A Valentine for Harlequin's Anniversary

by Catherine Mann

  What keeps me writing, even after all these years? Long-term habit. Love for the craft. A deep-seated need to capture the goings-on in my head on paper. To give them true form, physical presence, and most importantly, a readership.

  Words are power. I’ve always known that. Wielding them well is a skill I both envy and aspire to. The ability to draw emotion from a total stranger with only a well-crafted sentence, a clever turn of phrase—that’s what keeps me writing. The possibility that my words could make someone smile. Make someone cry. Make someone shoot to her feet in the middle of a crowded, hushed room and shout “Yeah, take that!” when my character finally deals out the serving of justice the bad guy’s had coming for the last four hundred pages.

  That’s what made me start writing seriously, and what keeps me writing today.

  —Rachel Vincent

  www.rachelvincent.net

  www.urbanfantasy.blogspot.com

  #59

  I have probably asked myself that question about three hundred and fifty times over the past three years since becoming a published author. Prior to that time, I may have posed that question only once. Ironically, the answer remains the same—I write because it feels good.

  I know that sounds incredibly selfish. Perhaps some authors have more lofty reasons for writing such as the fact that they are contributing to the world or they want to help motivate and uplift people who are looking for inspiration. While those are wonderful sentiments and also ring true with me to some degree, I have to be honest. Creating colorful characters who have the audacity to take risks, the tenacity to overcome obstacles and the flamboyance to look good while doing it is a high that, for me, is irreplaceable. Whether my characters grow by leaps or bounds or fail miserably, I am invested in them and their truths.

  Writing is both therapeutic and relaxing—much like a glass of wine after a hard day, an aromatherapy massage or a great sexual encounter. Like most writers, there are times when a storyline gets away from me or a character’s true motivations hide themselves from me, and I am frustrated. However, that frustration is also part of the fun.

  Storytelling is an age old source of entertainment and education, and while the world continues to evolve and technology continues to surpass the wildest of imaginations, the ability to tell a good story remains at the core of it all. I enjoy being at that core and will continue to do so no matter what path my professional career takes. The fact that readers have told me that they enjoy reading what I have written is the cherry on top of a delicious sundae. Deadlines, rejections and stress aside, the joy of the written word is what keeps me writing.

  >—Kim Shaw

  #60

  I hate writing! I mean, it’s what I do for a living but, man, it’s a killer.

  What I love to do, what I was born to do, is tell stories. I’ve been telling tall tales since the first time I learned how to string sentences together. My mother always used to say I was one of the “best liars” she’d ever met. Which was a true compliment, coming from a third generation Irish-American whose entire family was born story-tellers. (Forget about the family’s black sheep that ended up in jail - they were not the best liars)

  It is my passion to enthrall readers, to catch them up in the characters and plot and take them away to a new place. When a reader tells me they laughed and/or cried at one of my books, it is the ultimate compliment. I did it! I did my job.

  But the writing, the actual sitting my butt in the chair and putting the show in my head down on paper, stinks. I’d rather be reading…or shopping…or even exercising (which I hate)

  Oh, every once in a while, I surprise myself and the words come easy. They just flow. The sentences come out like poetry; the descriptions are amazing–even to me. Those times are rare. Most of the time I struggle. One word at a time.

  All my stories have happy endings, even the darker ones. I write about sympathetic characters that ’ve gotten involved in something bad, but through their own development and through the love of the right person find their way past the difficulty to a brighter day. My books are all sensuous too, as that is part of life and certainly part of romance.

  But the thing I really love the most about telling a story is the same thing I love about reading–getting caught up in special places and exotic settings. Those of you who get my newsletter (and if you don’t, be sure to sign up at http://www.LindaConrad.com) know that I went to the Navajo ‘Big’ reservation when I was gathering research material for the Night Guardian series. I learned a lot, bought books and jewelry and paintings, and ate way more than I should have! But the most amazing thing was intangible. The lure and grandeur of the place stunned me. Just gazing at such splendor made me want to write about it. To grab a reader’s fancy and make them see it through the eyes of my characters.

  —Linda Conrad

  www.lindaconrad.com

  The eHarlequin.com community is sharing its thoughts on To Readers With Love. Feel free to come and join the discussion! You might meet some old friends and make some new ones!

  http://community.eharlequin.com/content/readers-love

  An Evening to Remember

  Catherine Mann

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter One

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  Captain Vince “Novocain” Novak hurtled out of the military cargo plane, the crew chief’s order to jump from the C-17 echoing in his ears along with the roaring of engines. Then the silent sky swallowed him. Arms and legs splayed, he soared down, down, down toward the landing zone at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida.

  A speck of grass in Tampa where McKenzie Rowe waited for him.

  Of course she didn’t know he was one of the guys parachuting this afternoon. Although regularly an MH-53 Pave Low helicopter pilot, he was also jump qualified and needed to stay current on his training. But she thought he was still deployed to the Middle East.

  He’d enlisted her coworkers’ aid to ensure McKenzie would come for a Valentine’s surprise—even if Valentine’s Day was still a week away. Thank goodness for the help of her three pals, because no way would she have showed if she learned Vince would be landing at her feet.

  Wind battered his body, the quiet void of endless blue sky filling with thoughts of meeting McKenzie the day she’d started her job as a civilian engineering contractor on base. The first time he’d laid eyes on her in the conference room, with all her chocolate brown hair piled up on her head, he’d burned to set it free.

  To his surprise, the reserved academic had said yes to dinner. And yes again to another date.

  But with all the unrest in the Middle East, he’d logged hellish hours in his job with the U.S. Special Operations Command, headquartered at MacDill. Which left little time for romance.

  After a month of dating, they pretty much bolted straight for the sack at each and every opportunity. Thoughts of being with her stirred him even now.

  Damned uncomfortable with a parachute harness ratcheting up on his stones.

  His chute deployed with a hefty jerk he felt clear to his teeth. Christ Almighty! Another jump like this one and he might never have kids, regardless of whether or not he romanced McKenzie back with his planned evening to remember.

  Romance. Almost a foreign word for a blockhead like him. But he was a smart blockhead who could figure anything out given a little help. So he’d bought a book, How to Romance Your Valentine, currently tuc
ked inside the thigh pocket of the camouflage he wore for jumps instead of his regular flight suit.

  Although he might need a freaking library to fix how badly he’d screwed up just before he’d deployed five months ago to train Iraqi security forces to fly helicopters. He’d ended things with McKenzie rather than risk breaking her heart the way his mother’s heart had been destroyed when his Army Delta Force father had died on a top secret mission.

  Just like his mother, McKenzie had already lost a husband and it devastated her.

  Vince tugged on the risers to steer his descent. He hadn’t counted on discovering he—Captain Numb Emotions Novocain—had a heart after all, that hurt like hell without McKenzie. He wasn’t sure how he would reconcile his relationship with McKenzie with his calling to serve in the Air Force, but now he knew he had to try.

  Closer, closer. He approached the ground and clusters of people, coming into focus almost faster than his brain could process, men and women now distinguishable from each other. He guided the risers toward the parked blue truck he’d been promised would mark McKenzie’s location.

  He was almost sure he spotted her…long dark hair, clasped in a trailing ponytail. Yes. Her beautiful body in a loose shirt—red, her favorite color.

  God, he’d missed her, hoped she would appreciate the romanticism of him landing at her feet. He couldn’t wait to see her closer. Closer still. Long legs, amazing smile, trailing hair.

  And a pregnant stomach?

  Holy crap. His hands fell from the risers. His eyes locked on the bulge bumping her blouse as he forgot all about landing protocol.

  The ground rushed up to smack him as hard and fast as fate.

  Chapter Two

  Well, she’d wanted to bring Vince Novak to his knees after he broke up with her, but she hadn’t envisioned it happening quite so literally.

  Swiping her windblown ponytail from her face, McKenzie Rowe stared at the dazed sky god at her feet, parachute trailing behind him. His chocolate brown eyes stayed wide and unblinking. For a second she thought he might pass out on the grassy landing zone, Florida sun beaming hot and bright even in February.

  What a way to discover he’d knocked up his old girlfriend.

  Welcome to my world, pal. She’d about passed out in the doctor’s office upon learning the rabbit died, in spite of how careful she and Vince had always been to use condoms.

  “You’re—” Rising slowly, he gestured at her tummy. Her big lug of a lover still looked ready to timber over from a gust of wind that barely mussed his buzzed dark hair.

  “You guessed it, flyboy.” She nodded, arms folding over her swelling stomach. “Five months along. Do the math. We made a baby the night before you told me I was as welcome in your life as moldy cheese in your fridge.”

  Low whispers sounded behind her—no doubt the matchmaking trio of coworkers who’d wrangled her here today to watch an officemate’s final jump. Why hadn’t she remembered that Vince was jump qualified as well as being a pilot?

  However, since she hadn’t even known he was back from the Middle East, there’d been no reason to suspect him to fall from the sky.

  “In some countries,” her friend Ruthie chimed from behind her with Carl and Judd, “moldy cheese is a delicacy. Oh, and nice landing, Captain Ton ‘O Bricks. At least you land an aircraft better than you jump out of them.”

  Yep. Somehow, they’d conspired with Vince. She would deal with the three engineer stooges later.

  Without speaking, McKenzie kept her gaze sealed on Vince unhooking his chute and stowing it in a daze. A good opportunity to make a break for it. She rushed past. Oh, she knew Vince would follow, a good thing because she so did not want to have this conversation in front of her friends, the other jumpers unhooking and the dozen or so observers milling about the grassy expanse.

  She was already on edge enough over increasingly frequent obscene phone calls. And now someone had started mailing her “love notes”—creepy, obsessive letters. Worse yet, she’d found the latest on the front seat of her car just before she’d come here, even though she’d been certain she locked the doors as usual.

  Calls and mail were one thing, but he’d crossed a new line by breaking into her car. At first, when the calls had started, she’d just been annoyed, then disgusted as his language grew more vulgar.

  Now she was getting a little scared.

  Thank goodness she’d followed the police’s advice and had installed a security system at her condo shortly after the calls began four and a half months ago.

  How could all of this be happening to her? Especially when she was pregnant for crying out loud.

  And speaking of crying, please hormones, hold off on waterworks until Vince leaves.

  His jump boots thudded alongside her on their way toward the parking lot and looming buildings. “So are we almost to the place where you want to talk?”

  Of course he knew why she’d stalked off. She hated that he understood her so well when they’d dated just less than a year, because that had to mean he realized how his rejection had decimated her.

  The rat bastard.

  And to make matters worse, the rat bastard’s offspring was currently practicing barrel rolls on her bladder when she had to pee something fierce after standing outside for the past two hours. “I’m looking for a bathroom.”

  “Base ops is the closest, but it’s still quite a hump to walk. Are you and the uh…” He gestured vaguely over her stomach, still not touching, and darn him for looking so sexy and toned in his cammo when she currently had no waist. “Are you both all right?”

  “Totally. And I was planning to tell you about Junior here—as soon as you returned from the Middle East, even though you never once bothered to call or write.”

  At least he had the good grace to blush. And wasn’t that pink tinge on a big burly man just too adorable? Then pink made her think of a baby girl, which made her go teary eyed again. No way would she shed any more tears over this man. Hadn’t she’d already cried a lifetime’s worth when her husband had died of a brain tumor?

  Vince stopped just outside the base ops door. “After you freshen up, let’s go out to eat. I have reservations at Josephine’s French Country Inn. We could talk over an order of crab cakes and their grilled rack of lamb you like so much.”

  He’d planned to see her? Even plotted with her coworkers? Dangerous emotions swirled, emotions that she refused to fuel with romantic candlelight. “We can talk at McDonald’s.” Even though she would kill for a crab cake. “I’m craving Big Macs.”

  Frowning, he scratched along his thigh, right over his pocket that seemed to have a book inside. “I guess I could make that work.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you over at my car.” She spun away before she did something silly like hug the big lug and tell him she was so relieved to see him alive, that she’d worried herself sick thinking about him flying helicopter missions in the Middle East.

  The base ops door swishing closed behind her, McKenzie screeched to a halt, realization stopping her cold.

  She’d just sent Vince to her car—where a creepy love letter waited on the front seat.

  Chapter Three

  Three hours later, he still hadn’t gotten a straight answer about that letter in McKenzie’s car.

  Standing on her front porch with a fifty dollar fistful of flowers in hand, Vince wondered if she’d already moved on to another guy. Otherwise, why would she dash past to hide a note scrawled in blatantly masculine penmanship? Jealousy sucked.

  However, he didn’t doubt for a moment that McKenzie carried his baby. She wouldn’t lie about that. So whoever wrote that letter would just have to go blow, because McKenzie was now officially taken. Surely she knew that too?

  But he was hedging his bets with flowers and chocolate, like the How to Romance Your Valentine book suggested. After she’d left base to change for their date, he’d even splurged on Godiva chocolates and roses since she’d cut him off at the knees on a fancy restaurant for dinner at McDon
ald’s instead.

  Blue jeans date or not, he would show her a super-size evening, come hell or high water. And make that order with extra pickles for the pregnant lady carrying his child, because he really could not screw up now with a baby on the way

  He would shelve his own concerns about how much his mother had suffered because of military losses. He couldn’t risk the least flinch in front of McKenzie.

  She opened the door and he damn-near forgot how to breathe. She’d left her awesome dark hair loose in a free-fall down her back.

  He thrust out the flowers—red, her favorite color. “For you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me for being an ass.”

  “Fine.” McKenzie took the bouquet without even touching his hand. “I forgive you.”

  Yeah right, she forgave him. Not. Stone faced, she turned away, leaving him standing alone on her stoop staring at the open door like a numbnut. He hadn’t expected her to lay a big kiss on him or anything, but he would have preferred a slap to indifference.

  Although her teary blue eyes when he’d broken things off had damn near killed him. If she got that upset over sending him to battle, how much worse would it be if he died in combat? Or had to say a hundred tearful goodbyes to him as he’d seen his mother and father endure?

  Well, he’d gotten his wish. McKenzie wasn’t crying over him anymore. Damn.

  Vince peered inside her cluttered condo to make sure she wasn’t bolting away behind a stack of Engineering Weekly issues—and found her with her face buried deep in the roses while she inhaled, eyes fluttering closed much like during sex. Then she smiled. Just a slight tip of her luscious lips was enough to encourage him to speed read through another couple of chapters of that book after his date with McKenzie and a Big Mac.