on her.
“That’s it,” he said definitively. “It’s a done deal. You can’t back out now.”
“Well, just because it’s such a pretty ring,” she joked.
But the truth was that the ring—no matter how beautiful—surprisingly didn’t really make any difference to her. Yes, it was like one of her and China’s fantasies coming to life. But now as she looked at it she realized that no fantasy compared to what that ring actually meant.
Because what it meant was that Dylan truly loved her. That he truly wanted her. That he was truly committed to having a life with her, a future.
It meant that she could trust that she was going to have this man she loved more than she’d ever imagined possible. And nothing mattered more than that.
So when that man pulled her back into his arms, into another of those kisses that she’d been starved for for nearly two weeks, she knew that regardless of where they were or where they’d come from, his arms would be home for her from that moment on.
That he would be the family she’d never had.
And that not only were there really happily-ever-afters, but there, with him, she’d found hers.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE WIDOW’S BACHELOR BARGAIN by Teresa Southwick.
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Special Edition story.
You know that romance is for life. Harlequin Special Edition stories show that every chapter in a relationship has its challenges and delights and that love can be renewed with each turn of the page.
Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Special Edition every month!
Visit Harlequin.com to find your next great read.
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
The Widow's Bachelor Bargain
by Teresa Southwick
Chapter One
“You must be Mr. Holden. And—happily—you’re not a serial killer.”
Sloan Holden expected beautiful women to come on to him, but as pickup lines went, that one needed tweaking. He stared at the woman, who’d just opened the door to him. “Okay. And you know this how?”
“I had you investigated.” Standing in the doorway of her log cabin home turned bed-and-breakfast, Maggie Potter held up her hand in a time-out gesture. “Wait. I’m a little new at this hospitality thing. Delete what I just said and insert welcome to Potter House. Please come in.”
“Thanks.” He walked past her and heard the door close. Turning, he asked, “So, FBI? CIA? DEA? NSA? Or Homeland Security?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which alphabet-soup agency did you get to check me out?”
“Actually, it was Hank Fletcher, the sheriff here in Blackwater Lake. I apologize for blurting that out. Guess I’m a little nervous. The thing is, I live here with my two-year-old daughter and another, older, woman who rents a room. It’s my responsibility to check out anyone who will be living here.”
Sloan studied the woman—Maggie Potter—dressed in jeans and a T-shirt covered by a pink-and-gray-plaid flannel shirt. Her shiny dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her big brown eyes snapped with intelligence and self-deprecating humor. She was pretty in a wholesome, down-to-earth way, and for some reason that surprised him. He’d assumed the widow renting out a room would be frumpy, silver haired and old enough to be his grandmother. It was possible when his secretary had said widow, he’d mentally inserted all the stereotypes.
“Still,” he said, sliding his hands into his jeans’ pockets, “a serial killer by definition gets away with murder and is clever enough to hide it. Maybe I’m hiding something.”
“Everyone does. That just makes you human.” The wisdom in that statement seemed profound for someone so young. “But you, Mr. Sloan Holden, can’t even spit on the sidewalk without someone taking a picture. I doubt you could ditch photographers long enough to pull off a homicide, let alone hide the incriminating evidence.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Even so, Hank assured me you are who you say you are and an upstanding businessman who won’t stiff me for the rent. Again I say welcome.” She smiled, and the effect was stunning. “I’ll do everything possible to make your stay here as pleasant as possible, Mr. Holden.”
“Please call me Sloan.”
“Of course.” When she turned away, he got a pretty good look at her work-of-art backside and shapely legs. They weren’t as long as he usually liked, but that didn’t stop all kinds of ideas on how to make his stay pleasant from popping into his mind. That was proof, as if he needed more, that he was going to hell. After all, she was a mother.
“I just need you to sign the standard guest agreement.” She walked over to the desk in the far corner of the great room.
Sloan followed and managed to tear his gaze away from her butt long enough to get a look at her home. A multicolored braided rug was the centerpiece for a conversation area facing the fireplace. It consisted of a brown leather sofa and a fabric-covered chair and ottoman. On the table beside it was a brass lamp and a photo of Maggie snuggled up to a smiling man. Must be the husband she’d lost.
Maggie handed over a piece of paper and he glanced through it, the normal contract regarding payment responsibilities, what was provided, dos and don’ts. He took the pen she handed him and signed his name where indicated.
“Do you need a credit card and ID?” That was standard procedure for a hotel.
“I recognize you from the magazines you seem to be in on a weekly basis. And I got all the pertinent financial information from your secretary. Elizabeth says you’ll be staying in town for a while to work on the resort project.”
“That’s right.”
“I know you’re here at Potter House because Blackwater Lake Lodge had a major flood when a pipe burst and is now undergoing repairs and renovations. Elizabeth told me you do a lot of work outside the office and wouldn’t be happy with all the pounding, hammering and drilling.”
“She knows me well.”
“I got that impression. And she said you’re not a heartless jerk like most tabloid stories make you out to be.”
“Did I mention she’s loyal?”
He folded his arms over his chest and studied her. Elizabeth was the best assistant he’d ever had and an impeccable judge of character, even on the phone. She wasn’t in the habit of sharing details about him. Not that she’d given away secrets to a competitor, but still... While taking care of his living arrangements for this stay in Blackwater Lake, Montana, she must have phone-bonded with Maggie Potter, meaning that she trusted this woman.
In any event, he didn’t have a lot of choice about where to hang his hat. The lack of accommodations in this area, along with a beautiful lake and spectacular mountains, were the very reasons this resort project he and his cousin Burke had undertaken would be a phenomenal financial success. It was their luck
that no one else had noticed the amazing potential of this area before now.
“It sounds as if you got to know my assistant pretty well,” he finally said.
“Lovely woman. She invited me to her wedding.”
“Wow. You really did make a good phone impression. I didn’t even get an invitation,” he teased.
“She’s probably concerned that the kind of photographers who follow you around aren’t the ones she wants documenting the most important day of her life.”
Sloan knew she was joking, but that wasn’t far from the truth. Because he had money, his every move seemed to generate a ridiculous amount of public interest—make that female interest. That would give a guy trust issues even if he hadn’t been burned, but Sloan was a wealthy divorced bachelor and deliberately never stayed with the same woman for more than a couple of months.
A man in his position had social obligations and often needed a plus one. On the surface it looked like dating, but he knew it was never going anywhere. So the more women he went out with, the more interest his personal life generated. But he was ultimately an entrepreneur who knew getting his name in the paper was a positive. Even bad publicity could be good.
And interest continued to escalate about whether or not any woman could catch the most eligible bachelor who had said in more than one interview that he would never get married again. That it just wasn’t for him. The remark, intended to snuff out attention, had really backfired on him and created the ultimate challenge for single women looking for a rich husband. He was like the love lottery.
“My assistant knows I’d never let anything spoil her special day.”
“Because you respect the sanctity of marriage so much?” It sounded as if there was the barest hint of sarcasm in her question.
He didn’t doubt that she knew the tabloid version of his disastrous foray into matrimony. It was well documented and also ancient history. “I do for other people,” he answered sincerely.
“Just not for yourself.”
Abby, Get Your Groom! Page 19