A man’s voice sounded behind her. “You’re back.” True to form, Felicity shrieked, her head whipping around. She stared at a pair of denim-covered kneecaps, then her gaze followed long legs upward as she took in the new throb at her temples, the new rasp in her throat, and—she blinked a couple of times just to be sure—the new man in her life.
“You.” Fear evaporated. “It’s you.”
The stranger’s shoulders twitched, as if she’d spooked him. “Me?”
That’s right, she thought, now confused. He was a stranger—someone she’d never seen before, and one of those dark, reckless-looking types she’d always been careful to shun. Yet…
Felicity put up a hand to hold her aching head, trying to make sense of this certain, deep-down recognition. “There’s something…I…” What there was, was no way to explain it, she realized, embarrassed heat washing over her face. “You said, ‘You’re back.’ I guess I, uh, thought you knew me.”
Lame, but it was the only excuse her hazy brain provided.
It seemed to satisfy him, though, because he lowered to a crouch beside her. “I meant you’re back with me. I’ve been waiting for you to open your eyes.”
“What—” She broke off as she took in the sight over his shoulder. “My car.” It was nose-to-nose with some sort of black, heavy metal vehicle that belonged at an Iron Maiden concert or in a Terminator movie. Worse, her once sleekly built automobile now had the pro?le of a pedigreed Pekingese. “My new car.”
“And my old one,” the man added dryly.
Felicity’s gaze moved back to his face, and her thoughts were derailed by another wave of that odd, undeniable familiarity. How did she know him? she wondered, attempting to sift through the muddle in her head. Had they met sometime before?
His face was lean, with high cheekbones and deep outdoorsy brackets around his mouth. A breeze stirred the ends of his tangle of black hair and she could swear she remembered them brushing against her cheek.
She shivered.
His already grim expression deepened. “You should lie back down.” He reached out as if to help her, but she scooted away to avoid him.
That was odd, too, because she could swear she already knew his touch. Her mind might not be clear at the moment, but her mind’s eye was 20/20. In it she could see his fingertips stroking her skin. Even now the ghost of their rasping caress seemed to linger on the vulnerable underside of her chin. Another shiver skittered over her flesh.
His dark eyes missed nothing. “Lie down,” he commanded again.
“I’m okay.” Or she would be, when she solved the puzzle. She’d feel more like herself once she could explain how she could know him and yet not know him at the same time.
Trying to come up with an answer, she continued to study his face. With his hard-edged features and over-long hair, he looked too uncivilized for someone she might have dated. Absolutely nothing like the urbane, blond-and-blue-eyed Drew, who she’d set her sights on not long after their first meeting—persuaded by everything about him, from his single-minded dedication to the job to the European way in which he held his fork.
By contrast, this man looked like the kind who would bite the hand that fed him.
Shivering again, she huddled beneath the leather jacket hanging over her shoulders, pulling the zippered edges closer together. Stroking its sleek softness absently, it dawned on her that while she was still in her evening dress the jacket wasn’t hers. It must be his.
The thought pierced the fog in her head, and she finally noticed that his pale-colored dress shirt was streaked with black grease and ripped at one shoulder. Her eyes widened. “My God, what happened to you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” He looked down at the ruined shirt. “This happened after the accident.”
The accident. The fog cleared more and her gaze jumped to their cars, then back to him. “Oh, my God. I didn’t, did I? Tell me I didn’t hit you.”
“No can do, dollface,” he replied, shaking his head. “You hit me, all right, even though my car’s gotta be the only thing bigger than yours within a thirty-five-mile radius.”
Her jaw dropped. “But—but how could that be?” She didn’t remember it.
His teeth flashed in something that wasn’t a smile. “Karma. The way I figure it, you’re my very own spit-wad of bad karma.”
Felicity barely paid attention to the words, because he shifted, the moonlight now illuminating the dark stubble on his chin. She remembered watching the short bristles brush against her cheek as his mouth found hers and—
No! She put her hand to her head again. The accident must have knocked her wiring loose. “Nothing’s making sense.”
He grunted. “Take a few more minutes—but do me a favor by taking them lying down.”
“No.” Recalling her earlier fear, she pulled her skirt closer against her bent legs and scanned the deceptively quiet sand around her. If she didn’t feel too dizzy to stand, she’d be on her feet.
He raked back his hair in an impatient gesture. “Please. You hit your head, so you need to take it easy. I get that you’re a little confused or scared, but—”
“I’m terrified.”
He muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Listen, I’m not going to hurt you.”
No, no. She shook her head, too late realizing it set her brain to rattling around in her skull. It wasn’t him that had her mouth drying. Some people had a phobia of heights or closed spaces. Call her weak if you wanted to, but she had a thing about tarantulas crawling through her hair.
“It’s not—”
“Lissie—”
They both spoke at once, stopped.
She frowned. “What did you call me?”
“Lissie,” he replied. “When I was trying to get you to wake up, I asked your name. You mumbled, ‘Lissie.’ Isn’t that right?”
A mumbled “Felicity” would come out sounding like that, she guessed. “Lissie’s fine.”
Though her head still ached, her thinking was sharpening with each passing second. There was a thick folder of “fan” mail in her office at GetTV that attested to some people’s weird interest in TV personalities. No matter what her instincts said, if this guy didn’t recognize her as Felicity Charm, maybe that was all to the good.
“Lissie’s perfect.” She took a deep breath, the oxygen sweeping more of the fuzziness away. “And you are . . . ?”
She wasn’t sure, but he may have hesitated. “Michael,” he said. “I’m Michael.”
Felicity took in another deep breath, clearing away a few more cobwebs. Feeling much closer to normal, she held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Michael.”
This time she was certain he hesitated, but then his fingers reached out and his tough, callused palm met hers.
Goosebumps bolted toward her elbow. Her head went woozy again and she clung to his fingers, not wanting to let go. Unable to let go, as the strangest thought yet flowered in her brain: He was her lifeline.
Felicity tried blinking it away, but it didn’t budge. What was happening to her? More than anything in the world she wanted to move closer, into him. She wanted to put her head on his shoulder once more, bury her face in the skin of his neck, and smell his warm, citrus-and-leather scent again.
End of Sample Chapter
Sample Chapter Out on a Limb
By Christie Ridgway
CHAPTER ONE
Christmas came a day early, but he wasn’t complaining. As a matter of fact, the timing couldn’t be better. Thanks to the latest terrorism alert—“Elevated Threat”—every cop and every fed in the county was ass-deep in work—car inspections at the border crossings, shoe checks at the airport, passenger list searches at the cruise ship terminal. While the authorities were busy counting bottles of tequila from Tijuana, sifting through the underwear of a grandpa en route to Grand Forks, or holding up one of the Princess line from floating off toward Puerto Vallarta, he’d be busy setting up his future.
He hadn’t lived in San Diego long
, but the situation he’d inherited was perfect for a scheme—a dream, really—that had been brewing in his mind for years. Nothing was going to get in his way.
No one.
Baring his teeth in a smile for his contact, Jaime Ortiz, he hefted a battered backpack, testing its weight. “Ten grand is lighter than I thought.”
Jaime frowned. “It’s all there, yes?”
“Didn’t I say so?” He unzipped the nylon anyway, eyed the rubber-banded stacks of twenty-dollar bills, and then let Jaime check them out too. The money looked grubby, but who the hell cared? Clean or dirty, money procured whatever a man could want. He transferred his gaze to Jaime, noting the oily sheen of sweat on the man’s dark upper lip. His eyes narrowed. “You’ll do as we’ve planned.”
“Sí. Yes.” Jaime swiped at his mouth, and then reseated the ball cap covering his thick shock of hair. “As you said, señor. As we planned.” More beads of sweat popped, despite the pleasant midsixties temperature.
With his gaze locked on Jaime’s, he shoved his hand beneath his wind jacket, his fingertips sliding over the Vuitton leather belt he’d bought as an early Christmas present. It wasn’t the Rolex or Phillipe watch that he’d really wanted, but an accessory like that would only draw suspicion. Who would notice a belt? True flashiness would have to wait a few years.
His grip found the Beretta tucked in his waistband, and he pulled it out then tossed the handgun to Jaime. “Feliz Navidad.”
* * *
“This has got to be worse than wrapping an inflatable sex doll,” Stacy Banks muttered to herself, winding out another length of Christmas paper. Holding her bottom lip between her teeth, she folded, tucked, and taped. Then she took her veed scissors in hand to create a curly-ribbon confection in red and green. With a delicate touch, she placed it on top. Finally, inhaling a cautious breath, she spun toward the mirror to get a new perspective on the package.
“Well,” she said to her reflection. “I suppose I look…festive.”
And not like a kindergarten teacher, which was much more to the point. Miss Banks of Room 2 at Lemoncrest Elementary wore flat-soled shoes and long denim dresses or soft corduroy pants perfect for the chasing, corralling, and educating of thirty-four five-year-olds. Today’s get-up—a Betty-and-Wilma-like sarong of heavy-duty Christmas wrap complete with knee-length paper skirt pleated for ease of movement—was designed for interesting, enticing, and well…enslaving just one thirty-four-year-old man.
Stacey plucked the cascade of ribbon out of her own blond curls and picked up a bobby pin to anchor it more securely. Ryan Beausoleil—transplanted from El Paso, Texas, to the condo above hers just a few months before—wouldn’t know what hit him. He was toast. He was hers.
If she found the guts to ask him to the party, that is.
But a swift glance at the slip of paper lying on her kitchen table was all the swift-kick-in-the-derriere she needed. Formatted with a cutesy figure in one corner and the words YOUR HOLIDAY ELF beneath it, the paycheck showed a sizable number on the “Amount Of” line and her own name on the “Payable To” line, representing the last three weeks of wrapping, ribboning, and tagging. Extra money was good, and would be a pleasure to spend at the local mall. But it was the name scrawled on the signature line that was getting Stacy out of the house.
Her younger sister’s name. Her younger, freckle-faced, former Barbie-stealing sister who had, six months before, come up with a business idea, a business plan, a business success.
She’d gone out on a limb.
As had Stacy’s friend Delia, who’d traveled to China two months ago and adopted a baby girl. As had Stacy’s yoga-class colleague, who’d bought a five-hundred-dollar raffle ticket from the fire department in August and was now on a year-long cruise around the world.
In those same months, Stacy had burped the baby, dutifully filled out lesson plans, worked as her sister’s temporary employee, and never missed a scheduled session at the local Yoga for You center.
But she’d never gone out on a limb.
To the rustle of her wrapping-paper dress, Stacy gathered up a lacy shawl and a tiny evening purse, leaving behind her day planner, her bulky wallet, and her cell phone. Anything else she needed would be at Your Holiday Elf’s end-of-the-season party. Everything but her date.
Stacy knew she’d find him at the JMR Sportfishing Landing on San Diego Bay. Even in the deepening twilight, the driving directions she’d printed off the Internet were simple to follow and a parking space just as easy to find. The lot was nearly empty, but that didn’t surprise her. Ryan had inherited a sportfishing boat from his uncle and he’d told her that December was the off-season. He and the other boat operators who used this landing wouldn’t have regular trips running again until spring.
The place wasn’t entirely deserted, though. Just as she approached, a pair of men was coming through a locked gate leading to the docks. They held it open for her without question, giving her a friendly check-over in the glow from the string of Christmas lights wound through the cyclone fencing. Too excited and nervous to feel the cold, she’d left her shawl behind.
“Nice package,” one of the guys murmured with an easy grin. “Is my name on the gift tag?”
Uneasiness fluttered in Stacy’s belly. Not that the men appeared threatening, but she always clammed up at come-ons, even benign ones like this. Each year during the first week of school she read her students Ms. Shy Makes a Friend, but the same advice she said aloud every September, “Go the mile, give a smile,” never seemed to stick with her.
“I’m, um, here to visit Ryan Beausoleil.” Saying it aloud set her stomach to fluttering again. His name was how they’d met, in the condo mailroom where the box marked BEAUSOLEIL was snuggled beside the one marked BANKS.
Bo-so-lay. It sounded exotic, evocative.
Second, third, fourth thoughts flitted through her brain. His very syllables were out of a kindergarten teacher’s league. How could she be thinking of going out on a limb with him?
“He’s one lucky dude,” the grinner said. He didn’t seem to think that she and Ryan were an obvious mismatch, and Stacy took heart from that. “His boat, The Bait, is the last one on the left.”
With a quick breath, Stacy stepped through the doorway. The gate locked behind her as the two men continued toward the parking lot. She made her way down the deck, its rubberized surface muffling the tap-tap-tap of her mid-heeled, strappy shoes. The only other sound was a gentle slosh of the water. Small security lights illuminated the silent boats and the walkway itself, yet Stacy had the distinct feeling she was alone.
But Ryan was here! He had to be. He’d told her in the mailroom the day before that he planned to spend Christmas Eve on his boat, catching up on the never-ending upkeep. But God, it was spooky with only that eerie slosh-slosh-slosh of the water and the rabbity noise of her heartbeat in her ears. A breeze washed over her bare arms and shoulders, stirring both her real and ribbon curls. Chills pricked her skin.
This is stupid, she suddenly thought, her feet stuttering to a halt.
Not her fear, but the fact that she’d considered coming out here in the first place. What had she been thinking? Hunky, sexy Ryan Beausoleil was bodelicious, but face it, she wasn’t bodacious enough to walk onto his boat and invite him to a party. Especially when she was dressed like a Christmas present. What had seemed fun and flirty at the time, something a man named Beausoleil would appreciate—since everyone at Your Holiday Elf was going in costume—now seemed embarrassing. Goofy even.
She was going to turn around and get out of this creepy place and go back—
To her safe, boring, never-go-the-mile-and-smile life.
No way.
Swallowing hard, she set her sights on The Bait and forced herself to march onward. Ryan had seemed interested, remember? He lingered in the mailroom when they happened to meet there. He’d helped her brother carry in the new loveseat she’d bought last weekend. After that, when she’d mumbled something about now owing him a favor,
he’d wiggled his eyebrows and then laughed when she’d blushed.
She knew he was interested, just as she knew when five-year-old Tyler Brown was up to no good. There was that devilish, and devilishly cute little gleam in his eye. The quirk in his smile that promised naughtiness to come.
Well, this Christmas Stacy wanted to be naughty too.
She paused at the steps that led aboard The Bait. The boat was more well-lit than the others nearby, but she didn’t see or hear Ryan.
“Hello?” she called out, sliding her palms down her paper skirt. “Ahoy there?”
No one replied. Still on the dock, she paced the length of the boat—it was a sixty-five-footer he’d told her brother. Equipment bristled from its sides and decks, but the only thing she could identify for sure was the little speedboat winched up at the back—or was that the bow? “Ahoy? Ryan?”
Nobody’s home. Disappointment flooded through her. But it was the relief that followed that got her moving again. Ignoring the weasely little nervousness in her belly, she walked back to the stairs, grasped the cold handrails, and mounted the metal laddered steps that led onto the boat. No backing out now, Banks. Only kindergarten teacher-cowards would be run off so quickly.
Checking her watch, she promised herself she’d wait a decent amount of time. Three minutes, say. Then she’d go.
With reprieve two minutes and fifty seconds away, Stacy felt herself relax—and then felt the cold. There was a lighted, windowed room on this level of the deck and through the glass she could see a small cooking area, a bar, and cushioned benches. The galley, she thought, and scurried toward its door. If Ryan arrived in the next two minutes and thirty seconds, though it seemed certain that he would not, surely he’d forgive her for finding a spot to stay warm.
He might be surprised to see her, but he wouldn’t be angry.
Not Another New Year's (Holiday Duet Book 2) Page 29