AVAILABLE THIS MONTH FROM SILHOUETTE INTIMATE MOMENTS
“Everything you see...happens,”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Cheryl St John
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Copyright
AVAILABLE THIS MONTH FROM SILHOUETTE INTIMATE MOMENTS
#805 A MAN TO TRUST
Justine Davis
#806 BABY BY DESIGN
Paula Detmer Riggs
#807 ROARKE’S WIFE
Beverly Barton
#808 SERENA McKEE’S BACK IN TOWN
Marie Ferrarella
#809 BADLANDS BAD BOY
Maggie Shayne
#810 THE TRUTH ABOUT TOBY
Cheryl St.John
* * *
THE TRUTH ABOUT TOBY
has “extraordinary characters that will remain with readers long after they’ve turned the last page. Ms. St.John has created a unique tale that belongs on the keeper shelf.”
—Rendezvous
* * *
“Everything you see...happens,”
Austin said with urgency.
Shaine’s thoughts jolted to the scene of her in his arms. He was right. Everything she saw in her dreams happened. And that was how she knew without a doubt that she would make love with Austin Allen—glorious, breathless, rapturous love.
She surveyed him and embarrassment clawed its way to the surface of her mind. She barely knew him, but she knew the taste and urgency of his kiss, and what his body would feel like cradled between her legs.
“Yes,” she whispered. She didn’t know whether to feel giddy or guilty to possess this disconcerting knowledge. “Everything I see happens.”
And right now she didn’t know whether or not she would change anything even if she could.
Dear Reader,
With the coming of fall, the days—and nights—are getting cooler, but you can heat them up again with this month’s selections from Silhouette Intimate Moments. Award winner Justine Davis is back with the latest installment in her popular TRINITY STREET WEST miniseries, A Man To Trust. Hero Cruz Gregerson proves himself to be just that—though it takes heroine Kelsey Hall a little time to see it Add a pregnant runaway, a mighty cute kid and an opportunely appearing snake (yes, I said “snake”!), and you have a book to cherish forever.
With Baby by Design, award-winning Paula Detmer Riggs concludes her MATERNITY ROW trilogy. Pregnant-with-twins Raine Paxton certainly isn’t expecting a visit from her ex-husband, Morgan—and neither one of them is expecting the sensuous fireworks that come next! Miniseries madness continues with Roarke’s Wife, the latest in Beverly Barton’s THE PROTECTORS, and Maggie Shayne’s Badlands Bad Boy, the newest in THE TEXAS BRAND. Both of these miniseries will be going on for a white—and if you haven’t discovered them already, you’ll certainly want to come along for the ride. Then turn to Marie Ferrarella’s Serena McKee’s Back in Town for a reunion romance with heart-stopping impact Finally there’s Cheryl St John’s second book for the line, The Truth About Toby, a moving story about how dreams can literally come true.
Here at Intimate Moments, we pride ourselves on bringing you books that represent the best in romance fiction, so I hope you’ll enjoy every one of this month’s selections, then join us again next month, when the excitement—and the passion—continue.
Yours,
Leslie J. Wainger
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
* * *
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
* * *
THE TRUTH ABOUT TOBY
CHERYL ST. JOHN
Books by Cheryl St. John
Silhouette Intimate Moments
A Husband by Any Other Name #756
The Truth About Toby #810
Harlequin Historicals
Rain Shadow #212
Heaven Can Wait #240
Land of Dreams #265
Saint or Sinner #288
Badlands Bride #327
CHERYL ST. JOHN
is the pseudonym for Nebraska author Cheryl Ludwigs. Cheryl’s first book, Rain Shadow, 1994, received nominations from Romantic Times and Affair de Coeur, and was a finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA Award:
She has been program director and vice president of her Heartland RWA chapter, and is currently a liaison for Published Authors’ Network and a conference committee chairman.
Married mother of five, grandmother of three, Cheryl enjoys her family. In her “spare” time, she corresponds with dozens of writer friends from Canada to Texas, and treasures their letters. She would love to hear from you.
Send a SASE to:
Cheryl St.John
P.O. Box 12142
Florence Station
Omaha, NE 68112-0142
For their infinite patience and steadfast support,
my heartfelt thanks go to my critique group:
Ginny McBlain, Bernadette Duquette,
Maureen McKade, Barb Hunt,
Janie Jensen and Lea Pounds
(in the order only they will understand!)
Prologue
Raindrops collected like silvery dots of light on the window. A lonely man stood watching the rain. His pain was so intense, Shaine was sure that if she touched him, it would become hers. Something drew her toward him anyway, drew her to touch him, feel his pain, taste it. She had the ability to take his anguish inside herself and ease his burden. There was a way to transform his suffering to a bearable level, but the means escaped her. She searched within herself for the answer.
The sound of the rain faded away. The lightning disappeared, and enveloping clouds obliterated the moon.
Only the sound of ragged breathing remained
Hers.
A clap of thunder jolted Shaine Richards upright in her bed. Through the sheer curtains, the streetlight cast a lacy shadow on her bedroom ceiling. The luminous red digits on her clock radio told her it had been less than an hour since her last dream.
Reaching for the phone on the nightstand, her finger hovered over the auto dial button before she clamped the receiver back in its cradle. Slipping out from under the covers, she padded into her living room, the only room of her basement apartment below the inn that had a full-length window, and gazed out at the rain.
Instead of her own likeness reflected in the panes of glass, she again saw the man in her dream. An occasional flicker of lightning had illuminated one side of his granite-hewn face, mirroring his lonely image. He had a hard, square jaw that hinted eloquently at a sober, spiritual respect for life and all its frailties. Eyes, dark and agonized, knew things the man behind them wished he didn’t know.
A leaf blew against the window, clung stubbornly for seconds, then was caught up in another gale.
Without a sound, without the least warning, the man in her dream had known he was being observed, and in the slender threads of moonlight, he turned his head and unerringly found her.
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Minutes passed in which the only sound was the patter of rain against the glass, and the mournful howl of the wind beneath the eaves. Lightning had momentarily sucked away the blackness in a rapid succession of flashes, as quick as a camera strobe, the light again revealing only one side of his face.
Shaine closed her eyes, the line between dream and reality dangerously blurred. Another face superimposed itself over the man’s: Toby’s.
She hadn’t recognized him when she’d first started having the dreams. Her nephew had only been a little over eighteen months when Shaine’s sister’s car had gone off a bridge into the Missouri River with both Maggie and Toby in it.
In her dreams Toby was a year older, as he would be now.
“They’re both so lonely,” she whispered.
She should call Tom Stempson, the researcher at the institute in North Carolina who’d worked with her for the past six months. But it was late, and she knew he’d just tell her to record the dreams.
Back in her room, Shaine lay down, turned on the lamp and flipped through the pages of her journal. Each entry was marked with an ‘R’ for regular dreams, or a ‘K’ for knowing dreams, the way she had learned to identify them.
Dreams of Maggie were “regular” dreams, like the dreams of them doing things they had as kids. The dream of the man at the window and those of Toby were “knowing” dreams. She scanned the knowing dream entries. A woman with a white apron... a document on a wall...an Irish setter bounding through the woods...the man at the window... What did he have to do with Toby? Somehow, she knew instinctively that there was a correlation between the two dreams...and the others tied into the equation somewhere.
The therapists at University Hospital had told Shaine her mind couldn’t cope with the possibilities concerning Toby’s death. Maggie’s body had been recovered from the river, but Toby’s had never been found. The police said because he was so small, he could have become snagged below or washed up anywhere. The doctors said Shaine needed to let go.
She’d wanted to let go.
She’d tried to let go.
But the dreams wouldn’t let her.
Shaine rolled over and curled into a tiny ball, wadding her knuckled fists against her eyes. She’d done her best to refuse the frightening uncertainties, but ignoring them had done no good. The dreams brought all the exhaustive questions to life. Shaine had to sleep, and when she did, the dreams took her captive.
Finally, one of the university doctors had taken her aside and given her the name of a Ph.D. at the Psychic Research Center.
Tom had taught her not to fight the dreams.
Tom had taught her how to keep them from taking over her existence. If only Tom could help her understand and do something with them. But she’d come to depend too much on his long-distance voice, and he’d done all he could for her. She needed to get a handle on this thing herself.
She wasn’t like the others he worked with. And they both knew it.
Shaine took her hands away from her eyes and breathed evenly, relaxing her body.
And then she dreamed a new dream.
Chapter 1
Shaine poured batter onto the hot waffle iron and closed the lid, turning to stick the syrup pitcher in the microwave. She always got a kick out of the fact that the Victorian Inn’s customers spent the night in the authentic 1800s restored mansion with its claw-foot tubs and pull-chain toilets, sipped tea in the oak-floored lace-curtained dining room and then received electrically grilled, perked, toasted and microwaved breakfasts.
“If you’ll do the beds and bathrooms again this morning, I’ll do the laundry and clean up the kitchen,” Audrey Pruitt said from behind her.
“Sure. Your legs still bothering you?”
Audrey, over eight months pregnant with her first baby, shuffled over with her swollen feet stuffed into a pair of fuzzy bedroom slippers. “Isn’t this disgusting? Nick must feel like he’s getting into bed with a circus elephant every night.”
“How long?” Shaine asked. “Three or four weeks left? That time’s going to fly by, and you’ll be so happy to have the baby, you’ll forget all about this. I remember...”
“What?”
“Oh, I was just going to say I remember when Maggie was pregnant with Toby. She was miserable, too.”
Beside her, Audrey was silent.
From the portable television atop the double-wide steel refrigerator came the morning news. “Four-year-old, Jimmy Deets has been missing from his Arlington home since yesterday afternoon,” the female reporter said. “Concerned neighbors, along with the county sheriffs department, have combed the area surrounding the Deetses’ farmhouse. One neighbor recalls seeing a car parked on the highway around supper time, but he said nothing seemed amiss at the time.”
Shaine’s hands trembled. Her heart beat so fast, its severity frightened her. Her gaze shot to the screen.
A fair-haired young woman appeared, her eyes redrimmed, her hair gathered in a hasty ponytail. She wiped her hands on a white apron tied at her waist. “If anyone has any information at all about Jimmy, please call the police,” she begged.
The child’s color photograph filled the small television screen, his dimpled face smiling.
Shaine dropped a plastic spatula on the tiled floor. She pressed her hand to her quaking chest.
“Shaine, what’s wrong?” Audrey asked.
She’d dreamed of Jimmy Deets last night.
She stared at the television long after the child’s image was gone, replaced with a car dealership commercial. That had been the woman with the apron she’d dreamed of several weeks ago.
A scorched smell permeated the kitchen.
“Shaine!” Audrey said. “The waffles are burning. Hon?”
Ignoring everything but her consuming panic rising inside, Shaine shot out the kitchen door and stood on the wooden porch, her breath coming out in shallow pants.
She’d seen that child last night! She’d dreamed of him! But she didn’t want to believe the picture she had in her mind. She couldn’t accept it.
She ran back in and grabbed her purse.
“Are you all right?” Audrey asked. She’d tossed the blackened waffles in the waste bin and stood ineffectively waving a dish towel at the thick smoke.
“I have to go.” Shaine turned away.
“But—”
“I’ll be back to do the upstairs.” She ignored Audrey’s pleading words and ran for her car. She started her Topaz and shot away from the inn. Like the arrow of a compass seeking north, she drove.
She didn’t think about where to turn or how far to drive. She simply steered the car toward the area that compelled her, instinctively knowing something would clue her where to turn. Twenty minutes outside the city, she pulled off the highway and followed a two-lane blacktop road until she spotted a water tower in the distance.
This was it.
She parked on the side, got out and ran across an expanse of gravel until she came to a low barbed-wire fence. The wire was loose enough to hold down with one foot while she climbed over. The ground beneath her shoes was uneven, and she stumbled several times. Neither words nor feelings could explain what compelled her forward. Some indefinable source drove her like the moon drove the tide. Crisp fall air lifted the hair at her temples, and she pulled her jacket around her more snugly.
At first she’d thought the child in her dream was Toby, but then she’d known that it wasn’t. This boy had dark hair. He was older, maybe three or four. She turned her face to the right like a magnet seeking steel.
And he was here.
She stopped, unable to make herself go any farther. Dread rose up inside of her.
The child was here—at the bottom of a deep hole.
The knowledge terrified Shaine. Not suspicion. Not a hunch. Knowledge.
Her limbs trembled as though the morning air was colder than it really was. In the distance a few cars whizzed past on the highway. She was almost close enough to reach him...if she veered a litt
le to the right.... No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t! With a stifled cry expanding her throat, she turned and raced back to her car. If she hurried, maybe it wouldn’t be too late!
Forcing herself to take deep breaths and compose her shaking limbs, she clutched the steering wheel, drove to a pay phone and punched in 911. “I—I don’t know how I know this, but you’ve got to believe me. That little boy—the one—the one whose mother was on the news—is... He’s...” She gave explicit directions to the place she’d just returned from and slammed down the receiver.
Exhaustion washed over her in a mind-drugging wave. She drove home and collapsed on her bed.
A determined pounding hammered at her door. Groggily Shaine pushed up and oriented herself. She was fully dressed, still wearing her jacket. Her purse lay lodged beneath her.
The persistent knocking came again.
She made her way to the door, feeling like she’d had her head in a bucket of sand, her mouth dry and her eyes gritty.
Audrey stood outside, a concerned frown on her face. Her gaze took in Shaine’s rumpled clothing. “You okay, hon?” she said as she came in.
Shaine shook her head, more to clear it than as a reply. She dropped her purse and groped for the remote, clicking on the TV and perching on the edge of the sofa.
“What are you looking for?”
“That little boy,” she said.
“That’s so sad.” Standing with her hand in the small of her back, Audrey shook her head.
Shaine scanned channels, looking for the one that ran local news twenty-four hours. Audrey’s words registered. She faced her. “What?”
The Truth About Toby Page 1
