"So it's on?" Max asked.
McKendrick held her gaze. "It's on."
Max barely restrained a whoop of excitement. So did Cat. She had to make her escape before she made an absolute fool of herself.
"Three o'clock," she tossed over her shoulder as she raced for the door. "Max will give you directions."
And then she ran for her life.
#
Riley McKendrick whistled low. Tall, willowy, with sleek golden brown hair that brushed her shoulders like a caress. He'd been expecting a frumpy writer who spent her life in fantasyland, not a flesh-and-blood woman who looked as if she'd like to take a juicy bite out of life. "Thanks a lot, Max," he muttered after Cat Zaslow disappeared down the hallway. "You might've mentioned she was a knockout."
Max stared at him as if he was speaking Greek. "Cat? A knockout? Never noticed."
"Time to get your glasses checked," Riley said with a laugh. "That is one helluva woman."
"Cat's not a woman," Max said, in what had to be the single dumbest statement of the year. "She's a client." Riley shook his head, trying to banish the memory of the way her hips had swayed beneath her short black wool skirt. "You sure she has five kids?"
"Last time I counted."
"How many husbands?"
"She's a widow." Max seemed puzzled. "You really think she's good-looking?"
"You don't?"
"I never thought about it." Max was quiet for a moment. "Since when do you like skinny women?"
"I don't," Riley said. He liked his women soft, with big breasts and sweet dispositions. Cat Zaslow had a tongue like a double-edged razor blade and her breasts--
Riley stopped, galvanized by the thought of her breasts. High and round, surprisingly full for so slender a woman. He wondered if she'd been wearing a bra or one of those lacy things made to come off. He already knew she had the legs for it, wickedly long with thighs made for welcoming a man between them.
His blood shifted south and he forced the image from his mind.
"I dated her housekeeper for a few weeks," Max said. "Damn near gave me a nervous breakdown." He made to drag a hand through his perfect hair then apparently thought better of it. "Diapers, barking dogs, McDonald's Happy Meals--hell. Cat lives at the edge of disaster. Gimme Lutece any day."
"So what was her husband like?"
"I hear he was a nice guy."
"You never met him?"
"Cat started writing after David died."
Riley started to ask another question then caught himself. She loved him enough to have five kids with him. That was all he needed to know.
Max looked at him with open curiosity. "You're not interested in her as a woman, are you?"
He thought about the long, lovely length of her legs, that beautiful face...then he thought about reality. "Five kids, a housekeeper, the housekeeper's kid, and an in-home zoo?" He threw back his head and laughed out loud. "Not me, Max. Not in this lifetime."
#
Cat pushed open the heavy glass doors at 575 Madison and stepped out into the brilliant late autumn sunshine. She stood there, motionless, on the sidewalk and waited for the chilly wind whipping down the street to snap her back to normal. Whatever normal was. She wasn't sure she remembered. It had been a long time since she'd felt this way, a very long time since lust had reared its lovely head and beckoned her toward--
"Hey, lady." One of New York City's finest stopped next to her. "You okay?"
She blinked then managed to nod at the policeman.
"Why don't I hail a cab for you?" the cop offered, raising a burly arm in the air. "You don't look too good to me."
"No," she said, regaining her powers of speech. "I--I have a car." She glanced toward the corner and saw the familiar Chevy waiting for her. "But thank you."
She drew a steadying breath into her lungs then marched off toward the vehicle. The driver saw her coming and leaped out to open the door. Alec Marton owned the one and only car service in her small Connecticut town. The Chevy had served as wedding car, delivery room, and taxi cab for most of the citizens of Danville at one time or another.
"You don't look so good," Alec said as she climbed into the front seat next to him. "Maybe you should lie down in the back."
She shook her head. "I'm fine, Alec." She managed a smile. "You know me. Not only can't I drive in the city, I can't even think."
He looked no more convinced than the policeman had and no wonder. She wasn't fine. The truth was she felt as if the real Cat Zaslow had been taken over by aliens. Sixteen year old aliens, at that. She was aglow with excitement, alive with possibilities, and all for a man she didn't know and was reasonably certain she wouldn't like if she did.
Her knees had gone weak when his eyes met hers and it was a wonder she hadn't swooned at his cowboy-booted feet.
She'd lost her mind, that's what. All Riley McKendrick did was walk into Max's office and Cat's brain cells had decided to go on vacation. How humiliating. She had five wonderful children, a beautiful home, good friends, and a terrific career. She didn't need a man.
Truth was, her infrequent experiments in dating all had been less than successful. Men were either intimidated by her success, her kids, or the fact that she liked her life exactly the way it was and made no bones about it.
"You just haven't met the right man," Jenny liked to say whenever she got the chance.
"Yes, I have," Cat always said. David Zaslow was a tough act to follow. Any man looking to fill his shoes would have a lot to live up to.
He could do it, Cat. Maybe that cowboy is the one.
She shook her head, ignoring Alec's curious glance in the rearview mirror. A clockwatcher. That gorgeous hunk of man was a clockwatcher. What a waste of natural resources.
Alec maneuvered the Chevy into traffic. "Just getting out in time," he said as they headed crosstown. "Gonna be a zoo in another hour, everyone trying to get out early for Thanksgiving."
She met his eyes in the mirror. "Alec, do you think I'm disorganized?"
"Sure," he said, "but I'd never hold it against you. You got a career and five kids. Who wouldn't be behind the eight-ball now and again?"
She sighed loudly.
"Not my business," Alec said, "but you asked."
"You and Sarah have three kids. How do you manage?"
"Sarah's got everyone on a schedule," Alec said not without a touch of pride. "Even put it on computer."
Cat suppressed a shudder. "Really?"
Alec nodded. "You bet. Even Annie's on there."
Her eyes widened. "Annie's four years old, Alec."
"Never too soon to start. That's what Sarah says. How else you gonna keep their lessons and doctor's appointments and everything straight?"
"Isn't that why God made refrigerator magnets?" Was it possible that the rest of the world operated with the efficiency of a Swiss watch while she was a sundial on a cloudy day?
Which, of course, brought her right back to Riley McKendrick, who made a living putting people's lives into order.
Had she lost her mind or just the part of it that governed the libido? It wasn't like there'd been any chemistry between them. Everybody knew one-way chemistry was a physical impossibility. He probably hadn't even realized she was a woman. So what if she'd noticed he was tall, dark, and handsome with a voice that could undress a woman without even trying. He couldn't help the effect he'd had on her, any more than she could help the heated fantasies dancing behind her eyeballs.
She heard Max's voice, crystal clear, inside her head. "An hour with Riley McKendrick will change your life forever." Max couldn't be right. She didn't want her life changed. She liked her life the way it was. She had a home, she had a family, she had memories of a man she'd loved once and would never forget. So what if romance was a thing of the past. She could live without romance.
At least she thought she could until today.
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the car window. "Oh, Max," she murmured. "What have you done to
me?"
Riley McKendrick was everything she didn't want in a man and she was afraid he was exactly what she needed.
~~end of excerpt~~
The Edge of Forever – contemporary romance
The Edge of Forever, an award-winning Harlequin American, available for the first time in e-book form.
OPPOSITES ATTRACT . . .
But can a night of passion turn into a love that lasts forever?
Meg Lindstrom is a struggling photographer who drives a limo to make ends meet.
Joe Alessio is a best-selling author of fiery historical romances who hasn't written a word in months.
They don't have a thing in common until Meg falls at his feet one sunny October afternoon and Joe realizes he's finally met the woman of his dreams.
But first Joe will have to convince Meg that her dreams really can come true . . .
#
~~Chapter One~~
Joe Alessio loitered at the top of the church steps and lit another cigarette. All around him the world seemed painfully, vividly alive. New England was ablaze with color, the great rush of splendor before the winterkill, but the heavy wooden doors of St. John's Episcopal weren't enough to keep reality at bay a little while longer.
The minister's words curled under the door and escaped. ". . . Anna isn't really gone . . . "
The holy man was wrong. Joe didn't know many things but that one he knew for sure.
". . . we see her at Lakeland House, arms open wide, her smile bright enough to light the world . . . "
The minister's clipped tones caught on a bite of emotion.
He told himself he had to go in, that he hadn't driven five hundred miles to stand out there on the church steps. No matter how much it hurt to realize Anna was dead, he owed it to her memory to honor what she had meant to him. But every time he reached for the handle, his gut twisted and he stepped away. He was about to stub out his cigarette when the massive wooden door squeaked open and a tall slender blonde stepped into the sunlight, frowned, and began to crumble.
Joe grabbed her before she hit the ground. Her body was loose and boneless in his arms, a surprisingly light bundle for such a tall woman, and he easily picked her up and carried her down the half dozen steps, where he sat with her on the grass.
"Oh God," she said, looking up at him with the unfocused stare of the almost-conscious. "I've made a fool of myself."
"No, you didn't," Joe said, holding her by the shoulders, as she regained her balance. "It isn't every day a beautiful blonde falls at my feet." The remark was meant as a joke to diffuse her obvious embarrassment, but it didn't take more than a second for him to realize she actually was beautiful. In fact, faces like hers were given to only the chosen few.
She pushed against his arm and sat up. Her hair was long and intricately braided, and she flung the plait back over her shoulder as she looked at him.
"I fell at your feet?" Her eyes were a very dark brown streaked with flecks of gold, a strange and exotic combination with her pale blonde hair.
"Is it that hard to imagine?" He smoothed down the collar of her black coat with the back of his hand, smothering a sudden desire to touch the apricot skin of her cheek. "And here I thought I was irresistible."
"It's not that I doubt your appeal," she said, the frown lines between her pale brows smoothing out. "It's just that I'm not usually the impetuous type."
He felt himself being quickly judged.
"So are you okay now?" He'd never seen hair as fine and blond as hers before. It seemed to sparkle with captured moonlight and stars. "Need some water?"
She shook her head. "It was so blasted hot in there that I—" She stopped mid-sentence. "Who am I kidding? I couldn't handle it." For the first time, those limitless eyes of hers looked away. "I felt as if the walls were closing in on me."
Joe pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket. He offered her one but she shook her head. "At least you went inside," he said after a long, comforting drag. "I haven't been that scared of anything since I was in the Marines."
She didn't question his statement, merely nodded her head.
They walked back toward the stairs. Joe ground out his cigarette on the top step near his leather backpack. A low rumble of voices raised in prayer seeped through the church door. I shouldn't have come, he thought. He should have honored Anna in his own way, remembered her as she should be remembered, not with pious prayer and anonymous condolences. He wanted to grab his bag and leave, but the woman next to him straightened her shoulders and opened the door.
"We owe it to Anna," she said. Her gaze was so direct that he found it impossible to disagree.
He followed her inside and slid into the last pew beside her. He tried to zero in on the minister's words, but they seemed to grow distorted by the time they reached him.
The blond woman rustled in her seat. He glanced over at her and found himself fascinated by the dignity of her chiseled profile, the elegant curve of her long neck, the way her hands rested quietly on her lap.
A man Joe recognized as one of Anna's friends from the days when her husband was alive stepped up to the lectern.
"Anna Kennedy lived the way a human being should live," the man began, his voice rough with emotion but steady. "She embraced every day—every second—of her long life as if it were the most precious of gifts, and more importantly, she managed to share her zest for life with many of you who have come today to honor her."
Across the aisle a woman began to cry softly.
"Sorrow wasn't in Anna's vocabulary," the man continued. "She loved life too much, and she simply had too much love to give to the writers and artists who came to Lakeland House in droves."
Tears he hadn't shed since his father's death made his eyes sting, and he blinked rapidly to clear them.
"And so we're not here today to sing sad songs or weep for Anna Kennedy's death. No. We're here to celebrate her life."
Joe was about to lose it when the incredible, vibrant sounds of the last section of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture blasted forth from the loudspeakers as the mourners began to file out of the church.
He thought of Anna, whose idea of quiet dinner music had been this rousing theme meant to lead men into battle, not bouillabaisse. He pictured her at the long dinner table, conducting the crescendo with her sterling-silver salad fork. He'd be damned if he'd mourn her with weeping and sorrow He glanced at the woman next to him, and a crazy smile spread across his face.
The woman smiled back at him, her face even lovelier than he'd first thought.
"Anna would've loved this," she said.
She reached over and took his hand. Her bones were finer, more fragile than he had expected, the skin soft and delicate. And so he sat there until it was their turn to leave, thinking of Anna and trying not to think of the way this woman's hand felt in his.
#
The gravesite ceremony was brief and unbearably poignant. Meg found herself looking at the trees ablaze in fall colors, glancing toward the White Mountains in the distance, concentrating on the rugged face of the man next to her—anything but the reason that had brought her to that place.
When it was over, she left to walk the quarter mile back to the church where she'd left her car. The dark-haired man walked with her. She had yet to ask his name; the moment for introduction hadn't presented itself. She liked the way he seemed to understand the value of silence, and she also liked the way he took her hand in his own large one and fell into step with her. She also liked the strong, angular bones of his face, the hawk-like nose and the beautifully made mouth below. His skin was light olive with high color around they cheeks, just the slightest hint of dark beard showed. If she had had her camera with her right then, she would have posed him in a thick tangle of woods with a thin shaft of sunlight backlighting his face. He must have felt her eyes on him, for he looked at her, a steady measuring look, then gave her hand a slight squeeze.
She was grateful to have that human hand to hold on to and she suspected he w
as just as grateful. Such a shame, she thought, noting the way the sun brought out the green of his eyes and the shiny black of his straight, shaggy hair. Such a shame that they would part company in a few minutes and this unexpected feeling of warmth and kinship would disappear with no more than a brief goodbye. But this wasn't exactly a social occasion and she was sure he had a life of his own to return to, a life bounded east and west with wife and children.
"Are you going to brunch at the house?" he asked as they neared the church.
Meg thought of the clusters of mourners who would be there—wealthy people in furs mingling with perennially starving artists—and shook her head. "Lakeland House without Anna? I don't think so." She looked at him. "What about you?"
"I'm the one who couldn't make it into the church."
"You went in," she said.
"Only because you did."
Suddenly she became hyper-aware of the intimacy of what they'd shared, and she pulled away, plunging both hands into the pockets of her coat. She was about to ask him if he needed a ride to his hotel when a tall, slim, graying man approached them.
"Well, if it's not the luck of the Irish at work." His voice was deep and musical, touched with a trace of brogue. "And how grand is it to find you two together like this?"
Meg glanced at the dark-haired man next to her, who shrugged his shoulders.
"I see my smiling face means nothing to you fine people," the older man said easily. "I'm Patrick McCallum, Anna's attorney, and you're Joseph Alessio and Margarita Lindstrom." They said nothing. McCallum looked from one to the other and his smile widened. "You can't deny it," he said, pulling two photos from his inside breast pocket and extending them toward Meg and Joe. "You both might be a little older, but time hasn't done any damage at all."
Meg barely recognized the face looking up at her from the grainy black-and-white photo. It wasn't that she had been that much younger—five years made little difference—but the look in her eyes was one of such innocence, such enthusiasm, that she turned away and reached for the other picture.
Second Harmony Page 24
