by Maggie Wells
It was supposed to be nothing more than a quick stop for the shrimp he needed to make scampi. She scoured the photograph. The truth remained the same after over an hour of searching. She’d had no inkling of anyone being near enough to snap the picture, oblivious to everything but Brian. And now, the evidence of her indisputable bias was printed for all to see, imprinted by The Courier’s obliging a four-color web offset press.
Someone pounded on her door again, the blows as heavy and deliberate as the application of a battering ram. Brooke pushed away from the table, her movements stiff and jerky. Cold coffee splashed over the lip of the mug, soaking the edge of the super-absorbent paper. She scowled at the spreading stain then shook it off. She wouldn’t clip this particular profile to add to her portfolio.
Her heart echoed the relentless hammering on her door, kicking up the tempo when the knock shifted from the rap of knuckles to the pounding of one meaty hand.
“Brooke? Answer me.”
She stared at the door and, little by little, cognizance began to seep in. Brian was pummeling her door. He’d been calling her name. Instinctively, she responded to his command.
“I’m here.” But she didn’t move closer to the door. She didn’t reach for the knob or peep through the security scope. His anger and frustration wafted under her door like smoke. She couldn’t bear to face him. Not until she’d said her piece. Hovering inside the entry, she curled her fingers into fists as her own anger stirred and rose. “I didn’t write that crap.”
Her nails sliced the tender skin of her palm, but she didn’t care. The sting was nothing compared to the searing betrayal she felt the moment she spread the newspaper flat on her table. She shook her head, denying this inconceivable outcome. Rejecting the reality the article represented. Refusing to accept that less than a thousand printed words had the power to destroy everything she’d worked to achieve. This wasn’t supposed to be an ending for her. It was meant to be a beginning. A limitless new phase in her career. Hope for the victims who trusted her to be their voice. Brian. Loving her. Wanting her. Believing in her.
She stepped closer to the door, intent on making him believe. “I wrote about the tadpoles you tried to grow in your Grandma’s birdbath. Your obsession with composition notebooks. You lettered in track because you liked the sound of your own breathing.”
The door rattled in its frame, as if he’d trusted his entire weight to it.
“I wrote about your mom and those crazy chocolate oatmeal cookies she used to bring when she was homeroom mother. And I did use the live oak thing because I liked it. The answer suited you,” she continued, momentum carrying her. “But I never used the word ‘hunky’. I swear.”
“I know.” His answer was muffled but sure, issued so quickly it couldn’t be anything but the truth. “Let me in.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Nels did this. And Jack.” She forced herself to draw short, shallow breaths. “They’re trying to ruin it all, but I won’t let them. I’m not going to let this stop me.”
“Good for you.”
“I have to do this series, Brian. I know you’re iffy about it, but these people trusted me. They told me their stories and shared their pain. Granted, they probably thought I had better sense than to fall head over heels for the Gulf Shore’s junior Jacques Cousteau, but who could predict that happening, right?” The last bit snagged on a sob. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to prevent any more from escaping.
“I’m going to sue the pants off them.” He punctuated the statement with another thud of his fist.
“You can’t. You said every word he printed. I know. I gave him the transcript myself.”
Pressing her palm to the door, she closed her eyes as freeze frames of their deliciously naked interview flashed through her brain. Brian rumpled and pleased with himself, staring up at her from between her thighs, smile infused with devilment but those soulful brown eyes revealing his very serious intent. They’d been happy. She’d be damned if she’d let Nels and his jealousy take her happiness from her.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re embarrassed, but I don’t want to retract a damn thing. I love that you’re secretly addicted to Full House reruns and you wrote fan letters to both Bill Nye and Pamela Anderson. I love that you’re an equal opportunity kind of guy.”
“I didn’t write Pamela Anderson a fan letter. I just wanted her to know I shared her character’s opposition to oil drilling in the bay.” He paused. “Let me in, Brooke.”
“If you come through this door, I’m going to use you.” She rested her forehead on the door. “Any thoughts you had of leaving your fame behind you will be shot, because I’ll trot you out like a damn show poodle and exploit every bit of fame and notoriety you’ve ever known.”
“Okay.”
The quiet acceptance in his voice broke her. A tear spilled over her lashes as her hand fell to the knob. “But I don’t want to. I want you to be happy. I can’t let you in.”
“If you don’t open this door in the next ten seconds I’ll burst into tears.”
The strung-taut anger in his tone made the threat sound so ridiculous she had to laugh. She brushed the tear away and blew out a ragged breath. “I think I’d pay money to see that. I bet you’re an ugly crier.”
“Open the door.”
She nodded, but before she could make herself turn the knob, she had one last thing to say. “Brian, I really am sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
The gruff admonishment coaxed a bitter laugh from her. “Yes, I do, and we both know it.”
She flipped the locks and took a step back. Brian straightened, clearly startled by the inward swing of the door. His suit fit him to perfection, the charcoal wool obviously hand-tailored to flow from broad shoulders to narrow hips without a bunch or a crease. But the crimson silk tie knotted at his neck hung askew. His dark hair was as furrowed as a cotton field. His lush lips parted but failed to curve into the smile she ached to see.
“I’m sorry I was smug,” she blurted. “I thought I had it all figured out. The story, my career…you. But I was wrong. So damn wrong.”
“The best discoveries come from failures.”
The bit of nerd wisdom teased a weary smile from her. She stood aside, gesturing for him to enter. When he did, she closed the door gently behind him, hoping he’d stay, praying he’d believe this particular piece of common ground might be stable enough for them to build a future. Something real. Not something pre-ordained by people who didn’t know the first thing about what lay beneath the surface.
She turned to face him. “I want you to know I understand how frustrating this whole thing is for you. I know better than most what it’s like to be judged on a set of criteria vastly different from your own. I wish I could tell you it will get better, but I can’t.”
“It got better the minute I laid eyes on you again.”
“You will never be able to outrun Voyager, Brian. The show and all the stuff that went on within it and around it are a part of you now.” Brooke let a shoulder rise and fall. “I might spend my whole life trying to live up to a nomination, or I could blow it out of the water. But either way, no one can take it away from me. It’s mine. I earned it. I own it.”
“Yes, you did. You do.”
Turning on her heel, she walked over to the table and picked up the coffee-stained newspaper. “I’m done apologizing for my success, and I hope you are, too.” Holding the full-page spread in front of her, she met his gaze. “Screw those guys who question your credibility. They wish they were one tenth as incredible as you are.”
“I love you.” Brian seemed surprised by his own declaration. He blinked once like a big brown owl but then something shifted in his expression. Something sure. He grabbed her and the newspaper slipped from her hands, fluttering to their feet. His fingers were warm and certain, his breaths soft and regular. His pulse throbbed beneath his jaw, but he gave no outward sign of fear or exci
tement. “It’s true. I do.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she loved him, too, but he stopped her with a brisk shake of his head.
“Let’s go rogue.”
Her eyebrows shot up. This was not exactly the follow-up she expected. “Rogue?”
“You’re right. Screw them all.” He squeezed her hands then used the leverage to pull her flush against him, trapping them between two thudding hearts. “I have a little money. Not enough to last forever, but enough to….” He hesitated, obviously formulating his plan on the fly, and she loved him for the attempt. Spontaneity was not his field of expertise. “Enough to give us some choices.”
She cocked her head, searching his earnest, eager face for any sign of doubt. What she found instead was medium-brown hair, somewhat shaggy, but thick and rich as the finest Swiss chocolate. A cowlick broke free at his crown, tempting her to touch, but the intensity in his sober, serious gaze made her hold back. His classic features should have been bland and forgettable yet were anything but. He was powerful. Compelling. As steady and inexorable as the tides, restless as the sea, and below the surface, just a little bit dangerous.
This was the boy who would stoop to using a pink Barbie pencil to get the job done all grown up. The awkward adolescent who would kiss the girl come hell or high water. Here was the man for her, strong and determined. The future might be a little murky, but he seemed to be okay with the possibility. Of course he was. As a scientist, Brian knew there were few things in nature one could count on as certainty.
In a move as irresistible as it was unexpected, he pulled one hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “We don’t need their newspapers or awards or their dubious validation. I agree. We’re pretty fucking incredible together.”
His sudden use of the F-bomb startled a laugh from her. “Hey, don’t try to steal my lines. I’m a writer. Words are my tools. Like SCUBA gear or a microscope. You don’t want me messing with your junior scientist kit, do you?”
“You and me.” His smile spread into a wide grin. “We’ll use that new-fangled internet thing all the kids are raving about. I’ll fact check, you write, and together we’ll pimp it everywhere. We’ll make the world listen. I might dust off my relationship with my old publicist. My agent will be happy,” he added, wrinkling his nose, “I think she was lonely being my fan club of one.”
“Two,” she corrected. “I didn’t use you.”
“Well, actually, you did, but not without my permission.”
“The story…I turned in the draft you saw.”
“I know.”
“I figure Jack took the picture. He knows what a pain in my ass Nels is. He’s also probably jealous because I never kissed him the way I kiss you.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I do.” Holding her snug against him, he searched her eyes. “I’ve done extensive research in what you look like when you’ve been kissed right.”
Her eyebrows jumped, but her voice came out husky and more than a little breathless. “What do I look like when I’ve been kissed right?”
“You look like you belong with me.” He lowered his head, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, she responded by closing her eyes and tipping her chin up. But instead of the kiss she expected, he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “You don’t have to say it back.”
Warm, moist breath tickled her mouth. A few trippy heartbeats passed, but eventually she caught his drift. She blinked away the haze of anticipation and tried to focus on him. “But I—”
“I know you love me.”
The cocky edge in his voice flew all over her, but she didn’t have the strength to wrench herself from his grasp. Not when he was solid and warm and felt so right. “Do you?”
“I knew it before you did.”
Incensed, she drew back, ready to give him hell, but the sweet smile he wore grabbed her by the heart and squeezed. The indignation she should have felt was drowned in a hot rush of love. Brilliant or not, he was undoubtedly the dumbest man she knew in some ways. A fact that made him all the more appealing in a twisted sort of way.
“I might be in over my head,” she whispered.
Brian pulled her close, tucking her snug against his chest and resting his chin on her head, wrapping himself around her. “That’s why we always dive with a partner. Hang on tight, Sugar. I think we’re going deep.”
The End
Meet the Author
Maggie Wells is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. The product of a charming rogue and a shameless flirt, this mild-mannered married lady has a naughty streak a mile wide.
Fueled by supertankers of Diet Coke, Maggie juggles fictional romance and the real deal by keeping her slow-talking Southern gentleman constantly amused and their two children mildly embarrassed. They are the food purveyors to a demanding dog and an impertinent house rabbit she claims is the love of her life. Shh. Don’t tell her husband.
Visit Maggie at http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/31636
Turn the page for a special excerpt of Maggie Wells’s
Three Little Words
It’s never too late to make the best impulsive decision of your life.
Jo Masters isn’t the party girl she used to be, but now that she’s a woman without obligations, she’s ready to recapture a little of her misspent youth. Her niece’s wedding, with its open bar and dark dance floor, proves to be the perfect opportunity to let loose.
Gregory Stark is just trying to make it through his son’s wedding day… and make some time with the gorgeous brunette on the bride’s side of the aisle. His kid’s wedding probably isn’t the best occasion to put the moves on the sexy woman, who introduces herself only as ‘Josie’, but his best friend is closing in on her too and he has to act fast. With a couple of tequila shots under his belt, Greg propositions Josie -- and neither wants to refuse.
On sale now!
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/book.aspx/31112
Chapter 1
The line at the bar wasn’t long, but she needed a drink—a real drink—and she needed it fast. Jo twirled her empty champagne flute and tapped her toe as the DJ made a cringe-worthy segue between Louis Armstrong and Pink. A pang of regret tweaked her stomach when she spotted her eldest brother, Tony, leading his baby girl from the dance floor, but that was nothing new. She’d suffered so many pangs in her life they’d become a part of her autonomic system. Breathe in, breathe out, pang. Blink, sniffle, sneeze, pang. Go to bed alone—again—pang!
At the tender age of twenty-six, her niece had managed to accomplish everything Jo never had. Kaylin had a career, a home of her own, and a man she loved so much she actually glowed. Literally glowed. Jo hadn’t known such a glow since her mother stopped slathering her sunburns in Noxzema.
Radiant happiness was enough to drive a woman to drink.
Three groomsmen bellied up to the bar and jockeyed for position in front of the pretty blond bartender. Their voices rose as they trumped each other’s orders. Each successive suggestion was an obvious attempt to prove the issuer was more worldly, and therefore manly, than the last. The misguided boys must have believed their ability to chug grain alcohol might make or break their chance at ending the evening in the poor girl’s bed. The bartender eyed them with hardly-contained disdain. The posturing little pricks didn’t notice. Jo couldn’t help but smile when the girl rolled her eyes and went back to stacking glassware.
What little buzz Jo had managed to eke out of two glasses of table wine and a flute of champagne began to wane. She considered goosing one of the guys to shock him into gear, but then another tuxedo-clad man, murmuring quiet excuses, slipped in front of her. The groomsmen jumped when the newcomer gripped their padded shoulders.
“Three beers for these guys, please. Give them the imported stuff.” Casually, he stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the pitcher serving as
a tip jar. “Having fun, fellas?”
The groomsmen replied in the affirmative, but their cheeks glowed pink. Bravado squelched, they grabbed their beers and beat a hasty retreat. The hero of the hour turned to face Jo. Recognition kicked in. Saliva pooled in her mouth and a tingle of awareness prickled the fine hairs at her nape. Her savior was none other than the father of the groom. It took a fraction of a second for her brain to source the pertinent facts Kaylin had imparted on Ben’s father. Gregory. Greg. Divorced, devoted dad, and hot as Hades on a summer day. Confronted with him now, Jo was happy to confirm the acute case of the bright shinies hadn’t skewed her niece’s powers of observation. Gregory Stark was all that and more.
He’d sneaked glances at her all through the ceremony. Now, he grinned right at her. “Good to know I’ve still got it.”
His dark eyes glinted with amusement. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to his ability to circumvent a bar line, or the fact that she’d been unable to resist returning every one of the furtive glances he’d tossed her way. Jo decided to play it neutral.
Rolling her parched tongue up off the carpet, she nodded the approbation he was obviously seeking. “Effective.”
No lie. He was the most attractive man she’d laid eyes on in forever. Which made perfect sense in a bizarre Karmic way. Of course she had to meet this man after she’d poked a nail through her last pair of control-top pantyhose.
Still, there was no reason she couldn’t catalog every bit of him for later use. With a practiced eye, she gauged him to be a few years older than her. Her guess put him somewhere in his mid-fifties. Unlike most men, he hadn’t packed on any extra cushioning for the slide into the AARP years. He was tall and lean, his movements as taut and compelling as the lines bracketing his eyes and those sculpted lips. His jaw was smooth and shiny, clean-shaven, but the shadow of a heavy beard loomed below the surface. Jo wanted to know what else he kept hidden under the slick exterior.
