Beyond Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

  Beyond Ordinary Love (Baptiste & Samira #2)

  Untitled (Anthony & Melody #1)

  Untitled (Anthony & Melody #2)

  Untitled (Nick’s Story)

  Chapter 1

  Bloody black-tie events.

  Scowling as he leaned against the nearest pillar, Anthony Scott ran his fingers under his starched collar as discreetly as he could, trying to get rid of the feeling of a noose tightening round his neck. The glittering ballroom overflowed with exactly the sorts of yammering society nobs and suck-ups he normally encountered back in London, and he longed to escape. One would think that crossing the Atlantic and traveling all the way to tiny Journey’s End in upstate New York would solve this particular problem, but no such luck. One might also think that, given his age (thirty-four) and his background, he might be more comfortable with chatting up complete strangers but, again, no such luck.

  The only bright spots on his otherwise dreary horizon?

  Half the crowd were Yanks, which meant they had no idea who he was.

  And she might be there.

  His skin tightened pleasantly with anticipation, but a quick scan of the crowd revealed no one nearby with that glowing golden skin or tumbling corkscrew hair.

  A tinge of disappointment made him scowl again before he raised his whisky glass to his lips and drank deeply. Somehow he resisted the urge to pull out his phone and stare at her pictures for the millionth time since his longtime mate from boarding school, Jean-Baptiste Mercier, first alerted Anthony to her existence.

  But Anthony couldn’t stop his hand from giving his breast pocket a reassuring pat with his free hand, just to make sure the phone, and her smiling face, were still there—

  “Anthony.”

  Startled, Anthony glanced around to discover an exasperated looking Baptiste beckoning to him from several feet away. A surprise because Anthony had thought that Baptiste and their other school chum, Domenico Rossi, were still right there beside him.

  Anthony snapped to attention, realizing that he had, perhaps, lapsed into a daydream.

  About her.

  Baptiste raised a brow at him, beckoning again. “Do you want to join us, or do you want to continue being rude?”

  Anthony hesitated. What he wanted was to leave this gala celebration of Baptiste’s new winery merger, go upstairs to his hotel suite, shed the monkey suit and stretch out in bed to watch football with another whisky and a nice slice of New York style pizza.

  Actually, strike that. What he really wanted was to be upstairs rolling around in that same bed with the object of his growing obsession, but since what he wanted didn’t seem to be on the menu tonight, he braced for another round of small talk and calibrated his expression for polite interest as he walked over.

  That was when he noticed that Baptiste and Nick were standing beside two beautiful women, one with dark skin and short hair, the other with—

  Christ. It was her.

  His mouth dried out.

  His feet simultaneously turned leaden and clumsy, like flippers on land, and his steps slowed to the point where it was a wonder he didn’t trip over himself and plant his face on the floor.

  Still, he eventually got there.

  “Could you be a bit more sociable?” Baptiste snapped when he arrived. “I thought you were with us. Not standing over there holding up some pole.”

  “I’ll try.” Anthony cleared his throat and decided that coherence was all anyone could request of him at the moment, let alone good manners or a smile of greeting. He also decided it was best not to look directly at her until he got his features and hoarse voice under control. “I’m not very good at these events, I’m afraid.”

  “He’s a Brit,” Nick interjected apologetically, flashing the wide smile (blindingly white and readily available) that always made Anthony seem that much more a buffoon in comparison. Freaking charming Italian. “They show no emotions, ever. What can you do?”

  “Don’t start, you two,” Baptiste warned Anthony and Nick in that silky accent of his, green eyes bright and twinkling for the ladies’ benefit. “I’d prefer for Samira to think I have nice friends.”

  Freaking charming Frenchman, Anthony thought, glaring at Baptiste with rising despair. Moments like these always made Anthony wonder why he’d ever befriended these two suave fellows in the first place. Thirty seconds with them in a social setting and Anthony inevitably sank to bottom of the class in terms of interpersonal skills and making a good impression.

  Lobbying a final glare at Anthony and Nick, Baptiste commenced with the introductions. “Anthony Scott, meet Samira Palmer and Melody Harrison.”

  Oh, Anthony knew who Melody Harrison was, all right.

  Why?

  Because Baptiste had texted him a few weeks ago, saying that if Anthony was still in the market for surgeons willing to volunteer for his foundation, which provided medical services for children in need around the world, then Baptiste had a lead on someone for him to consider.

  And he had provided a link to Melody’s hospital bio.

  Since Anthony was always in the market for volunteers, he’d clicked on the link. Seen Melody’s picture. Been smitten and researched everything he could find online about her. And suddenly found himself in the midst of a growing fascination with this stunning woman standing in front of him.

  Melody Harrison, 35. A single Harvard University-trained pediatric surgeon born and bred here in Journey’s End, now practicing at the local medical center. She’d also done a few guest spots as a medical expert on the local news.

  Anthony had, naturally, watched all her online video snippets, discovering that she was sharp, funny and compassionate, with a brisk and lovely American voice that was neither too Southern nor too East Coast.

  One might think that, with all that information and growing curiosity under his belt, he would be more than ready to meet Melody.

  One would be wrong. Especially with his heart pounding its way up his throat.

  So he focused on Baptiste’s new girlfriend, Samira, first.

  “How do you do?” he said, noting her doe eyes, gleaming dark skin, high cheekbones and open smile. Baptiste had chosen well. Anthony could absolutely see why Baptiste had lost his head over Samira. “Pleasure.”

  Samira murmured something in response. He had no idea what.

  Why?

  Because his brain exploded as soon as he turned to Melody and looked into her face at close range.

  Christ.

  Surely no one present could blame him for needing a moment to adjust to being in the presence of this angel in their midst.

  Where to start?

  Well, she was average height, but that was where anything remotely average about her ended. She had dramatic brown eyes, the kind that took up far more than their fair share of her heart-shaped face. A cute nose. A lush fantasy of a mouth. Black corkscrew curls, piled on top of her head tonight, with several unruly strands trailing along her neck. Honeyed skin, a gift from her white mother and black father (he’d seen them on her social media pictures), that glowed gold in the ballroom’s romantic lighting. A filmy and fiery red dress that left her shoulders bare and a healthy portion of her cleavage visible to admiring eyes, like his.

  His head emptied as his brains left the building. His mouth dried out.

  Right, then. Greet her, Anthony.

  Everything happened in slow motion.

  He nodded at her.

  A cool smile turned up the corners of her mouth, revealing the promise of dimples.

  Excitement swooped low in his gut.

  They shook hands, her soft palm sliding against his.

  Her eyes widened as a shiver of something passed between them.

  A secondary explosion racked his brain, leaving nothing useable in its wake.

  Her lips moved.

  He heard nothing.

  She waited, a vague frown grooved down her forehead.

  And…that was when everything zoomed to regular speed again and full aware
ness slammed back into his body.

  Just in time for his social awkwardness to be revealed in all its glory.

  She said something, you dolt.

  Answer her!

  “Pleasure,” he said, dropping her hand and stepping away from this female flame before he truly hurt himself.

  She stared at him, her expression inscrutable, before hastily looking away and smoothing her hair.

  With that, all the air seemed to go out of the room. He knew he’d taken it with him, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to get it back. He never could.

  A long and uncomfortable pause followed.

  “So…” In a valiant attempt to get the mood back on track, Melody took a deep breath and encompassed all the men in her smiling gaze. “I have one dance partner for later, thanks to Nick. Who else is with me?”

  “I am, as long as Samira can spare me,” Baptiste said. “She’s so easily eaten alive by jealousy. You understand.”

  “You wish,” Samira told Baptiste, and the two lovebirds made eyes at each other.

  Melody looked to Anthony, her expression hopeful. “What about you?”

  His heart sank. Every time he stepped onto a dance floor, he somehow managed to expand his two left feet to his entire body, generally spasming about like a man being electrocuted.

  The only thing worse than his social graces? His dancing.

  “You’ll have to do without me. I don’t dance.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Anthony wanted to find a shepherd’s hook and yank them back. He’d meant to sound regretful. Instead, he’d sounded like a curt arse, even to his own ears. His poor sinking heart bottomed out at his feet.

  “You don’t dance? Well, there’s a surprise,” Melody said tartly.

  “Mel…” Samira said, shooting her a look.

  Ignoring this interruption, Melody stared up at Anthony with an open combination of amusement and mild irritation. Not at all the kind of thing he usually encountered with society women, who fell about simpering at him and laughing at every half-baked joke he told.

  He stared at Melody, feeling a powerful surge of adrenaline as everything in him waited at strict attention to see what she would say.

  “Pardon me?” he asked, his voice acquiring a husky edge.

  “The life of the party, such as yourself?” Melody asked sweetly. “Hard to believe you don’t enjoy dancing.”

  Anthony gaped at her.

  “You might want to try dancing, Anthony,” Baptiste said fairly. “Samira and I danced together the night we met, didn’t we, Samira? You never know when chemistry will strike.”

  “Well, it’s not striking here.” Tipping up her nose, as though she found the merest whiff of Anthony intolerable, Melody flipped her hair over her shoulder (God help him; she smelled like some heady and expensive combination of lemons and flowers) and pivoted on her sky-high heels, firmly turning her back on him. “So don’t waste your time.”

  She. Turned. Her. Back. On. Him.

  On. Him.

  Oh, she was spicy, this one.

  Anthony liked that. He liked that a lot.

  He watched her, bemused.

  “I think I need more champagne,” she added. “Great to meet you, Nick.”

  The subtle emphasis was lost on no one, Anthony was sure, least of all him.

  He choked back a startled laugh.

  With a final sidelong glare in his direction, Melody swept off, giving Anthony the time and opportunity he needed to admire her toned back, backside and shapely legs in her sexy red dress as she walked off through the crowd.

  “I believe I mentioned that Melody is the surgeon who wants to donate her time and talents to your foundation? The one that treats sick children?” Baptiste asked him blandly, his face alight with mischief because he’d been fully apprised of Anthony’s simmering crush earlier in the evening.

  Anthony frowned at him but couldn’t get worked up about the teasing.

  Why?

  Because he felt vibrantly and unreasonably alive in the wake of Melody’s set down.

  And also ridiculously deflated and disappointed with himself.

  What a royal cockup.

  He discreetly tried to keep Melody in sight, blinking and looking away only when Nick thumped him in the stomach with the back of his hand.

  “Well done,” Nick said brightly. “Now you’ve alienated people on six of the seven continents. We must book a trip to Antarctica so you can finish the job. Come on. We need drinks.”

  “We’ll see you in a bit,” Baptiste said, clearly eager for a minute alone with Samira.

  “Great to meet you,” Samira called after them.

  “You, too,” Anthony and Nick told her, setting off.

  Anthony scanned the crowd for signs of Melody, some of his surging hormones easing back until he felt stunned by the speed at which he’d crashed and burned.

  In his mind, meeting Melody could have unfolded so differently tonight.

  He’d envisioned it all perfectly:

  He would arrive and have a drink or two to shore up his courage and help overcome his embarrassing awkwardness with new people. He and Melody would lock eyes from across the room and somehow drift closer to each other, both equally trapped in a haze of sensual awareness and magnetically drawn to each other. They would have a drink. Laugh. She would be every bit as beautiful and intriguing as her photos and videos promised. He would, for once in his misbegotten life, be as witty and smooth as Baptiste, Nick or, hell, George Clooney. She would like him for him, not knowing or caring about his family fortune or his grandmother. And then--he was a little hazy on this part--he and Melody would somehow find themselves upstairs in his suite, where they would fuck and fuck and then fuck some more, ravaging each other until the sun came up.

  He could almost laugh.

  In that entire well-spun fantasy, the only part that had come true was that Melody was far more sexy and intriguing than his poor mind could ever imagine.

  And now?

  And now she thought he was the toilet paper that got stuck to the bottom of her spiky heels when she visited the loo.

  And he felt frustrated. But also determined to try again.

  “I want you to know,” Nick said, clapping a hand on Anthony’s shoulders to steer him to the nearest bar, “that that was a pathetic performance—”

  “I know,” Anthony said.

  “—and you have embarrassed yourself—”

  “I know.”

  “—and your family.” Nick nodded and tipped his head with thoughtful concern. “Possibly for generations to come.”

  “Yet you stood silently by and watched it all happen,” Anthony said bitterly. “Why haven’t you and Baptiste taught me anything after all these years, I wonder?”

  “We try!” Nick cried. “But you are absolutely unteachable.”

  “Fair enough,” Anthony said, turning to the bartender. “Two whiskies. Neat.”

  They took their drinks and waded back into the crowd. Still no sign of—

  “Stop craning your neck,” Nick said around a sip of his drink. “You’ll give yourself an injury. And it’s pathetic.”

  “Yes, all right. We’ve both agreed that that was not my finest performance.” Anthony shot him a death glare. “Perhaps we could now move on.”

  Nick shrugged, sipping again. “Agreed. But I of course reserve the right to talk about it again with Baptiste.”

  “Wouldn’t blame you.” Anthony tossed back his entire drink, relishing the head-clearing burn as it worked its way down his throat. “I’ve got to go back in and try again.”

  “Yes. Because you’ve been wanting to meet that woman, staring at her video and mooning over her—”

  “I didn’t moon.”

  “—and you can’t let someone else swoop in and steal her out from under you tonight. You’re as good as anyone else.”

  “Well, the jury’s still out on that one,” Anthony muttered, wishing he had another drink.

/>   Nick snorted. “Just tell her who you are. I would. I would tell every woman within seconds of meeting her, and then just collect the panties the way people collect neckties or shoes.” He paused, making a show of smoothing his hair and preening. “Of course, I do already collect the panties. But I would collect more.”

  This was the kind of thing that always made Anthony flare up.

  “Yes, well, I’m not you, am I? I don’t have the whole Sophia Loren smile—”

  “My smile is excellent, I admit,” grinning in a cheesy display of teeth.

  “—nor do I want women who only want me for my family connections or money—oh, for God’s sake.” Spying the pair of women headed toward them, Anthony winced and wished he was back at his pillar so he could hide behind it. “Speak of the devil.”

  “What?” Nick asked quickly, dropping his voice.

  “It’s a bloody matchmaking mama from London who thinks I should marry her daughter. She stalks me at all these—oh, hello, Mrs. Carmichael.” Anthony pieced together about thirty percent of a pleasant smile and plastered it on his face. “Lovely to see you tonight. And you brought Annabella, I see.”

  “How are you, sir?” Mrs. Carmichael, whose plump face was difficult to make out what with all the sparkling diamonds ringing her neck and dangling from her ears, beamed at him as they shook. “I was hoping you might be here tonight.”

  “Indeed?” More like the old bat had hired someone to hack into Anthony’s personal assistant’s computer and steal Anthony’s engagement calendar. “But you mustn’t call me sir, Mrs. Carmichael. We’ve talked about that. I’d much prefer Anthony.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” Mrs. Carmichael flapped a hand, tittering like a finch on a clothes line. Then she all but planted her hand between her daughter’s shoulder blades and shoved her forward in her eagerness to put her in front of Anthony. “And you remember my Annabella, don’t you?”

  As if he could forget.

  Annabelle was actually rather lovely in a toothy, freckled and outdoorsy sort of way, which was fine if one overlooked the fact that she was only twenty-one or so (one of these days, Anthony would have to verify the fact that the girl was, in fact, of age) and had the personality of Sleeping Beauty before the kiss.