Lured: A Love Letters Novel

by Kristen Blakely

  “Do you like your job?”

  “I love it, actually—the challenge, the thrill. Each case is different, each client unique. Do you like yours?”

  “I…” Shannon reached for a slice of prosciutto. “I did…and I didn’t.”

  Brandon laughed. “That sounds definitive.”

  “Loved the people. Hated the administration.”

  “And that led to leaving the hospital to do your own thing?”

  “Yes, the urgent care clinic.”

  “You realize that you’ll have administration there too, right? Insurance. Medicare and Medicaid. Payroll taxes. Income taxes—”

  Shannon pressed her hands against her ears. “No, no, no. Keep reality away from me.”

  Brandon chuckled. “New business ventures are a bit like having kids. If people knew up front exactly what it would entail, they’d never head down that path.”

  “Well, it’s too late for me. My life savings are invested in that urgent care clinic. There’s no turning back.” She nibbled on a slice of cheese. “Nerves aside, I’m really looking forward to this new phase in my life. It’s everything I’ve wanted.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations. I hope it goes well.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “So you can say nice things.”

  He winked. “My quota is one per day. I’m done until tomorrow.”

  Shannon laughed. “Your girlfriends must have developed thick skin.”

  “The best ones were born with it.” He leaned back in his chair. “You think I’m an asshole, don’t you?”

  “I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours. I really don’t think I’m entitled to comment.”

  “People form impressions in fifteen seconds.”

  Shannon rolled her eyes. “Well, let’s just say your first fifteen seconds weren’t stellar. But neither were mine.”

  “I don’t really have an excuse.”

  “But neither are you apologizing for it.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not the only blunt one here.”

  “I think you expect honesty, and you respect it. Conversation with you is…jarring. I can’t quite anticipate what you’re going to say.”

  He hesitated for a moment before saying, “Maybe it’s because you don’t know me.”

  It almost sounded like an invitation. Did she want to know him? Brandon was intriguing in a slow-motion-train-wreck kind of way, not because he likely to wreck but because he was the high-speed train—rapid and unstoppable, running down everything in its path.

  As a spectator, she would likely be amused, but the danger lay in getting close. She had been run down once before by a man much like Brandon—brilliant and ambitious, minus the blunt honesty. She didn’t have the time or energy to be someone else’s collateral damage once again. “I…don’t think the timing’s quite right.”

  Their eyes met, and Brandon’s lips tugged into an ironic smirk “I suppose not. You’re leaving after dinner.”

  Chapter 3

  The scent of rosemary and thyme wafted up the stairs as Shannon, leaning heavily on the polished oak banister made her way down. She had spent the past twenty-four hours cooped up in the guest bedroom, entertained by the gorgeous scenery outside the window and the books from Maggie’s library on the second-floor landing. The inactivity chafed her, but she was realistic enough to pace her progress.

  Carrying her heavy backpack down the stairs was an unlikely endeavor, but she suspected she would be able to talk Brandon into it. For all his bluntness, he did have a streak of chivalry. He would not have been as kind to her otherwise.

  “Brandon?” she called as she reached the foot of the stairs.

  “Here, in the kitchen. Dinner will be ready in about five minutes.”

  She glanced at the framed photograph over the fireplace, her attention immediately drawn to the stunningly attractive blond-haired woman who graced the covers of Cosmopolitan and Vogue. “Maggie…Marguerite Ferrara.” Brandon had mentioned his sister’s name last night but Shannon had been too disoriented by the accident to piece all the details together.

  Brandon was right. He did know Shannon, and she did know him, under wretched circumstances.

  Her chest aching, Shannon shook her head as she made her way into the kitchen. Brandon had set up two place settings in a cozy dining nook beside the large windows overlooking the terrace and pool. He waved her over to the table before joining her with two bowls of chilled melon-cucumber soup. She took a tentative sip; the first course, topped with cream and sprinkled with lemon rind, was more dessert than soup.

  “It’s amazing,” she murmured.

  Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’?”

  “I’m a lawyer. For all intents and purposes, I have a degree in profiling. Something’s not quite right, and it’s not the food.”

  She set the spoon down. “How can you tell?”

  “Your eyes. Your voice. Our ungraceful meeting yesterday set a baseline for stress. Everything since then adjusted for a more normal you. So, what’s wrong?”

  “You said yesterday that you thought we’d met before.”

  “Yes, your frown seemed familiar.”

  “It’s not surprising. I figured out where we met when I saw the photograph of your sister over the fireplace. She’s somewhat more memorable than you.”

  “It has to do with being a supermodel.”

  “There’s that.” Shannon bit her lower lip. “I’ve met you and your sister only once, at the Phelps Memorial Hospital in Westchester, about a year and a half ago.”

  Brandon’s eyes widened, and his breath caught. His jaw was tense as he forced out a single word. “Dad.”

  Shannon nodded. “I was on duty at the ER the day he was brought in. I’m sorry.”

  Brandon’s shoulders slumped. “He passed away later that day.”

  “Yeah, I’d heard.”

  He chuckled unexpectedly. “You came by the ICU to see him before you left. We spoke briefly; I think I gave you a negative seven for bedside manners.”

  “Yes, you were polite enough to do it after I turned to leave but before I was out of earshot.”

  “Sorry, it was a rough day.”

  “For me too. I was coming off the end of a second shift, not that it’s a good excuse. How have you been doing since?”

  “Well, Maggie married a great guy, Drew Jackson. You may have seen him that day at the hospital. They moved to Milan to launch her career as a fashion designer and bought a farmhouse-villa in Tuscany for their weekend getaways. My mother’s back in Venice with her latest boyfriend, or she might be in between boyfriends—it’s too hard to keep track. And I’m still in Manhattan.”

  “When you’re not housesitting for your sister.”

  “Right.” Brandon grinned, but his smile faded. “It’s funny, coming all the way here, only to run into you again.”

  “You sound like you were trying to get away from the past.”

  “I am, or at least I was.”

  “Why?”

  He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “It’s not important.” He glanced at her empty soup bowl. “Are you ready for the roast quail? I have an excellent chardonnay to go with it.”

  “I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

  He looked aghast. “Really? That’s…depraved. How can you visit the heart of Italian wine country and tell me you’re not a wine drinker?”

  “I was on a bike tour. I didn’t think alcohol and biking would mix.”

  “Well, you didn’t need alcohol to screw up your sense of direction yesterday.”

  “You see!” She laughed. “Imagine how much worse it might have been if I’d had alcohol.”

  He chuckled. “Do you mind if I drink?”

  “Oh, no. Please, go ahead.” With relish, she sliced her roast quail and brought a tender morsel up to her mouth. The delicate balance of herbs infused her senses. “It’s amazing. Have you ever considered opening a
restaurant?”

  He shook his head. “Cooking for money would take all the joy out of it, although I’ll admit that cooking for one isn’t as fun as cooking for an appreciative audience.” A slight frown crossed his face. “Would you consider hanging out here for the rest of your vacation?”

  Her gaze jerked up, and their eyes met. “Hanging out?”

  “I have a car. I could take you around—do the touristy things, introduce you to fine wine and fine dining.”

  Her heart thudding in her chest, she set down her fork. “What changed in the past five minutes to inspire this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Brandon. You may be the profiler, but I’m not completely clueless. Our previous contact was for less than five minutes under pretty miserable circumstances, and you suddenly ask me to stay?”

  “It’s hard to put into words—”

  “And you’re a lawyer?”

  “Touché.” He laughed. His eyes focused on a distant point before returning to her face. “You’re the perfect blend between something familiar and something new. Maybe it’s what I need right now.”

  “Uh…”

  He held up his hands. “No sexual favors. I’m not that desperate, and I’m sure, neither are you. Just think of me as someone to tour Italy with. You can pay for gas and our meals on the road, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Not that desperate? Wow, you certainly know how to flatter a woman.”

  “If I’m trying to get your clothes off, you’ll know it. Right now, I’m looking for great conversation and someone to cook for.”

  “I’m surprised some woman didn’t already snag you. Most women just want a halfway decent conversation and a meal they didn’t have to cook.”

  His eyes hardened. “The woman I was engaged to wanted something else.”

  The sharp edge of his tone sliced into her. “Oh.” She looked away. “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for. It worked out for the best.”

  Unlikely; he sounded intensely bitter. “Can you tell me what other sensitive topics to avoid?”

  Brandon opened his mouth to speak, but his expression transformed from irritated to hopeful. “Does that mean you’ve decided to stay the week?”

  “I’m…thinking about it.”

  “Well, that’s an improvement on ‘um.’”

  She laughed. “I confess, I’m tempted, especially if you’re cooking. What are the other terms, beyond ‘no sexual favors’?”

  “I don’t have any other terms. Do you?”

  “You’re a lawyer. Where’s the fifty-page contract?”

  “I’m on vacation, and my paralegal’s back in New York. You’re just going to have to take the verbal contract on good faith.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what my terms are?”

  “What are they?”

  She stared at him. “Nothing.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Nothing?”

  “Your mouth has a wicked streak, but notwithstanding all the snappy comments, you’ve been kind and generous to a stranger. I’ll go on faith that what I’ve seen is real, and we can negotiate everything else from there.”

  He shook his head. “You’re definitely not from New York City.”

  “Ah, no. And maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “Time will tell as to whether your optimism trumps my cynicism.” He grinned. “So, should I call Mr. Castillo and let him know you won’t be traveling to Siena tonight?”

  “Yes.” Shannon nodded. “This could either be the absolute craziest thing I’ve done, or the absolute stupidest, but either way, I’m sure it’ll give me something to talk about when I get home.”

  Brandon raised his wineglass, and Shannon tapped the rim of her water glass against his. His grin widened. “I promise you’ll have the best vacation of your life.”

  Chapter 4

  “So this is Montalcino,” Shannon mused. She sipped from a mug of coffee and tapped her feet against the stone steps leading down into the central plaza. The sun peeked over the massive city walls as shopkeepers bustled through the town square, opening their stores to display their wares. The aroma drifting from the surrounding bakeries tempted her into another bite of her croissant.

  “It’s a pity you’re not into wine,” Brandon said. He inhaled from his matching coffee mug. “The Brunello from Montalcino is especially good.”

  “How can you think only of wine when the surroundings are just so…” She drew a deep breath. As she exhaled, her lips curved into a smile. “So amazing. Olive groves. Vineyards. Rolling hills all around.”

  “Did you know that in 2008, Italian authorities confiscated four producers’ 2003 Brunello di Montalcino on charges that they had included Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot.”

  Shannon’s eyes narrowed. “And this is important because…?”

  “The charges were falsified; the confiscated wines were indeed Burnello.” He winked at her. “It’s my backup career plan. It’s a sweet job confiscating wines for a living.”

  She laughed and reached into her backpack to pull out her guidebook. “According to this book, there are two abbeys in the area.”

  “Sant Antimo and Monte Oliveto Maggiore.”

  Shannon arched an eyebrow. “You really do know your way around.”

  “They’re quaint. Quite a bit of walking, though, and on uneven surfaces.” He frowned. “Are you sure your knee can handle it?”

  “I can, if you’ll lend me a hand.”

  The abbeys were charming as he had promised, but the picnic lunch on the hills overlooking Sant Antimo was the highlight of her day. “You certainly believe in frequent breaks for meals,” she teased.

  “It’s Italy. What else is there to do here?” He popped the cork on the bottle of sparkling white grape juice and poured her a glass.

  “Museums. Abbeys. Cathedrals.” She sipped, touched that he had provided her with a non-alcoholic alternative. Setting the glass aside, she reclined on the large blanket he had spread out on the grass and stretched out her legs. She gently massaged her left knee. Even with his hand, steady around her waist, the uneven stone steps of the abbey had been more challenging than she would admit. “I don’t think I would have done this.”

  “Done what?”

  “Just stopped and taken a break.”

  “The abbeys have been standing for hundreds of years. They’re not going anywhere in the next half hour it takes for us to chill out and do nothing.”

  She laughed. “You’re just not what I would have expected in a lawyer.”

  “You keep referring to my profession like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Sorry, I got burnt once before.”

  “Oh?”

  “My ex-boyfriend was a lawyer.”

  “Was he an asshole because he was a lawyer, or was he an asshole who just happened to be a lawyer?”

  Shannon shrugged. “I was never any good at chicken-and-egg questions.” She shook her head sharply. “Anyway, isn’t it supposed to be against the rules to talk about former relationships on a first date?”

  “Is this a date?” he asked.

  “Do you want it to be?”

  He did not reply immediately.

  “You did say you wanted someone to talk to and feed,” she prompted him.

  He snorted. “If all I wanted was someone to talk to and feed, I’d have bought a puppy. Less emotional effort. More emotional return.”

  “Ouch, that certainly put me in my place.” She tilted her head to study him. “You don’t know what you want, do you?”

  “I think I’ve done a better job of figuring out what I don’t want than what I want.”

  “That’s half the battle.” She slid a slice of cheese onto a cracker and bit into it. “I have, too.”

  He spread a peach fruit paste over his cracker. “What is it?”

  “A guilt-free career. It was tough at the hospital. Being a rookie doctor, I landed up with the worst shifts, some
of them back-to-back.”

  “Exhausted, sleep-deprived doctors in the ER? It could be grounds for a class-action lawsuit.”

  “Fortunately, it didn’t turn out that way, but Jerry didn’t like it.”

  “Your ex-boyfriend.”

  Shannon nodded. “He wanted more of my time. I didn’t have more time.” She shrugged. “He had…things—events and big client shindigs—that he wanted me to attend with him, but when I got home, it was almost more than I could do to shower and change before rolling into bed. Dressing up and going out, even if I didn’t have a conflicting shift, was more than I could manage.”

  “Why didn’t you quit your job at the hospital earlier?”

  “I didn’t quit because of the hours. I loved the work; I love it still. I just want to do my own thing and be my own boss.”

  “Even if it results in more hours,” Brandon pointed out with a smile.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Shannon laughed, but her smile faded quickly. “Jerry never actually said it—perhaps I just imagined it—but I think he resented the fact that my job was more important to me than he was.”

  “Was his job more important to him than you were?”

  “Of course.”

  Brandon shrugged. “Well, then it’s fair play. What’s his problem?”

  “I think he wanted to know he mattered more to me. It’s not unreasonable to ask for that.”

  A muscle twitched in Brandon’s smooth cheek. “It depends.”

  Shannon rolled onto her side so that she could better study his face. “Depends on what?”

  “Depends on what he or she demands as evidence of your love.”

  “What did your ex-fiancée ask of you?”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter now. All in the past.” He topped up her sparkling grape juice and held out a bowl filled with something of questionable appearance. “Have you tried pâté?”

  “You’re good at changing the topic,” she said, but played along by sampling the pâté on a cracker. She smacked her lips and licked a morsel off her lips. “Looks scary, tastes scary good.”