by Fran Baker
Kitty saw him looking at her and waved to him from the bleachers, thinking it had been a championship season in more ways than one.
The Cooperville Cougars had won their division and were headed to the state tournament at the end of the month. Jessie had been elected to the all-star team—and little wonder. She practiced constantly on the small cement court Ben had had poured just east of the driveway. He’d surprised her with it the day before the wedding, calling it her “welcome home” present and encouraging her to invite her friends for a pickup game anytime she wanted. The mansion on the hill hadn’t been the same since.
Kitty spotted Carol sitting by herself a few rows over and decided to join her. Jamie’s brothers were spending the night with Carol’s mother, she knew, and Jamie was coming home with Jessie after the ceremony.
“You look nice,” Kitty said as she sat down next to her friend.
“Thanks.”
“Is that a new dress?”
“First one in five years.” Carol’s voice had a new note of confidence in it. She ironed an imaginary wrinkle out of her skirt with her hand. “When Bob picked me up tonight, he said he’d forgotten I even had legs.”
Between her own wedding over the Thanksgiving weekend and moving into Ben’s home, Kitty had talked to Carol only in bits and snatches. She knew that Bob had successfully completed his counseling program and had gotten his job back, but they’d both been too busy to visit about any of it.
“How’s it going with you two?” Kitty asked now.
“Like I told you when I called to ask if Jamie could spend the night, we’re still separated, but we’ve started seeing each other again.” She crossed her fingers. “We’re both determined to make it work, and thanks to the counseling, I think we can.”
“I take it you’re going out with him tonight?”
Carol’s face pinkened. “We talked about going out to dinner, then we just decided to spend the night at home. Alone, thanks to my mother taking the boys and you taking Jamie.”
“I owe you one,” Kitty reminded her.
“Two, if you count your wedding night,” Carol teased.
It was Kitty’s turn to blush, and she did so quite becomingly as she reflected briefly on her first night as Mrs. Benjamin Cooper. If they’d missed a room in the house or a spot on each other’s bodies, it was news to her.
Her tummy fluttered with remembrance of the sensual use they’d made of the marble whirlpool tub and their slick, soap-covered hands. The suede sofa in the sun room, the luxurious savonnerie on the library floor, the kitchen table … they’d all served as beds of mutual pleasure.
“By the way,” Carol said, bringing her back to the present. “I want to do some volunteer work at the women’s shelter.”
“Great.” Kitty had used the proceeds from the sale of her house and its contents and a hefty donation from Ben to buy and furnish a long-abandoned two-story house on the edge of town. They’d already spent several weekends converting the second floor into a dorm for women and children, and were finally ready to begin renovating the first floor.
“Have you decided on a name for it yet?” Carol asked.
“We’re going to call it Hope House.” Kitty didn’t add that Hope had been Ben’s mother’s name.
“Hope House. I like it.”
“We thought it spoke to the future.”
They lapsed into silence then as Coach Brown lined the team up on one side of the gym and the fathers on the other. Each girl held a long-stemmed rose; each man wore an expectant smile. Then the middle-aged woman stepped up to the microphone at center court and gave a brief explanation of the ceremony’s special significance.
“When I first started coaching girls’ basketball a little over twenty years ago, we had a hard time attracting fathers to our games,” she said somberly. “To put it bluntly, fathers didn’t expect their daughters to excel at sports, so why bother to encourage their participation?”
She smiled at the men on the sidelines. “Obviously, times have changed. And so have fathers’ expectations for the most part. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for some of you to accept the fact that it’s your daughters, not your sons, who’ll probably go to college on a basketball scholarship.”
Coach Brown paused as a few of the fathers’ faces reddened and laughter rippled through the crowd in the bleachers.
“But the girls and I want you to know we appreciate your support and look forward to it in all the seasons to come,” she continued. “And we hope you’ll accept these roses as a token of our heartfelt thanks.”
A round of applause greeted both her last remark and the first father to meet his daughter at center court.
The girl gave him a rose and a kiss before they walked arm in arm to the sidelines, and the simple ceremony moved everyone in the gym to tears.
Kitty and Carol exchanged watery smiles when it was Bob’s turn to receive his rose. Jamie had really blossomed of late, losing most of her painful shyness but retaining her endearing demeanor. Her face radiated happiness when she gave her father his flower, then threw her arms around his neck for a hug.
One more father and daughter followed before Ben and Jessie met at center court.
Watching the two people she loved most in the world, Kitty felt as if her heart would swell and burst with its burden of joy. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t count her blessings. And if her suspicions were correct, she thought as she laid her hand over her still-flat stomach, she’d be counting tiny fingers and toes again come fall.
At center court the man they called the king of the mountain put his arm around the preteenager he’d nicknamed princess and headed back to the bleachers, back to the woman who was the queen of his universe.
THE EDITOR’S CORNER
Happy New Year!
Another year may have slipped on by, but don’t let these romances slip by you! Ring in the New Year with romance starting with an electrifying journey of emotional and sexual discovery that pushes two damaged souls to their breaking point—and beyond in, RUINED, by Tracy Wolff, the first installment of The Ethan Frost Novels. Award winning author, Bronwen Evans, debuts The Disgraced Lords Series with Loveswept, book one, A KISS OF LIES -- tortured and abandoned, can two people recover and ignite each other’s deepest passions? Romantic Suspense fans will enjoy, IN THE DARK, where passion raises the stakes in Sally Eggert’s electrifying novel of deception and desire. Mary Ann Rivers launches her contemporary series with LIVE, riveting romance sure to please readers of Ruthie Knox, Kristan Higgins, and Jill Shalvis.
Fans of Stacey Kennedy’s Club Sin Series will be thrilled to know another wicked and wild tale of submission, seduction, and love, will be available later in the month --- BARED, Cora and Aidan’s story.
A little something for everyone – usher in your New Year with Loveswept.
And, you don’t want to miss these classics:
OMG is all I can say about Connie Brockway’s, McClairen Isle trilogy — enjoy these men in kilts, beginning with: THE PASSIONATE ONE, THE RECKLESS ONE and THE RAVISHING ONE. Then, Ruth Owen programs a code for seduction in, MELTDOWN, plus, New York Times bestselling author Iris Johansen weaves the unforgettable story of a man and a woman who come together under the spell of danger—and explosive desire in, THE SPELLBINDER. Sandra Chastain’s, Civil War romance, SCANDAL IN SILVER, will touch your heart, along with, Linda Cajio’s, IRRESISTIBLE STRANGER and AT FIRST SIGHT. Meet single mom Kitty Reardon in Fran Baker’s heartwarming story, KING OF THE MOUNTAIN. And for those of you that missed the Grayson boys in Elisabeth Barrett’s, Star Harbor series, don’t fret, the series is being rereleased this month in an eBundle – DEEP AUTUMN HEAT; BLAZE OF WINTER; SLOW SUMMER BURN; LONG SIMMERING SPRING.
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …
Read on for an excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s
Roman Holiday 1: Chained
CHAPTER ONE
&nbs
p; The arrival of the shiny black SUV in the parking lot startled the fawn into flight.
Ashley watched it bound out of the empty swimming pool, between the two-story rental units, and onto the beach. She tried not to hate the man who had driven it away.
Her chafed wrists were not his fault. He hadn’t pushed her down onto this pile of mulch, nor had he chained her to the palm tree. He hadn’t insisted she launch her protest clad only in a damp bikini and a T-shirt.
No, all of that was Ashley’s doing. She had to place the blame for this harebrained caper squarely on her own aching shoulders.
Even though Roman Díaz was about to destroy the only place in the world that mattered to her, she wouldn’t hate him. Hate was poisonous.
But man, she’d really been enjoying the little Key deer. It had been such an excellent distraction from all the depressing thoughts about her grandmother.
Past the spot where it had disappeared, a slice of sunrise washed the sky in orange, and the dark silhouette of an angular palm tree framed a view straight off a Florida landscape postcard.
Whereas the SUV was like the other kind of postcard—the tacky kind that had a smiling woman shoving her enormous, barely clad hooters toward the viewer over a neon-script tagline like “A Big Hello from Florida.”
It didn’t bode well.
The soft glow of early morning did little to conceal the fact that the eight-unit rental complex spread out around the pool had seen better days. Peachy Keen and Salmon Sunset had faded to a pinkish beige and beigeish pink, respectively, while Turquoise Treasure was a sort of anemic white-blue. The interiors were worse, the carpet grotty and the blond-wood-and-seashell theme of the decor begging for an update.
But for Ashley, Sunnyvale Vacation Rentals retained a timeless beauty—the white railings on the upper and lower porches matching the trim around the windows and along the rooflines; the broad, fringed leaves of the sheltering palms; the ocean beyond, just a short walk to the dock.
The sky, the sun, the light, the breeze off the water. All of it bound up together, indivisibly part of this place she loved more than any other.
The driver’s door opened, and black dress shoes appeared beneath gray slacks. The black top of his head crested the door, then disappeared as he ducked down to reach into the car—probably retrieving his hooded cape and sickle, just to complete the look.
But no. When he emerged from behind the door, his evil was far more subtle than she’d expected. The closer he walked, the more this rich Miami land developer looked like television’s version of a bad guy: tall, dark, expensive, beautifully proportioned, and—she had to admit—way more handsome than people were supposed to be in real life.
Ashley liked a handsome man as much as the next girl, but the ones who really got her going always had endearingly imperfect teeth, bad haircuts, unfortunate facial hair—some flaw that made them approachable. She picked the sort of guys who were game to go surfing on a whim or try out sex in a hammock even if they risked ending up in the dirt, slightly bruised and laughing.
Whereas this man—no way did he own a hammock. He was too perfect, his handsomeness nothing less than a loaded weapon aimed at the world. She imagined him bleaching his teeth so white that he purposefully blinded people when he smiled. You’d be gazing at his face, mesmerized by those teeth—which she couldn’t even see right now, but she knew just how they’d look, their contrast to the deep brown of his skin both surprising and delicious—and then you’d blink and he’d be gone, and so would your wallet and your house.
Possibly he’d leave you the hammock.
Of course, it was also possible she was projecting. She’d only been watching him for about four seconds, and she had, admittedly, a fairly strong bias against the guy.
His slick soles crunched over the crushed-shell surface of the lot. He didn’t walk so much as he loped, taking the circular pavers two at a time. His suit was so well behaved that it loped right along with him, too expensively tailored to look awkward for even a heartbeat.
When he’d passed the office, he veered off the path to make a slow circuit around the palm. His expression betrayed nothing as he took in the mound of mulch where Ashley sat. Her bound wrists, tucked tight against her lower back. Her bare arms and barer legs and barest-of-all feet.
He stopped directly in front of her.
“Ashley Bowman, I presume.”
A joke? He delivered the line with such dignity, she couldn’t tell if he meant to be funny.
“That’s me.”
He placed his briefcase on the ground and hunkered down, resting his elbows on his spread knees and clasping his hands lightly between them. Normal people would look awkward doing that, but he made it seem like he’d been born to hunker.
His shirt was black, open at the collar, his sunglasses mirrored. He took them off, and his dark eyes were mirrored, too. Impenetrable.
Good-looking, yes. But good?
She wouldn’t bet a nickel on it.
Not for the first time, it occurred to Ashley that chaining herself to the palm tree had not been her best decision ever. The idea had been to take a stand. Instead, she felt like a virgin staked below a volcano.
A nostalgic sort of feeling, since it had been so very long since she was a virgin. But this guy definitely had some magmalike qualities. Slow-moving. Molten. Dangerous.
The danger explained why all her frayed nerve endings were sizzling.
It had to be the danger. Because attraction under these circumstances would be insane.
Which was why she hadn’t glanced at his package, so conveniently on display in front of her.
No. She had not.
“I’m Roman Díaz. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but …” He spread his hands, encompassing the scene before him. “You’re protesting, I take it?”
“I can’t let you knock it down.”
“Yes. You mentioned that in your voicemail.”
So he’d listened to her messages. She hadn’t been sure, since he had never bothered to call her back. Or answer the letter she’d sent by registered mail. Or admit her to the inner sanctum of his office.
Ashley had done everything she could think of to get his attention, just as soon as her grief had abated enough to let her begin to process a freshly discovered set of horrible truths: That she didn’t own Sunnyvale. Grandma had sold it two years ago without telling her or, as far as she knew, anyone. She’d secretly and sneakily transferred title on the property to Roman Díaz’s development group, Ojito Enterprises, for a generous sum of money that had vanished—though she’d definitely spent some of it leasing the property back from Díaz.
“I’ll buy it from you,” Ashley offered. “Whatever you paid for it, I’ll double.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She had to admire his economy. The mere flick of an eyebrow said it all. He knew she had no savings to speak of, no property of value—nothing to her name but an inherited Airstream trailer full of her grandmother’s junk.
She didn’t have Sunnyvale because he’d taken it from her before she even had a chance to claim it.
He glanced at her bound hands. She’d looped the chain around the tree, then around her wrists, which rested against her back, knuckles brushing the ground. “Is that a padlock?”
“Yes. And I can cover the keyhole with my fingers, so you won’t be able to drill it open unless you cut them off.”
“I could cut the chain behind the tree, where you can’t reach.”
“I’ll rattle it. And probably if you do that, I’ll manage to get hurt, and the media headlines will be all, like, ‘Protester Mangled by Heartless Developer.’ ”
“What did you do with the key, swallow it?”
She’d shoved it down her bikini bottoms, where it had spent the evening tattooing itself onto her tailbone. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He made a tiny gesture with his shoulders. A non-shrug, as though he couldn’t even be bothered to put his beautiful physique to the
trouble of actually shrugging on her account. “You’ve been out here all night?”
“Yes.”
The bastard knew it, too. It had been his contractor’s arrival with a small fleet of demolition equipment that had driven Ashley to attach herself to the tree in the first place.
She’d passed the first few days after her grandmother’s death in a haze. Her father’s voice over the phone had called her back from Bolivia, but when she arrived in the Keys there’d been no one here. No funeral, because Grandma hadn’t wanted one. No family, because her family was broken, and her father and grandmother had hated each other.
No idea what to do with herself.
When she’d come to her senses and realized she had to do something before Sunnyvale was lost, only a little more than a week remained of the grace period Díaz had given her, and she’d wasted it whirling around South Florida in an unfocused panic. She’d hounded the secretary at Díaz’s Miami office and pestered various Monroe County officials in an attempt to figure out how to prevent a wrecking ball from taking down her home.
When the demolition team had shown up anyway, even Ashley had been surprised by how completely she’d gone off her nut.
You can’t do this, she’d insisted. I won’t let you.
And the contractor—a kindly, bearded man named Noah—had said, You’ll have to talk to Roman.
I can’t! He won’t return my calls!
He’ll be here. Roman always supervises the demo.
Just seconds later, Gus had pulled up in his junker of a truck. Out on his rounds, looking for cans and bottles to turn in or trash to sell on Craigslist. Gus was a Little Torch Key fixture—harmless, friendly, slightly cracked.
Usually, he pulled over onto the curb and hailed whoever was outdoors, hanging his elbow out of the truck window to settle in for a long chat. She’d thought it would be a reprieve, chatting with Gus. That it would help her reset her head into a less panicked mode.
