“I hadn’t heard,” she said now. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’m counting down the days. You know how that is.”
Natalie’s friend poked her and she flushed. “We’re honeymooning in Italy. He has an uncle who owns a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice with stunning views. It’s going to be unbelievable. Oh, and we’ve already bought a house together in Cherry Creek. You’ll have to see it next time you’re in Denver. Stunning. Just stunning. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms. It’s perfect for entertaining.”
“I’m very happy for you,” she said stiffly.
Okay, so Natalie was living the life she had expected, the one she had dreamed. Italian honeymoons, showplace houses, beautiful friends. She refused to let envy eat at her.
She gave Natalie another hug. “Seriously, I’m really happy for you. Be sure to tell Stanton congratulations from me, won’t you?”
“Definitely.” Natalie avoided her gaze and definitely didn’t risk any glances in Dylan’s direction. Her friend nudged her again and she gave that well-practiced smile again. “Well, we’d better go. We’re meeting people at Brazen. See you, Genevieve.”
“’Bye,” she murmured.
Only after they walked away did she realize she hadn’t introduced Dylan. Despite the cold wind that seeped beneath her jacket and whipped her hair around, Genevieve could feel her face heat. A lousy mood was no excuse for poor manners.
He was gazing at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher but one that made her squirm. “Oh. You’re still here.”
“So they tell me.”
“You didn’t need to wait. I can find my own way to my car.”
As if to illustrate, she set off at a brisk pace toward the parking lot, still a few hundred yards away. She had only made it past one more storefront when her heel caught on a patch of ice and she started to flounder.
In a blink, he reached out to block her fall with his arm and his body. Instead of tumbling to the sidewalk, she fell against him and for a moment she could only stare up at him, that strong, handsome face now dominated by the black eye patch. He was still gorgeous, she realized, a little surprised. And he smelled delicious, clean and masculine.
A slow shock of heat seemed to sizzle inside her, and she couldn’t seem to make her limbs cooperate for a long moment. He gazed down at her, too, until a car passed by on Main Street, splattering snow, and she remembered where they were.
What was wrong with her? She couldn’t be attracted to Dylan Caine. She wouldn’t allow it. Genevieve jerked away from him, her face burning, and made a point to move as far away on the sidewalk as she could manage.
He watched her out of that unreadable gaze for a long moment. “Let’s get out of this snow.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way, until she reached the cute little silver BMW SUV her parents had given her when she graduated from college. At least they hadn’t taken that away, too.
At her SUV, she unlocked the door and he held it open for her. Just as she was sliding in, Mr. Taciturn finally found his voice.
“Can I offer a little friendly advice?”
Her stomach tightened. “In my experience, when someone says that, a person usually can’t do much to shut them up.”
And the advice was rarely friendly, either, but she didn’t add that.
“Don’t I know it. I was just going to suggest that you might endure your hundred hours of service a little easier if you can get over being chickenshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know. The whole disgusted, freaking-out thing if one of the guys looks at you or, heaven forbid, dares to touch you only to keep you from falling on your ass.”
Her face heated all over again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.
She certainly couldn’t tell him she had freaked out because of her own inconvenient attraction.
“Goodbye. I’ll see you Thursday,” she said, then slammed her door shut, turned the key in the engine and sped out of the parking lot without looking back.
CHAPTER FOUR
Three mornIngs later, Genevieve was still annoyed with Dylan, with Natalie, with her parents—with the world in general—as she dressed carefully for her first day at A Warrior’s Hope. She really had no idea what to expect or what she might be asked to do, which made it difficult to determine appropriate attire.
She finally selected black slacks and a delicious peach cashmere turtleneck she’d picked up at a favorite little boutique in Le Marais. Probably overkill, but she knew the color flattered her hair and eyes.
Or at least it usually did. Unfortunately, it clashed terribly with the overabundance of Pepto-Bismol-pink in Grandma Pearl’s hideous bathroom.
This was her least favorite room in the house. How was she supposed to apply makeup when this washed her out so terribly? If she could afford it, she would renovate the entire room, but she doubted her budget would stretch to cover new bathroom fixtures.
She was just finishing her second coat of mascara with one eye on her watch when chimes rang out the refrain of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.” Grandma Pearl’s ghastly doorbell. She shoved the wand back into the tube and hurried through the house, curious and a little alarmed at who might be calling on her this early in the morning.
“Good. You are home.” Her mother beamed at her as soon as Genevieve opened the door.
“Mother! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, that awful doorbell! Why haven’t you changed it yet?”
“I’m still trying to figure out how. Seriously, why are you here?”
“I’m on my way to the salon. When you were at the house the other day, I couldn’t help noticing your nails. Horrible shape, darling. I thought I would treat you to a mani. I’ve already made the appointment with Clarissa. She had a tight schedule but managed to find room first thing this morning. Won’t that be fun?”
Her mother gave her a hopeful look and Genevieve scrambled for a response. Since the end of her engagement—and the subsequent death of all Laura Beaumont’s thinly veiled ambitions to push them both into the higher echelons of Denver society—Genevieve’s interactions with her mother had been laced with heavy sighs, wistful looks, not-so-subtle comments about this gathering, that event.
Being married to one of the most financially and politically powerful men in small Hope’s Crossing wasn’t enough for Laura. She had always wanted more. When she was engaged to Sawyer and she and Laura worked together to create the wedding of the century, Genevieve had finally felt close to her mother.
She had missed that closeness far more than she missed Sawyer.
“I can’t,” she said regretfully. “I’m starting my community service today.”
Laura gave a dismissive wave of pink-tipped fingers that looked perfectly fine to Genevieve. “Oh, that.
Well, you can just start tomorrow, can’t you? I’m sure they won’t mind. I’ll have your father give them a call.” This was her family in a nutshell. Her mother didn’t understand anything that interfered with her own plans, and when she encountered an obstacle, she expected
William Beaumont to step in and fix everything. When Gen’s younger brother, Charlie, had been arrested for driving under the influence in an accident that had actually resulted in the death of one of his friends, William had been unable to prevent him from pleading guilty. Charlie had served several months at a youth corrections facility, and Laura hadn’t spoken to her husband for weeks.
Now both of their children had been embroiled in legal difficulties. She imagined Laura found it much easier to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.
“I don’t believe it’s that simple, Mother,” Gen said. “It’s court-mandated. I have to show up or I could go to jail.”
Laura pouted. “Well, what am I supposed to tell Clarissa? She’s expecting us.”
How about the truth? That you see the world only the way you want to see it?
“Tell her I have another obligat
ion I couldn’t escape. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Laura gave a frustrated little huff. “I was looking so forward to finding a moment to catch up with you. We hardly talk when you call from France. I can’t say I agreed with your father’s decision to cut you off financially. I tried my best to talk him out of it. I told him you were having a wonderful time in Paris, that you needed this time and why shouldn’t you take it? As usual, he wouldn’t listen to me. You know how he can
be when he’s in a mood. Still, I told myself at least this would give me the chance to spend a little more time with you, darling.”
Her parents drove her crazy sometimes…she couldn’t deny that. These past two years away had helped her see their failings more clearly, but she still loved them.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could go,” she said, not untruthfully.
“I understand. You have to do what you must. I’ll see if I can reschedule for tomorrow.”
“Mother, I’ll be going to the center tomorrow, too. And the day after that.”
“Every day?”
Laura obviously didn’t quite grasp the concept of a commuted sentence. “I have a hundred hours of community service to complete in only a few weeks. Yes, I’ll probably be going every day between now and Christmas.”
“This is what happens when you decided not to have your father represent you. He could have had the whole misunderstanding thrown out.”
Like Charlie’s little “misunderstanding” that had killed one girl and severely injured another? William had been helpless to fix that situation. Charlie had taken full responsibility for his actions and had come out of his time in youth corrections a different young man, no longer sullen and angry.
“It’s done now,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I really need to go or I’ll be late for my first day.”
“Well, will you come back to the house instead of staying in this horrible place? Then I would at least have a chance to catch up with you in the evenings.”
Again, her mother saw what she wanted to.
“I can’t. My evenings will be spent here, trying to do what I can to prepare this house for sale. Dad didn’t give me any other choice.”
“He has your best interests at heart, my dear. You know that, don’t you?”
“He might have thought he did. We have differing opinions on what the best thing for me might be.”
Not that anything was new there. Her father had notoriously found her lacking in just about every arena. He thought she had been wasting her time to obtain a degree in interior design, nor could he see any point in the sewing she had always loved or the riding lessons she tolerated.
The only time either of her parents seemed to approve of her had been during her engagement.
“Will you at least go to dinner with us this weekend? With Charlie back in California for his finals week, the house is too quiet.”
“I’ll try,” she promised. She ushered her mother out with a kiss on the cheek and firmly closed the door, practically in her face.
After Laura drove away, Genevieve hurriedly grabbed one of the totes she loved to make and headed out the door, fighting down a whirl of butterflies in her stomach.
For two days, she had been having second—and third and fourth and sixtieth—thoughts about this communityservice assignment with A Warrior’s Hope. She couldn’t think of a job less suited to her limited skill set than helping wounded veterans. What did she know about their world? Next to nothing. Most likely, she would end up saying something stupid and offensive and none of them would want anything to do with her.
A hundred hours could turn into a lifetime if she screwed this up.
By the time she drove into the parking lot of the Hope’s Crossing Recreation Center in Silver Strike Canyon, the butterflies were in full-fledged stampede mode.
She was five minutes early, she saw with relief as she climbed out of her SUV and walked into the building. Construction on the recreation center had been under way during her last visit home for Pearl’s funeral. The building was really quite lovely, designed by worldrenowned architect Jackson Lange. Created of stone, cedar planks and plenty of glass, the sprawling structure complemented the mountainous setting well for being so large.
It also appeared to be busy. The parking lot was filled with several dozen cars, which she considered quite impressive for a weekday morning in December. She wasn’t exactly sure how A Warrior’s Hope fit into the picture, but she supposed she had a hundred hours to figure that out.
The butterflies went into swarm-mode as she walked through the front doors into a lobby that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the hotels at the ski resort. She stood for a moment just inside the sliding glass doors, hating these nerves zinging through her. Spying a sign that read A Warrior’s Hope at one desk, she drew in a steady breath in an effort to conceal her anxiety and approached.
The woman seated behind the computer was younger than Genevieve and busy on a phone call that seemed to revolve around airline arrangements. She held up a finger in a universal bid for patience and finished her call.
“Sorry,” she said when she replaced the phone receiver on the cradle. “I’ve been trying to reach the airline for days to make sure they know we need special arrangements to transport some medical equipment when our new guys arrive next week.”
“Ah.” Gen wasn’t quite sure what else to say. “I’m Genevieve Beaumont. I believe you were expecting me.” The woman looked blank for a moment then her face lit up. “Oh! You’re one of the community-service people. Spence said you were coming today. Our computers have been down. No internet, no email, and wouldn’t you know, our IT guy is on vacation. I’ve been so crazy trying to track down somebody else to help I forgot you were coming. I’m Chelsea Palmer. I’m the administrative assistant to Eden Davis, the director of A Warrior’s Hope.”
“Hi, Chelsea.”
She didn’t recognize the young woman and couldn’t see any evidence Chelsea knew her—or of her—either. “I don’t suppose you know anything about computers, do you?” the woman asked hopefully.
Gen gave a short laugh. “On a good day, I can usually figure out how to turn them on but that’s the extent of my technical abilities. And sometimes I can’t even do that.”
Chelsea gave her a friendly smile. She was quite pretty, though she wore a particularly unattractive shade of yellow. She could also use a little more subtlety in her makeup.
Gen certainly wasn’t going to tell her that. Instead, she would relish the promise of that friendly smile. Around Hope’s Crossing, she found it refreshing when people didn’t know who she was. Here, many saw her as snobbish and cold. She had no idea how to thaw those perceptions.
She had loved that about living in Paris, where her friends didn’t care about her family, her connections, her past.
“Thanks anyway,” Chelsea said. “I’ll figure something out. My ex-boyfriend works in IT up at the resort. He agreed to come take a look at things.”
“Even though he’s an ex?” She hadn’t spoken with Sawyer since the day she threw his ring back at him.
“I know, right? But we left things on pretty good terms. He’s not a bad guy… . He was only a little more interested in his video games than me, you know? I decided that wasn’t for me.”
“Understandable.”
Chelsea’s gaze shifted over Gen’s shoulder and her face lit up. “Hey, Dylan! Eden said you would be stopping in this morning.”
“And here I am. Hi. Chelsea, right?”
“One two-second conversation in line at the grocery store and you remembered my name.”
Gen didn’t like the way all her warm feelings toward the other woman trickled away. Friends weren’t that easy to come by here in Hope’s Crossing. She certainly couldn’t throw one away because she was feeling unreasonably territorial toward Dylan, even if she had been the one shackled to the man.
She didn’t blame Chelsea for that little moment of flirtatiousness. Dylan still
needed a haircut. Regardless, he looked quite delicious. Even the black eye patch only made him more attractive somehow, probably because the eye not concealed behind it looked strikingly blue in contrast.
She thought of that moment when she had nearly fallen on the ice a few days earlier, when he had caught her and held her against his chest for a heartbeat.
And then the humiliation of his words, basically accusing her of being so shallow she recoiled in disgust when he touched her, which was so not true.
“Genevieve.” He again said her name as her Parisian friends did and for some strange reason she found the musical syllables incredibly sexy spoken in that gruff voice.
“Is that how you say your name?” Chelsea asked in surprise. “I though it was Gen-e-vieve.”
She managed to tamp down the inappropriate reaction to the man. “Either way works,” she said to Chelsea. “Or you could simply call me Gen.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
The young woman turned her attention back to Dylan. She tucked her hair behind her ear—her pointy ear, Gen thought, before she chided herself for her childishness in noticing. She was a horrid person, as superficial as everyone thought.
“We’re all so excited you’re finally coming to help us,” Chelsea said. “Eden has been over the moon since she heard about your, er, little brush with the law.”
“Good to know I could make everybody’s day,” he said dryly, but Chelsea didn’t appear to notice.
“It’s going to be perfect,” she exclaimed. “You’re going to be great! Exactly what we need.”
She had said nothing of the sort to Genevieve, yet another piece of evidence in what she was beginning to suspect—that her presence was superfluous here, an unnecessary addendum. The organizers of the program wanted Dylan to help out at A Warrior’s Hope because of his own perspective and experience. She, on the other hand, was little more than collateral damage.
“Where is Eden?” she finally interjected.
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