“Zach is my husband.”
Letter to Reader
Books by Lynnette Kent
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
Copyright
“Zach is my husband.”
Shelley looked straight into Zach’s mother’s face and continued. “We were married three weeks ago in Las Vegas.”
The older woman looked at her son. “You didn’t think we might want to know beforehand?”
“We had our reasons for doing it this way,” Zach replied.
His mother turned back to Shelley. “But…what about Mr. Hightower?”
“I’m sorry—I thought you knew.” Shelley’s voice was a little shaky. “I was divorced from him six years ago.”
“But you’re carrying his child.”
“No, Mom.” Zach spoke before Shelley could. “The baby’s mine.”
“You mean you and Mrs. Hightower…were…are…”
“Yes, Mom. We’re married. And we’re having a baby.”
Dear Reader,
According to a Victorian saying, “The first baby can come anytime. The rest take nine months.”
Babies conceived before marriage have been a fact of life since the beginning of human society. The emotions associated with sex—the desire to be wanted, to be accepted, to be loved—wield great power in our lives. Even in this age of reliable birth control, these needs sometimes, even often, overwhelm our sincere attempts to direct destiny.
In Expecting the Best, Zach Harmon and Shelley Hightower are determined to be cautious. And yet, in that capricious way fate sometimes employs, there’s a baby on the way. This couple’s story is about adjusting, accepting and appreciating the possibilities offered by an unexpected detour. That process, when I think about it, seems to be the very definition of “living.”
Some books write themselves, and Expecting the Best is one of those. Zach and Shelley are people who say what they think. As the writer, all I had to do was listen. I’ve enjoyed spending time with them, and hope you will, too.
Hearing from readers is a great pleasure. Please feel free to write me at Box 17195, Fayetteville, NC 28314.
Thanks for reading.
Lynnette Kent
Books by Lynnette Kent
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
765—ONE MORE RODEO
824—WHAT A MAN’S GOT TO DO
EXPECTING THE BEST
Lynnette Kent
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For Lucy,
a wistful revision of history
CHAPTER ONE
THIRTY MINUTES. He would be here in thirty minutes.
Wearing only perfume and lingerie, Shelley Hightower stared at the array of dresses blanketing her bed. What in the world made choosing something to wear this Friday night so difficult?
“Black?” She fingered the hem of a beaded sheath. The dress felt heavy, and she didn’t like the way the crystals winked.
“Red?” But the red was an Oriental print with gold and teal and too much braided trim. Six months ago, she’d loved the outfit and bought it just for tonight. Now the effect only seemed…loud.
“White?” As if she were a bride? Hardly.
Her stomach tightened. “Maybe I should just put on a coat and go to the banquet in my underwear,” she groaned. “I don’t suppose Zach Harmon will notice one way or the other.”
Other people would notice, though. Accepting tonight’s award for top seller at the Denver Realtors’ dinner represented the pinnacle of Shelley’s career. She wanted to make an impression, convey an image of class and style and success.
That’s where Zach came in. Good-looking…okay, more than that, he was gorgeous. Personable. Funny and a great dancer. A bona fide hero with police-department decorations for proof. In other words, the perfect date to complement her career.
Even better, they barely knew each other. The wedding of mutual friends and a few parties were the only times they’d encountered each other over the last couple of years. Three hours of superficial conversation at tonight’s social function with hundreds of other people wouldn’t require any kind of commitment beyond good manners.
So why did she care what he thought of her dress?
The image that slipped into her thoughts twisted her insides even further… the image of a beautiful, elegant woman whose every move telegraphed class. An accomplished, intelligent woman who could hold her own with senators and CEOs and saints.
That was Claire Cavanaugh, the woman now married to Shelley’s ex-husband. The same woman who had introduced Zach Harmon into Shelley’s life. Zach and Claire might even have been lovers at one time, and they were still close friends. With that level of competition, how could a merely mortal woman possibly choose a dress?
Shelley glanced at the clock—twenty minutes—and looked back at the bed. Pink?
“Good grief!” She stomped into her closet and glared at the rack of gowns there, all of which looked gaudy, dated, ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly wear any of them. She would be accepting the award in her underwear after all.
Having disqualified every dress in her closet, she took the only option left. Closing her eyes, she spun in a circle three times and stretched out her hand. Whichever dress she touched first would be the one. No arguments.
Ten minutes later, with less than that to spare, she opened the jewelry box. Diamonds? Gold? Silver? “Damn!”
The doorbell rang before she’d decided which shoes would work. Should she leave him standing in the cold? Choose anything, then come back up to change them? Go down barefoot?
All Shelley knew for sure was that if she gave in to the angry tears in her eyes, her mascara would run. Then the whole evening would fall apart, and she couldn’t afford to have that happen. She wanted this award, wanted recognition from the people she worked with—and against. She’d established an enviable career, one that mattered more than almost anything else in her life.
Because the career was the only thing she’d ever done right.
ZACH RANG the doorbell a second time and plunged his hands into his overcoat pockets. The sky was spitting snow, with a windchill of barely ten degrees. When would somebody open the damn door?
At his thought, the blue panel swung back. Zach blinked against the light flooding into his face. “Shelley?”
“Come in, Zach. Sorry I kept you waiting.”
“No problem.” His eyes adjusted as he stepped inside. When he turned, his first look at the woman by the door hit like a solid punch beneath the ribs.
She wasn’t what—who—he’d expected. The Shelley Hightower he knew was bright and brittle, smart and savvy, but just a little too much of each.
The woman before him seemed, well, kinder and gentler. A dark blue dress skimmed her petite curves, covered by a jacket in the same blue with a white satin collar and cuffs. Her hair was longer than when he’d seen her
last, framing her face with white-blond curls. Her makeup accented big dark eyes and a kissable mouth to perfection.
“Wow.” Zach pulled his hands out of his pockets. “You look great.”
Those eyes widened, but she didn’t smile. “Thanks. Let me get my coat and we’ll go.” She crossed to a closet, and Zach welcomed the opportunity to run his gaze over her one more time.
“Uh, Shelley?”
She pulled a thick fur coat off a hanger and brought it to him. “Yes?”
“I don’t mean to be critical…”
“What? What’s wrong? You don’t like the dress?”
He quieted her with a lifted finger. “No, the dress is perfect. But are you sure those are the shoes you want?”
They both stared down at the slippers on her feet—backless pink satin with frothy pink feathers across the toes.
When Zach looked up, the horror on Shelley’s face suggested she’d seen a mouse. Or a snake.
“Hey, it’s not that serious.” He knuckled her chin higher. “Just run and change. I don’t mind waiting—I’m at your beck and call tonight. Or I can carry you to the car, if these are your choice. They look comfortable, at least.”
Shelley gave a tiny laugh and shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She left him holding the coat as she tripped up the staircase. Mink, perfectly matched, tickled his palms. That was more like the Shelley he expected. In the battle between status symbol and political correctness, status would win with her, hands down.
The house indicated status, too. Zach stared up two stories at an awesome crystal chandelier, wondering how one tiny woman could live alone in all this space and not get lost. Or really lonely.
The solemn look on Shelley’s face when she’d opened the door made him wonder about the latter. As far as he knew, she’d lived by herself in the two years since she’d given up full custody of her now-eight-year-old daughter. What kind of social life did she have, if her only escort option for a big night like tonight was a cop she’d seen maybe five or six times?
And what did it say for his social life that he’d accepted the invitation?
“Better?” She came halfway down the stairs and stopped, one foot on the step behind her. Zach took another body blow as he realized the dress wasn’t quite as conservative as he’d thought—a slit up the side gave him a long look at the excellent shape of Shelley’s leg.
Clearing his throat, he focused on her feet. “Definitely an improvement. You might even stay warm for the duration—unless the snow gets deep.”
“It’s snowing?” She ran the rest of the way down and peered out the faceted glass pane beside the door. “That’s sure going to keep people home tomorrow, just as we’re getting into the spring selling season. March is a big month.”
She came back to him, and Zach straightened out the fur, holding it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Her perfume drifted between them, a scent of exotic woods and lemon.
He shook his head clear. “Yeah, but it gives all the home owners another weekend to get their paint touched up, their carpets cleaned. That’ll make your job easier.”
Shelley looked up at him over her mink-cloaked shoulder, a puzzled frown around her eyes. “Are you an optimist or something?”
“Why not? Pessimism takes more energy.”
“An optimistic cop has got to be a rare character.”
“One of a kind, that’s me.” He grinned at her and finally got a real smile back. Zach wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Shelley Hightower smile before, but he decided she did it very nicely. He would have to see about getting a few more before the evening ended.
By the time dessert arrived, he could congratulate himself on reaching that goal. Shelley had smiled several times, thanks to some gentle flirting on his part, combined with the gradual consumption of reasonably good champagne.
He refilled their glasses as the dinner plates were cleared. “Allyson couldn’t get down to be here tonight? I kinda hoped to see her.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mention this to her or Dexter—she’s got a science fair at school this weekend. She’ll be down next week.”
Zach remembered the days when Shelley’s agenda would have come before anyone else’s, even her daughter’s. Since he’d just gotten her to relax, now didn’t seem the right time to point out the change, so he switched subjects. “I had no idea Denver supported this many real estate agents.” He murmured his comment into her ear, to avoid being overheard. “Are there enough houses for sale to go around?”
When she turned her head, their faces were close. “Like any sales job, you make your own business.”
Zach returned her solemn gaze and pondered the lack of laughter there. “There’s more to life than business, Shelley.”
“Not if you want to win.”
“And you want to win?” The skin of her face was smooth and pale. Touchable.
“Would you ask that if I were a man?”
He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Acquit me of sexism. I’m not convinced the world needs any more winners of either sex. How about just being happy?”
“Happy doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Sure it does. Maybe not as many as you’d like. But you can get by without giving your life over to work.”
“That’s assuming,” Shelley said, “you have other options.” Before Zach could reply, she shifted in her seat to watch the president of the Realtors’ association begin his speech.
The awards presentation went on forever. Zach had long ago perfected an interested stare and the ability to let his mind drift while applauding at all the right moments. The bottle left on the table between his glass and Shelley’s made that task even easier.
He brought his attention back when the president held up a huge plaque. “Last but certainly not least, I’d like to present the award for top seller of the year to…Ms. Shelley Hightower!”
Beside him, Shelley took a deep breath. Zach saw a flash of…sadness? regret?…cross her face. The audience applauded with enthusiasm as she walked to the podium. Zach joined in. The lady looked great under the lights—poised and polished. Smiling, she shook hands with the president and stepped forward when he motioned her to the microphone.
“Thank you,” she said. Her clear voice carried easily over the sound system. “I’m sure all of you know that this is not something I did by myself. I want to thank the staff at my office and the agents in the company for their dedication and hard work.” She paused for a glance at the award. “And special thanks go to my daughter, Allyson, for being my biggest fan and constant cheering section. She’ll be thrilled to hear about tonight.” Serenaded by more applause, she left the spotlight.
Zach leaned toward her as she sat down. “Do you have space on your office wall for a plank that huge?”
“Definitely.” She patted the edge of the plaque. “I’ve waited more than ten years for tonight. I plan to hang this where everybody can see, if I have to build a wall to do it.”
The closing remarks also lasted forever, but at last the banquet broke up. Zach escorted Shelley to the coat-check desk, where she stowed the plaque, and then to the hotel ballroom. They reached the edge of the floor as the band started playing. Without a word, he held out his left hand. Her right palm lighted on his. He took her onto the parquet surface—she caught his rhythm immediately. Just like that, they were dancing.
“Mmm.” Zach grinned with satisfaction, swinging her through a turn. She followed like a pro. “I haven’t had anybody to dance with in a long, long time.” Not since his best friend, Claire Cavanaugh, had married Shelley’s ex and moved to Wyoming.
His partner stepped close and tucked her head just beneath his chin. “How many cops dance as well as you do?”
“Don’t know. Don’t dance with many cops.” He enjoyed her responding chuckle. “You should do that more often.”
“Improvise?”
“Laugh.” He didn’t expect an answer and m
oved her into another turn. When she came back, his hands automatically found their place.
Two years, he realized at that moment. He hadn’t made love to a woman for almost two years. Not since Claire’s wedding, when the realization of what he’d lost had hit him with the power of an avalanche. He’d needed someone to hold that night, and his date for the reception obliged. They went their separate ways the morning after, and he’d kept to the company of guys since. His handball game had really improved.
Tonight, he wasn’t thinking about handball. Shelley’s thigh brushed his legs, her fingers played across his shoulder. Her back arched as he drew her close for a dip and she looked up at him from under her lashes, smiling.
At the sudden rush in his blood, Zach wondered if he’d pushed the limits on his restraint a little too far.
The music slowed, ended. He forced his hands away from Shelley long enough to applaud. When the band started up again, he made himself wait and at least look at her for permission. The expectation on her face eased his mind… and raised his temperature. “You like to dance, don’t you?”
She moved into his embrace. “I grew up on Fred Astaire movies.”
“I’m no Astaire.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Zach.”
He wasn’t sure, at that moment, whether or not to believe the invitation in her eyes.
The rest of the evening convinced him.
THEY DANCED to every tune, drank champagne when the band took a break. Co-workers and competitors drifted by to offer congratulations on the award. Shelley found herself smiling at them, introducing Zach with her fingers on his arm as if he belonged to her or something. At the realization, she dropped her hand.
During the next introduction, her face heated up when he put an arm around her waist. But her stomach had settled down nicely. Somehow, she didn’t think she could credit the food.
Expecting the Best (Harlequin Superromance) Page 1
