Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  CAPTIVE KISSES

  BEGINNING

  MID-POINT

  LOVE AT SEA

  BEGINNING

  MID-POINT

  SNOWBOUND HEART

  BEGINNING

  MID-POINT

  ABOUT JENNIFER BLAKE

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Individual Book Cover Designs by LFD Designs For Authors.

  Boxed Set Cover Design by SM Reine.

  Captive Kiss

  Copyright © 1980 and 2012 by Patricia Maxwell

  First Signet Edition: 1981

  First E-Reads Edition: 1999

  Steel Magnolia Press Digital Edition: 2012

  Love at Sea

  Copyright © 1980 and 2012 by Patricia Maxwell

  First Signet Edition: 1980

  First E-Reads Edition: 1999

  Steel Magnolia Press Digital Edition: 2012

  Snowbound Heart

  Copyright © 1979 and 2012 by Patricia Maxwell

  First Signet Edition: 1979

  First E-Reads Edition: 1999

  Steel Magnolia Press Digital Edition: 2012

  One

  There it was, the lake house. A rambling, white-painted structure with long expanses of veranda on three sides swathed in fine mesh screen, it sat beneath the shade of ancient live oaks hung with swaying gray strands of Spanish moss. Just beyond the house, half-hidden by the lush Louisiana undergrowth, was the guest cottage with its connecting walkway grown up with grass between the cracks. Both places were quiet, somnolent in the heat of the September afternoon. The only sound was bird calls from the leafy green canopy overhead and the distant hum of a motor far out on the tree-ringed lake.

  Kelly Hardy sat in her small red car, looking at the house. She ran a hand through the gold-brown waves of her hair, a troubled frown between her clear gray eyes. The lake house was more isolated than she had remembered. Set on the back waters of Green Lake on a narrow peninsula of land at the end of a winding gravel road, its nearest neighbor was more than a mile away. Why hadn’t she noticed before? The answer to that was this was the first time she had driven here by herself. All the other times she had been giggling and talking to Mary and Peter and Mark in the back of the station wagon while Judge Kavanaugh drove. She hadn’t cared how far it was, or how long it took to get there, as long as she was with the Kavanaugh family.

  How long had it been since she was here? It must have been three years at least. The last time had been for the high school graduation party the judge and his wife had given for Mary’s graduating class.

  Mary Kavanaugh had been a good friend, still was, for that matter. It had been sweet of her to include Kelly in all those family outings, and kind of the judge and his wife to take up time with another awkward teen-ager, one who had no family. Kelly’s father had been killed in an automobile accident when she was thirteen, her mother had died a few months later of cancer. Her teen-age years had been a trying time, living with an aunt who had a family of her own. The happiest moments she could remember had been spent at the lake house. Then on graduation she had earned a scholarship and moved away from the small town where the Kavanaughs lived. She had taken a two-year accounting course at college and found a job. After working for a year, she had earned a week’s vacation, and she had thought to spend a part of it with Mary, catching up on everything that had happened since she had been gone. Being one of the last people hired at the firm where she worked, she had little choice in vacation dates. She had not minded taking her time off so late in the year, however, until she had discovered that the Kavanaughs had planned a trip to Europe for that period. They would leave a week before she reached town and return just as she was going back to work. When Kelly had spoken to her on the phone, Mary had been contrite, wailing in frustration. The European jaunt could not be postponed; it had been planned for months, and in addition scheduled for the two weeks just before court reconvened for the fall. At first, she had wanted to cancel her trip and stay, but Kelly wouldn’t hear of it. Finally, after consulting with her mother, she had suggested that Kelly go down to the lake house. There Kelly could read to her heart’s content, sun-bathe, swim, loaf, whatever. That was the only way Mary would be satisfied. She could not stand the thought of Kelly rattling around town with nothing to do. She wouldn’t be able to enjoy herself unless she knew Kelly was having a good time, too.

  It had sounded lovely, the sun-soaked days, the quiet. Kelly was not a boisterous type. She didn’t particularly care for large crowds, noise, or loud music, and she loved to read, as Mary well knew. The peace, the long, endless summer days with Mary and her brothers, was what had appealed to her in the past. But now, as she sat in her car with perspiration popping out all over her from the sticky, ovenlike heat, it did not seem like such a good idea. There was something disturbing in the silence that lingered around the lake house, something that set her nerves to tingling and made her search the shadows beneath the trees with her eyes.

  She was being silly. There was nothing there. The track of a drive that led down to the house had been overgrown with grass and weeds. No one had been near the place since the early spring, according to Mary. They didn’t come down here, forty miles from their home, so much anymore, not since the boys, Peter and Mark, had left college and taken jobs out of the state and Mary had begun a promising career as a painter. They were all scattered, getting on with their lives. The judge still fished for crappie and bass now and then, but he had been told by his doctor to take it easy, not go out alone in a boat. Utilities for the year round and taxes, to say nothing of upkeep, were making it burdensome to hold on to a place they had little use for any longer. According to Mary, her mother and father had been thinking of selling.

  There was no use sitting here, making herself jumpy and nostalgic by turns over something she couldn’t help. The sun would be setting soon, and she had to unpack the car, put away the groceries she had brought, turn on the air conditioning, and manage some sort of meal for herself. She would also like to have a quick, cooling swim if the raft anchored out from the shore was still floating. She couldn’t see it from here because of the screen of cypress trees and willows that grew out into the water, though she could see the fishing pier. At least that long, wooden catwalk looked to be in good shape.

  Kelly stepped from the car and closed the door. She stretched, stiff from sitting for the long drive, a slender figure in shorts and a top of salmon-colored cotton terry, worn with natural straw sandals. The first thing she had better do was let herself inside. That had been troubling her ever since she had spoken to Mary on the phone. She had said in passing that the extra key was in the usual place. As far as Kelly knew, that was under the fern tub that sat beside the steps of the side door, but after so long a passage of time it was possible the hiding place had been changed.

  She knelt beside the tub with its trailing green fronds, lifting one corner. The heavy wooden half-barrel tilted obligingly on its brick supports. She felt underneath, running her hand as far as she could reach.


  There was nothing there, no small metal box such as the judge had always produced. Picking up the end of a tree limb that lay nearby, Kelly raked further back under the tub. Still nothing. Getting to her feet, she stood with her hands on her hips. She should have known better than to take such an important detail for granted. If she had only thought to ask — but she hadn’t.

  With the fine curves of her mouth set in a firm line, Kelly opened the screen door of the side porch, and stepped inside. She felt over the side door, around the outside light fixture, and lifted the door mat. She even tried the door handle. With a defeated sigh, she moved back outside. All right. She didn’t like to do it, but she had no choice. There was another way into the house.

  Moving around to the back side of the house, facing away from the lake, she came to the windows that corresponded to the large bedroom where she and Mary had always slept. There had been a latch that didn’t lock. Kelly and Mary had never worried about it, nor had the judge. Crime was practically nonexistent that far from civilization. There was no danger while so many people were in residence, and scarcely more when the house was empty. There had never been any problem with burglaries on the lake, not even with the house being as distant from its neighbors as it was. However, the judge maintained that a determined criminal would make short work of any lock or window glass, and that there was no use frustrating him unnecessarily. There was, in any case, nothing of any great value at the lake house to steal. It was furnished for comfort and durability, with the destructiveness of teen-agers in mind rather than style, beauty, or expense.

  The window was too high for her to reach, even after she had found a screwdriver in the glove compartment of her car. It took a minute more to locate a cinder block, left over from the judge’s barbeque grill project, to use as a stepping stool. It was only high enough if she turned it on end. Standing on that precarious support, she lifted the screen from its channel, maneuvered her screwdriver beneath it to release the latches, then set the whole framing on the ground. Maybe the judge was right, she told herself with a grin; this housebreaking business was child’s play.

  The window was stiff, sticking for an instant, but she pushed it upward. Setting the palms of her hands on the sill, Kelly boosted herself higher. Her block toppled from under her, falling to its side with a thud. She teetered for an instant, supporting herself with her arms. Then she grabbed for the inside molding of the window.

  At a slight sound behind her, she hesitated, her nerves sounding a sudden alarm. Abruptly she was caught and dragged backward. She gave a cry of pain as her arm was scraped over the sill, and then she was dumped on her feet. Before she could move, before she could recover her breath, her wrist was snatched in an iron grasp and she was spun around.

  “Who the hell are you, and what do you think you are doing?”

  With those harsh words ringing in her ears, Kelly stared into the face of a tall, dark man. His black eyes burned with anger underscored by deadly menace. The chiseled lines of his features were implacable. His grip on her arm was so tight her hand was already turning numb. He wore only a brief white swimsuit, and the bronzed, muscled hardness of his body was jeweled with drops of water. There was about him the coiled strength, awaiting release, of a predator.

  Shocked surprise held Kelly immobile for an instant, then fury came washing back along her veins in a warm rush. She jerked at her wrist, clasping her hand into a fist. “Let me go!”

  Immediately her arm was twisted behind her back and she was brought up against the ridged firmness of the man’s body. “I asked you two questions,” he said, “and I suggest you come up with answers — fast!”

  His voice was quieter, with a soft timbre that rasped along her nerves with the feel of sandpaper. There was also a faint foreign intonation in it, not quite an accent, and yet not wholly American despite his completely idiomatic phrases. He was, perhaps, in his early thirties. The black waves of his hair were sculpted to his head with dampness, and his brows, drawn together over piercing eyes, were thick and dark. Kelly felt the prickle of fright along her spine as she became intensely aware of the steely grasp that held her and the quick rise and fall of her breasts that were pressed against his chest so closely she could feel the imprint of the gold medallion he wore on a chain around his neck. His grip tightened.

  “I — I’m a family friend of the people who own this house,” she said on a gasp, “and just who are you?”

  She might as well not have spoken. “What do you think you’re doing, sneaking around here?”

  “I have a perfect right to be here, which is more than you can say!”

  “What makes you think so?” he grated.

  As his hold tightened inexorably, panic rose to her head. She began to kick and struggle, despite the strain on her twisted shoulder that made it feel as if it were coming out of the socket. Doubling the fist of her free hand as Mark and Peter had taught her one distant summer, she struck at his face, catching him in the mouth.

  He swore under his breath, shifting his stance. Her other wrist was caught and pinioned behind her back also. Rage at her own helplessness rose in a red haze before her eyes. She lifted her gray gaze to his face, searching for some small sign of what he wanted, what he intended, dreading what she might find. He was so close she could see the gold flecks in the depths of his eyes, the sweep of his lashes, even the dark shading of his beard under his skin. On his bottom lip was a dark red spot of blood from the split place where she had hit him. A shudder ran over her, but she refused to look away.

  Imperceptibly, his grasp loosened. “Why are you here?” he repeated.

  She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “An invitation.”

  “From whom?”

  “Mary — Mary Kavanaugh, and her mother.”

  “And in order to take advantage of their hospitality, you had to crawl through a window?”

  “The key wasn’t where the judge used to keep it.” Anger at the sarcasm in his tone darkened her gray eyes once more.

  “And that was?”

  The inadvisability of answering such a question from a stranger flitted across her mind, but it seemed she had no choice. As his grip increased once more, she said, “Under — under the fern tub.”

  He held her gray gaze, his expression intent, measuring. Though a little of the tension seemed to leave him, it was still as though an electric current raced between them, passing wherever they bodies touched. His dark glance flicked over the pale oval of her face, coming to rest on her lips, pressed tight against the growing urge to plead with him to let her go.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I came in my car.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Parked at the side of the house.”

  He looked away then, to where the back bumper of the small car could just be seen at the corner, though it would not be visible from the lake, the direction from which he had come. He gave what might have been a nod of satisfaction, then looked down at her once more, his gaze settling on the pulse that throbbed in her throat, then dropping to the curves of her breasts and shoulders outlined by the soft terry cloth. Tilting his head, he let his gaze run down over her brief shorts.

  “It seems unlikely that you could be concealing a weapon,” he drawled, “but it might be better to be safe than sorry.”

  By the time his meaning penetrated her haze of disbelief, it was over. He had released her wrist, and with quick and easy competence, run his hands over the curves and hollows of her body.

  She stumbled back, trembling with rage and the need to strike out at him as her face flamed with color. What kept her from hitting him was the lack of feeling in her fingers, and the certain knowledge that retribution would be swift.

  “Who do you think you are?” she cried.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” he told her. “What concerns us at the moment is the fact that Judge Kavanaugh gave me permission to stay in his house. I have been here several days already, and intend to stay severa
l more.”

  “Judge Kavanaugh told you —”

  “He said I was to make myself at home, though he never mentioned sending a female along for companionship.”

  “He didn’t!” Kelly said indignantly. “That is, I was told I could come, but nobody mentioned you being here, either — which seems a little strange!”

  “Undoubtedly the judge neglected to inform his family,” the dark man said, not at all discomfited by the hostile manner in which she was regarding him.

  “That doesn’t sound like Judge Kavanaugh to me.”

  It was true that things had been in an uproar at the Kavanaugh house with the preparations for going to Europe, and that Mrs. Kavanaugh could not be expected to have any great interest in the lake house after so many years. Still, the judge and his wife were a close couple who discussed everything except the most confidential aspects of his work. He must have mentioned such a matter as a guest at the lake house to her, if only to be certain that the place was fit for company.

  “The fact remains that I am in residence, and have no intention of leaving. You will have to make other arrangements. I understand there is a fisherman’s lodge on the other side of the lake. You should be able to find accommodation there.”

  His supreme self-confidence was daunting. It was possible, of course, that the judge had issued an invitation. If he hadn’t been so rough, had not performed that last embarrassing search, she might have been inclined to leave and allow him possession of the place in peace. As it was, she did not feel so obliging.

  “You have been here some time,” she said. “Why can’t you pack up and go to this lodge?”

  “It doesn’t suit me,” he answered, his tone soft.

  “Well, it doesn’t suit me either.” Kelly lifted her chin, silver lights flashing in her gray eyes.

  He let his dark gaze drift down over her in insolent appreciation. “There’s an easy solution. Stay here with me. There’s plenty of bedrooms, not that we will need more than one.”