Lured: A Love Letters Novel

by Kristen Blakely

  Lured

  A Love Letters Novel

  Kristen Blakely

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Lured

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Maligned

  Love Letters

  About the Author

  Lured

  When an accident cuts short Dr. Shannon Larson’s bicycle tour through Italy, she’s rescued by a brusque, career-driven American lawyer—the same kind of man who once broke her heart. A week in Brandon Smith’s company, however, convinces her that the similarities are superficial. Her Italian fling with Brandon becomes the highlight of her life, but can the glow of romance survive the harsh light of reality when they return to America and find themselves on opposite sides of the courtroom?

  Chapter 1

  Sidewalks.

  She would have given almost anything for a sidewalk.

  Dr. Shannon Larson gently squeezed the brakes on her bicycle and came to a rolling stop, before steering her bike off the muddy road and onto the narrow grass shoulder. A slash of lightning cracked the sky, illuminating the winding country road in flashes of pale white light.

  If this were America, this road would be a six-lane highway with steel-frame dividers, a two-lane service road, and a sidewalk.

  Of course, the flipside was that the scenery in America would consist of cookie-cutter suburban homes, big box stores, and chain restaurants, as opposed to—

  Shannon swept her wet hair away from her face and looked around.

  As opposed to miles of rolling hills—no, steep hills—in Tuscany.

  Somewhere out there was her intended destination, a farmhouse B&B where she had a reservation for the evening. With any luck it would be within several miles, preferably before her thigh muscles turned to jelly.

  Her sigh was partly amused, partly exasperated as she looked at the sky. The wispy gray clouds had not seemed threatening when she left Pienza earlier that afternoon, but they had soon thickened into dark clouds that pelted rain. An hour into her journey, it was still pouring and the slick roads had turned slushy. Her denim jeans were mud-splattered, but at least her sweater beneath her hooded raincoat was dry.

  Dry-ish, she amended. Her jacket kept out the wet, but the cold seeped through. She shuddered and told herself it was a physiological reaction to the weather instead of a psychological reaction to being out in the middle of nowhere, on a bicycle, on a rain-drenched evening, with night falling fast, and no B&B in sight.

  Well, the B&B wasn’t going to magically show up if she didn’t get moving. She steered her bicycle back onto the road—path, really. “Road” was too glorious a name for the narrow dirt- and stone-paved trail that meandered through the Tuscan countryside.

  Note to self: The next time I decide to bike through Italy, sign up with a tour group…the ones that escort bikers with air-conditioned vans loaded with water bottles and energy bars.

  Shannon pushed off and continued down the dark road. The reflectors on her bike were dull—there was nothing to reflect except for a pitiful sliver of moonlight. Streetlights—she would have given anything for streetlights, too.

  If her estimates were right, she was within five miles of the B&B. Tension seeped out of her shoulders as she smiled. She could almost imagine the warm baked bread, freshly churned butter, a steaming tomato-basil soup and—

  She screamed as light flared across the road and the roar of a car engine punched through the steady patter of falling rain. Her bicycle wobbled; the handlebars wrenched to the side and she tumbled into the mud.

  For a moment, the only thing she could hear was the loud thumping of her heart. A car door slammed and footsteps raced toward her. Damn it. She grunted, her breath heaving in short bursts as the pain kicked in. She tried to twist her shoulders free of her heavy backpack, but the muscles in her back tightened into a spasm that wrenched a gasp out of her.

  A man in a dark overcoat hurried around the front of the car and knelt beside her. He tugged the backpack off her shoulders—the sharp jerk made her stomach clench with pain—and dumped it into the mud. His arm supported her back as she slowly pushed into a sitting position.

  A torrent of Italian flowed from his lips. The flash of lightning across the sky gave her a brief glimpse of his face. His eyes were dark and stamped with worry.

  “Uh…” Her brain stumbled over a tangle of words. She grabbed the first two non-English words that came to mind. “Estoy…bien.”

  No, wait, that was Spanish. Darn. What were the Italian words for “I’m fine”?

  He looked confused, but he spoke again, and that time, his Italian sounded like Spanish, but much more irritated.

  Unfortunately, her Spanish was only slightly less rusty than her Italian, and she had exhausted the bulk of her vocabulary in those two words. “I…uh…I’m okay.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re American?” His familiar accent had New York City stamped all over it. In fact, she could almost narrow it down to the Upper East Side.

  “Yes, I…You are too.” She huffed her breath out. “I suppose it explains why you were driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  His jaw dropped. “I was…? No, you’ve got it wrong. You swerved into my lane—”

  “How could I possibly swerve into your lane when there isn’t enough road for two lanes?” She flung her arm out at the muddy path, but the imperious motion was ruined by her yelp of pain.

  He leaned closer to her. “You’re hurt. Where?”

  “My back.” Leaning against him, she tried to stand, but her left knee crumpled beneath her weight.

  He caught her before she hit the ground. “What now?” The snap of his voice was frustrated, as if it were her fault. “Did you hurt your leg, too?” He shook his head and his words emerged through ground teeth. “I’ll take you to a hospital.”

  “I don’t need a hospital.”

  “Why don’t we let a doctor be a judge of that?”

  “I am a doctor.”

  He paused for a beat. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “A medical doctor, not a doctor of some hokey arts and crafts degree?”

  She glared at him. “I have a Ph.D. in reading tea leaves and dancing naked under the moon, but yeah, I have an M.D. as well.”

  He chuckled. “I bet the Ph.D. was more fun. Come on, let’s get you out of the rain. Just yell if I’m too rough.”

  Shannon braced herself, but he was gentler than she expected. Even so, pain jolted along the length of her back and jostled her leg as he helped her to the passenger seat. He laid his hand on her head to duck her into the seat. She glanced up at him and in the dim light of the car, caught a glimpse of his dark hair and sculptured features before he slammed the door shut, plunging her into darkness once again. He moved around the front of the vehicle, and retrieved her bicycle and backpack, both of which he tossed into
the backseat.

  Careful not to turn too quickly, she cast a glance over her shoulder. The twisted skeleton of her bicycle made her groan. Everything considered, she had survived that encounter far better than her bike. Her backpack was muddy; she could only hope that it was as waterproof as the manufacturer touted. Shannon glanced down at her clothes and the mud and water dripping over the butter-colored leather seat, and she winced. Darn.

  The light in the car flashed on as the man opened the door and stepped into the driver’s seat. Water dripped from his hair and traced the slash of his cheekbones. If she had been feeling more charitable, she might have thought that her “rescuer” looked like a knight—a rather pissed-off knight.

  The light vanished as he tugged the car door shut with a bang that rattled the vehicle. Conveying emotion through sound had to be a gift of his; even that inanimate sound had resounded with supreme irritation. “The closest clinic is in Montepulciano—”

  “No, no. I’m headed to Montalcino.”

  “Montalcino is in the complete opposite direction from where you were headed.”

  Shannon’s jaw dropped as her mind tried to wrap around that fact. How did she get so completely turned around?

  He pulled the car back onto the road. “Did they teach you how to read when you got your M.D.?”

  “And you obviously slept through all your classes on manners.”

  “Some idiot professor scheduled them too early. Who wakes up before noon anyway?” He sighed as he adjusted the air-conditioning to blast hot air instead. “Where in Montalcino were you going to?”

  “Is it out of your way?”

  “Yes, very.” He glanced sideways at her. “What? Were you expecting me to lie? Mouth some platitudes to make you feel better about your lousy sense of direction and even worse sense of balance?”

  “Wow? Grumpy much?”

  “Look, I got off a nine-hour flight and I’ve driven two hours to get here. Tack on waiting in airports and waiting for rental cars, and I’m fifteen hours into a really long day that just got longer.”

  “Did you lose your sense of humor along the way or just your sense of perspective?”

  “My sense of humor is still hanging out with a sweet hooker at that little airport bar in Florence, and my sense of perspective stayed home in New York to mind the condo.”

  Shannon choked back a giggle. It would not do to encourage his bad manners. “Well, my sense of direction is obviously still wandering around the city square at Pienza, trying to sort out east from west, and my sense of balance—we left it buried back there, together with my pride.” She sighed as she sorted through her options. “If Montepulciano is on your way, perhaps you could drop me off there. I’ll find a place for the night and then make my way to Montalcino in the morning.”

  He scowled.

  “It’ll save you time, right?” she asked.

  “About two hours. Do you have a reservation in Montepulciano?”

  “Obviously not, since it wasn’t on my agenda, but how hard is it to find a B&B?”

  “At the height of tourist season? Harder than you think.” His frown deepened. “Are you sure you don’t need a clinic?”

  “I’m a doctor. I think I’m qualified to assess the severity of my own injuries. I need Tylenol, a hot pack, and an ice pack.”

  He shrugged. “Your ability to sue me for damages diminishes significantly with each hour and with each refusal to check into a clinic, not that it was great to begin with, seeing how you were in the wrong.”

  “Spoken like a true New Yorker.”

  “Spoken like a lawyer.”

  Shannon gaped at him. “You’re a lawyer? Go figure.” She chuckled. “Just drop me off in the city square. I’m sure I’ll find something.”

  He sighed. “I’ll put you up for the night.”

  “I’m not sharing a hotel room with you.”

  “How about an Italian cottage?”

  “What?”

  “I’m headed to my sister’s place. I’m sure she’s got a room to spare.”

  “And won’t she be surprised if you just show up with a strange woman?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.” He grinned at her, flashing white teeth in a disarming smile. “Actually, she and her husband are away in Paris. I’m housesitting.”

  “You’re a heck of a brother, flying in from New York City to housesit in Tuscany.”

  “I know. A hell of a sacrifice.”

  She would be in a cottage…with him.

  She didn’t even know his name.

  Shannon sucked in an unsteady breath. Biting her lower lip, she turned to glance out the car window at the sheets of rain pouring down. If she were back in America, she would never have gotten into a car with a stranger, her injured back and mangled bicycle notwithstanding. But here, in a foreign land, the simple act of connecting with a fellow countryman had lowered her guard.

  Not smart.

  In fact, incredibly stupid.

  She was still scrambling for an excuse when he spoke again, his voice absent the mocking tone. “Do you have someone you can call to let them know where you are?” He dug a smartphone out of his pocket and handed it to her. Their eyes met briefly. His—damn it—were knowing, as if he had sensed her sudden fear. Was she really that transparent? “My name is Brandon Smith. My sister is Marguerite Ferrara. Her home is a mile south of Montepulciano.”

  “Okay.” Swallowing her embarrassment, she tapped in her friend’s phone number. Andrea’s voicemail picked up the call, and Shannon left a message with a terse explanation and Brandon’s details before hanging up and handing the phone back to Brandon.

  He did not smile as he slid the phone into the pocket of his overcoat. “What would you have done if I were a serial killer?”

  She snorted. “You’ve already confessed that you’re a soul-sucking, blood-drinking creature of the night. What could be more terrifying than the fact that you’re a lawyer? Besides, aren’t serial killers supposed to be charming and charismatic?”

  “Are you saying I’m not?”

  She shrugged. “You should know, Mr. It’s-Out-Of-My-Way.”

  “I call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

  “Unusual for a lawyer.”

  Brandon shook his head. “Not really. And who are you?”

  “Oh. I’m Shannon Larson. Glad to meet you, and thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said as he turned the car into a darkened driveway.

  For a moment, a sliver of fear wormed its way into her chest, but moments later, motion-sensor flood lamps flared, drenching the driveway and bathing the cottage with light. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “That is not a cottage.”

  “You don’t think so?” He rested his forearm on the steering wheel and peered at the house. The light wavering through the pouring rain created a shimmering veil around an Italian villa, its traditional architecture accentuated by stone arches and terracotta tiles. Ivy climbed the walls, and a profusion of purple flowers in large clay pots added a dazzling burst of color to the beige background. “Maggie calls it a cottage, but I think it’s only because she doesn’t actually have to clean it. Otherwise, she’d call it a monster. Why don’t you wait here? No sense in the both of us getting wet while I work my way through the keys and the security system.”

  Before she could say anything, he dashed out of the car and ran toward the house. For a moment, he fumbled with the front door before opening it and disappearing into the villa. Moments later, the interior lights came on, spilling its cheery glow through the windows. Several minutes passed before he emerged. He went straight to the passenger side. She opened the door, and she was immediately assaulted by the humidity of the evening and the thunderous sound of pelting rain. “Come on,” he said. “Careful. Wouldn’t want you to fall and bust your other knee.”

  Shannon bit her lip to hold back the whimpers of pain as she hobbled, with his help, to the door. Her breath was coming in fast heaves by the time
the warmth of the house enveloped her. Brandon stared into her face. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “Almost sure.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’ll know better once I get a chance to evaluate the extent of the damage. Is there a bathroom?”

  “Yeah, there’s one attached to the guest room. Wait, let’s get off your raincoat and your boots.”

  Shannon flushed. The floors looked like several-hundred-year-old polished oak. With Brandon’s help, she eased off her raincoat, but when she tried to lean over to remove her boots, her back muscles screamed a protest.

  “I’ve got it,” Brandon said. He guided her to a low bench in the foyer. The wobbly piece of furniture was more decorative than functional. “Right leg first; easy now.”

  The right boot came off easily enough with a squelching sound. The left boot, the one on her injured leg, was a great deal more stubborn. While he tried to maneuver the boot off her foot, Shannon grabbed on to the edge of the bench until her knuckles were white. The boot finally came off, and Brandon set it aside. He looked up at her and scowled, his eyes narrowing. “You need a doctor.”

  “I am a doctor. Now, where is the guest room?”

  He grunted. “Upstairs.”

  She glanced at the wooden staircase and grimaced. Perhaps the hospital might not have been such a bad idea, except that hospitals had real problems to deal with, and her strained back and twisted knee did not qualify as emergencies. She looked at Brandon. “Can you please…?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He did not sound happy, but neither was he surly, which, Shannon supposed, was a blessing. He helped her limp up the stairs to a large bedroom perfectly coordinated with pine furniture and a soothing blend of cream and mint-green colors. “Bathroom’s over there.” He gestured to a closed door. “Are you okay? I’m going to get your backpack.”