He clenched his jaw. “Nothing. I’m hoping you’ll take that risk.” His face turned stony. Old defenses were tough to crumble.
She said nothing. She looked away. The quaking caught up to her and she could no longer trust her voice not to give her away. He’d asked her to take a big risk. Could she picture herself going for it? The better question, she realized, was could she picture herself not going for it? A vision of herself alone and old like Bonnie came to mind. She shuddered. He held her tighter as he waited for her answer.
Then she looked up at him with a slight smile, nothing left to say.
He spoke instead. “If you had any idea how sweaty my palms were right now you’d have mercy on me and tell me you’ll marry me.” He’d always known when to capitalize on his advantage. But he withheld his smile.
“Sweaty palms? You? Mechanical men don’t sweat.” She raised her chin and gave him a squint of skepticism.
“Had to take one last shot, eh?”
She laughed and felt her tension dispelled at once. “If you expect to marry me, then you should expect that this isn’t going to be the last shot you’ll have to take.”
He bestowed her with his signature half-smile and beguiling dimple now. “Can I interpret that as a yes, or do you plan to quit hedging and give me a straight answer?” He straightened and eased her from him to give them space as if he knew her answer would be forthcoming and momentous.
Her stomach lightened considerably until it felt like a helium balloon trying to escape through her throat. She concentrated on breathing and attempted a smile. “That was a short-lived case of nerves. Can’t keep an arrogant man down, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d want to,” he said raising his eyebrows.
She laughed and felt warmth spreading through her.
He put his hands on her hips. It wasn’t her imagination that his movements were tentative, as if he thought she’d turn and run at any second. And his palms really were sweaty. She stared into his eyes. They were glossy and open with that vulnerability she’d never gotten more than a glimpse of before today.
She spoke at long last. “I want to marry you more than anything else in the world. I’m in love with you. And I’m in love with your daughter. I don’t know how to be a wife and mother—any more than you know how to be a husband and father.” She smiled. “But I want to do it more than anything in the world. I want to have it all with you. Only you.”
He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. The envelope of heat from his body surrounded her in the most exquisitely comforting feeling she could ever recall having. This must be what all those couples in love felt like, and she never knew. She’d longed to know and now she did.
She understood as she let her lids slide closed that this was different, better. Lowering his head toward hers, his mouth near her lips, he spoke with a taut voice. “I love you. You’ll have whatever you want from me. I’m trusting you not to take it all.”
The words washed over her with a pleasure she’d never known. She marveled and sighed. She opened her eyes and looked at this man. “I can’t believe I fell in love with you in spite of everything. In spite of my best intentions and my skepticism. I won’t take anything I wouldn’t give you first. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” She meant it when she said it. She realized now how afraid she’d been that she couldn’t make that promise.
“I’ll miss our game.” There was no wistfulness in his voice, but there was a dimple in one cheek. He kissed her then. He gave her a kiss that she wished would go on forever.
###
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking the journey with me through the story of Roxanne and Barry. I sincerely hope you enjoyed your moments of escape into their world. I would love to hear any comments you have. I invite you to contact me via my website www.StephanieQueen.com. You can also follow me on Twitter @StephanieQueen or on Facebook on my Stephanie Queen page.
If you loved the story, please consider leaving a review on the site where you purchased this book. I would very much appreciate it and if you let me know about your review, I will send you a coupon to purchase my next release The Hot Shots. The Hot Shots is due out in the summer of 2012.
Sincerely,
Stephanie Queen
Excerpt from Stephanie Queen’s, The Hot Shots:
Chapter 1
“I have a favor to ask. I need you to pick up David’s latest recruit at Logan Airport today and keep him busy for the day. Show him around,” Grace said from behind her desk and although she appeared to be her usual bubbly self, Sophia felt the urge to applaud her boss’s performance at playing innocent. Instead, she played along.
“You can’t be serious?” she said. “You’re asking me for a favor on the eve of my possible career breakthrough? That’s crazy talk. Tomorrow’s the shoot for the Decorating Boston audition.” Sophia knew that Grace knew this since Grace helped set it up for her, but she felt it was worth mentioning however obvious. A “favor” for one’s boss, even if she was one’s best friend always needed to be taken as seriously as an order.
“Yes. I know. And a distraction is exactly what you need to keep your nerves at bay.”
“My nerves are fine.” If her dam voice hadn’t squeaked at that moment, she’d have been more convincing. Something was up. And Sophia would never admit it to Grace, but she did feel a bit edgy—if edginess included nausea, headaches and sleeplessness.
“I know you.” Grace paused and gave her the serious yet loving older-sister type look. “This will be good for you and…and I’d really appreciate it.”
Grace was playing dirty pool now with that appreciation bit, but Sophia still didn’t buy it. “And what if I didn’t have time today? Were you going to tear me away from my project?”
“Actually, yes. I wasn’t going to mention it, but some of the men were complaining about your presence at the site and asked me to have you back off just a smidge.” Grace crinkled her face. “But don’t worry, they think you’re wonderful. It’s just lately...”
“Great. That’s great. I got painters and paperhangers and carpenters talking to my boss behind my back.” This was not good. She plopped herself onto the edge of Grace’s desk and folded her arms. She tried staring at the stack of fabric samples on the other side of the office so Grace wouldn’t notice if a tear slipped out. Because, damn it, she felt dangerously on the edge of crying.
Grace picked up the box of tissues and handed it to her. “You’ll be alright, Pixie honey. This is the perfect way to get your mind off everything to do with decorating and the design show audition and TV cameras. I’m asking for a one-day one-shot favor.”
Grace’s voice sounded a little too sweet, even for her, and “Pixie honey” or no “Pixie honey”, that was cause for suspicion. Okay, so maybe she needed a break, but she wasn’t convinced that playing tour guide for some British guy fresh off the boat...or rather airline—was the way to go.
“I’m saving up my vacation time and I don’t think you have the authority to assign me to pick up some random guy at Logan Airport and show him around town while I’m on the clock. We’re in the decorating business.” She remained seated on the edge of Grace’s desk with her arms folded. “Besides it doesn’t even sound safe.” She blew the blunt-cut bangs off her forehead for emphasis.
Grace looked at her with that smile and said, “He’s from Scotland Yard, honey. Of course it’s safe. It’ll be fun. I don’t know what you’re worried about.” Her face brightened and she added, “You don’t have to use vacation time. Consider it a client recruitment assignment. After all, he’s new to town and I’m sure he’ll need help decorating his new home.” Grace went back to the sketch she’d been working on.
Sophia looked at her best friend and boss with a suspicious squint. What it sounded like to her was another one of Grace’s blind date set-ups in disguise.
#
As a bonus for readers, I’ve also included this excerpt from Mending Fences by Lucy Francis.
She’s a fabulous new author and I hope you enjoy her as much as I do!
Mending Fences
By Lucy Francis
Chapter One
Curran Shaw treasured his anonymity, but maintaining it required solitude. And the damned solitude was killing him.
Sanctuary presented itself on Halloween in the form of a massive party at a local club. The event promised fulfillment of his primary needs at the moment—a mass of humanity surrounding him, buoying him up, plus the nameless, faceless facade provided by costume-only admittance.
He arrived late, saving himself a long wait in line to enter Brindle’s. He paid his cover charge in cash. No sense in flashing a card with his name emblazoned on the front. Notable names and faces appeared with some regularity in the Park City area, so staff members, such as the skinny young man cashiering tonight, generally said nothing when they recognized him. Still, being recognized at all bothered him. He’d grown accustomed to no longer seeing his name and photo in the tabloids, but there was always a chance some reporter’s curiosity about his disappearing act would set the bloodhounds on his trail.
For tonight, a black, hooded cloak and a leather mask covering his face down to the tip of his nose rendered him unidentifiable.
He stepped through the main doors into the club. Pulsating flashes of color ripped through the dimly lit interior, reflecting off the polished walls and churning through the fog on the floor, cutting through the starlight cast from a mirrored disco ball spinning above the central dance arena. Whiffs of different perfumes, bubblegum from the fog machines, sweat from the bodies crowding the dance floor, and the spicy tang of the club’s chicken wings all tangled together in his nostrils, the intensity of each shifting and changing with every step he took through the crowd. The deep, driving beat of music thrummed through the air, pounding against his bones when he crossed the corner of the dance floor. In the table sections, the clever design of speakers and sound walls kept the music controlled, soft enough to allow conversation, should a body be so inclined.
His eyes adjusted to the low lights as he made his way past throngs of vampires, monks, and witches. He edged into a narrow open spot at the black and chrome bar between a Star Trek yeoman and Doctor Who in a tweed jacket, bow tie, and red fez.
The bartender, painted with zombie-grey makeup and fake blood, passed a white wine spritzer to Marie Antoinette and turned to him. “What can I get you?”
Curran glanced over the menu board on the wall behind the bar. “You still stock that honeyed porter from the microbrewery up the street?”
“You bet. Coming right up.”
He looked around while he waited for his beer, watching the flow and eddy of the crowd as it moved like water through the club. Brindle’s was always busy, but bodies filled it to capacity tonight, for which he was grateful. He missed going out all the time, being surrounded by people. A crowd assimilated him, turning him into a simple cell in a greater entity. The energy generated among a mass of people, the electricity, made him feel alive in a way nothing else matched.
A woman dressed as Red Riding Hood laughed at the end of the bar with her date, the Big Bad Wolf. Yeah, that was another way to feel alive, one he dearly missed. But one didn’t troll for women when one was living anonymously. Eleven months now he’d lacked female company, and what a hell of a price to pay for a private life.
The bartender slid his beer across the bar. Curran paid with a generous tip and stepped away from the bar to make room for an intrepid fellow decked out in full Dr. Frank-N-Furter regalia, right down to the fishnet stockings and deep red lipstick.
He raised his glass to the man. “Impressive, mate.”
Dr. Frank laughed. “Thanks. My girlfriend bet me I wouldn’t dare go out in public. She owes me a hundred bucks.”
Curran grinned. Bringing The Rocky Horror Picture Show to life in an outfit like that took far more courage than he had. He’d settled for black, from cloak to boots. With the mask over his eyes, he wasn’t a character. He wasn’t himself. Just an enigma in the dark.
He leaned against a pillar supporting the upper floor of the club and sipped his beer, watching the mass of bodies writhing on the dance floor. He glanced to the left as the crowd near him shifted, and glimpsed a woman sitting alone at a small corner table. The glow from a jack-o-lantern on the table brightened her chin-length curls to a glossy medium brown, glinted off her long-sleeved black dress and the high spiderweb collar rising behind her head. Fine, pale fingers tipped with short, dark nails tapped a rhythm on the tabletop.
A mummy and Cleopatra shifted into his line of sight, so he stepped past them to get a better view of her. She wasn’t wearing a mask. Sculpted cheekbones, a narrow, rather pointed nose. Very nice lips, not too full. Attractive, though not a stunning beauty. Tall, given the length of her frame in comparison with the chair. She held herself with a degree of elegance—reserved, almost distant from her surroundings, like royalty thrust into a throng of commoners.
She held the single glass on the table. Perhaps she was waiting for someone. Then again, maybe she was alone, too, fighting off the solitude before she lost her mind.
Her head turned and her gaze sheared directly into his. Caught staring at the pretty girl, way to go, Shaw. Narrowed eyes, rimmed with wide, heavy smudges of black, met his evenly. A flood of heat coursed through him, doubling his pulse, tightening his groin. He’d felt instant chemistry before, but never like this—powerful, demanding.
The warmth pulled at him. Where there was heat, there would be fire, and he’d been cold and alone for a long time. Hell, if she had some brains, simply talking to her for a while might be nice. He drained his beer, deposited the glass on the tray of a passing waitress, and headed across the floor. Her wary gaze followed his approach. When he reached her table, he grasped the curved silver back of the extra chair. “May I?”
“It’s a free country.” She shifted her gaze to the dance floor.
Hmm. Not a welcome, nor exactly a dismissal. Royalty didn’t usually appreciate an invasion of personal space, but he was already here, standing at her table. There was no sense in going back. After such a strong initial reaction, the need to follow through compelled him.
He lowered himself into the chair. “Glad I’m not the only one who went for basic black.”
She tensed and her eyes snapped back to his, glittering in the lantern light. Amber. She had wolf-eyes. A sense of familiarity tingled at the edge of his mind, weaving through the air between them. He’d seen those eyes before, somewhere.
The barest of smiles crossed her mouth. “When you make last minute decisions, it’s difficult to be a character. Black works.” Her low, smoky voice toyed with his senses. The tremor of recognition shivered through him again.
He nodded and chuckled softly. What a ridiculous way to start this, she was going to hate it. “I know this is the world’s oldest line, but—have we met?”
Her eyes widened and she stared at him for a moment. “Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not.” If she did recognize him somehow, she obviously wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. The idea should make this whole thing a non-starter, but at the moment, she could be anyone other than his ex-girlfriend and he simply wouldn’t care. Not with the heat flaring inside him at every glance of those golden brown eyes. What was it about this woman?
She turned her attention back to the dance floor. Her fingers tapped against the empty glass on the table. “You’re dry. Can I buy you a drink?” He winced. Damn, that was lame. Surely he hadn’t lost all his charisma and social skills in less than a year.
Amber eyes met his and narrowed. The Queen was not amused. “Yes to the drink. No to anything else.”
“I wasn’t aware I suggested anything else, but I’ll take that under advisement.” He smiled, searching her hard gaze for fire, or at least humor.
Nothing. Seriously, what the hell? He couldn’t remember his approach ever being so flawed. Women he found interesting always responded
in kind. That was simply his reality. Now he fumbled the way he had as a scrawny kid of fourteen, trying to ask Sara Myles out for his first date.
He raised a hand to get the waitress’s attention. The Queen arched one delicate brow at him before looking away, accepting the refill of sparkling water with two lemon slices from the perky little waitress with ‘Miranda’ etched on her name tag.
The Queen sipped her drink, then raised her glass in his direction and said, “Nothing for you?”
“Two is my limit when I’m driving, and I had one at the bar already.”
“Wise.”
“Not really. Wisdom calls for something along the lines of water.”
She smiled. Just a partial victory, though. The smile softened her sharp features, but failed to light her eyes. Tension shimmered around her, visible in the way she sat with her back straight and her free hand closed into a fist on the table. She was trying very hard to appear relaxed. He obviously made her nervous. Maybe it was time to chalk this one up to a lost cause. “I apologize. I’ve intruded on you and I think it’s probably time for me to rack off and leave you be.”
Her gaze locked onto his and he felt the weight of her full attention for a moment, sending a tendril of heat through him. With a sigh, the tension unwound a bit, and she shook her head. “No, you’re fine. I’m just…I haven’t done this get-to-know-someone thing in a while.”
Hmm. A little encouragement. He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. “I’m out of practice myself. Let’s see, what’s the next line I should try…ah, yes. Do you come here often?”
That got her. She gave a genuine laugh, the rich sound tossing tinder on the flame her gaze had lit inside him. “Occasionally. And you?”
“About that often.” Perhaps that’s why she seemed familiar. He might have caught sight of her at the club before.
Playing the Game Page 37
