He walked beneath the Rainier Club’s black awning and a doorman greeted him. The inside of the prestigious club was so stuffy that he had a sudden urge to take off his shoes as when he’d been a kid and his mom got a new carpet. A few of the guys hung out at the bottom of a wide staircase looking a little uneasy, but otherwise good in their designer suits and summer tans. In two months, several of them would be sporting black eyes and a few stitches.
“Nice of you to make it,” forward Daniel Holstrom said as he approached.
Harp music drifted down the stairs as Sam peeled back the cuff of his shirt and looked at his Rolex. “Ten minutes to spare,” he said. “What are you all waiting for?”
“Frankie and Logan aren’t here yet,” goalie Marty Darche answered.
“Savage make it?” Sam asked, referring to the groom.
“I spotted him about ten minutes ago. First time I’ve ever seen him break a sweat off the ice. He’s probably nervous that the bride has come to her senses and is halfway to Vashon.”
Sam laughed as a shiny auburn ponytail and smooth profile caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned. His laughter stopped. A woman moved across the lobby toward the front doors, talking into the tiny microphone in front of her mouth. A black sweater hugged her body and a little battery pack was clipped to her black pants. Sam’s brows lowered and acid settled in the pit of his stomach. If there was one woman on the planet who hated his guts, it was the woman disappearing through the front doors.
Daniel put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Sam, isn’t that your wife?”
Marty turned toward the front. “You have a wife?”
“Ex-wife.” The acid chewed its way up toward Sam’s esophagus. “She’s my ex-wife.”
Daniel laughed like he thought something was real funny. “Does being married for three days really count?”
Have you missed any
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Welcome to Gospel, Idaho, where everyone knows that every sin known to heaven and earth is all California’s fault. In TRUE CONFESSIONS, you’ll see what happens when Californian Hope Spencer comes to town and falls for local sheriff Dylan Taber…
Usually, Dylan didn’t mind helping in the search for missing backpackers. It got him out of the office and away from the paperwork he hated. But he’d been kept awake most of the night by Adam’s puppy, and he wasn’t looking forward to a nine-thousand-foot climb. He walked to the driver’s side of the Blazer and shoved a hand inside the pocket of his tan pants. He pulled out the “cool” rock Adam had given him that morning and stuck it in his breast pocket. It wasn’t even noon yet, and his cotton uniform was already stuck to his back. Shit.
“What in the hell is that?”
Dylan glanced across the top of the Chevy at Lewis, then turned his attention to the silver sports car driving toward him.
“He must have taken a wrong turn before he hit Sun Valley,” Lewis guessed. “Must be lost.”
In Gospel, where the color of a man’s neck favored the color red and where pickup trucks and power rigs ruled the roads, a Porsche was about as inconspicuous as a gay rights parade marching toward the pearly gates.
“If he’s lost, someone will tell him,” Dylan said as he shoved his hand into his pants pocket once more and found his keys. “Sooner or later,” he added. In the resort town of Sun Valley, a Porsche wasn’t that rare a sight, but in the wilderness area, it was damn unusual. A lot of the roads in Gospel weren’t even paved. And some of those that weren’t had potholes the size of basketballs. If that little car took a wrong turn, it was bound to lose an oil pan or an axle.
The car rolled slowly past, its tinted windows concealing whoever was inside. Dylan dropped his gaze to the iridescent vanity license plate with the seven blue letters spelling out MZBHAVN. If that wasn’t bad enough, splashed across the top of the plate like a neon kick-me sign was the word “California” painted in red. Dylan hoped like hell the car pulled an illegal U and headed right back out of town.
Instead, the Porsche pulled into a space in front of the Blazer and the engine died. The driver’s door swung open. One turquoise, silver-toed Tony Lama hit the pavement and a slender bare arm reached out to grasp the top of the doorframe. Glimmers of light caught on a thin gold watch wrapped around a slim wrist. Then MZBHAVN stood, looking for all the world like she was stepping out of one of those women’s glamour magazines that gave beauty tips.
“Holy shit,” Lewis uttered.
In NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE Adele Harris asks the question, “What does a gal have to do to get a good date in this town?” She’s had so many lousy dates, she’s pretty sure she’s cursed. And when she meets Zach Zemaitis, she hopes her luck’s about to change…but is it?
Kiss me, babe.”
“No, really.” Beneath the light of a sixty-watt bulb on her porch, Adele Harris placed a hand on the chest of her latest date. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
Investment banker and former nerd turned world-class jerk Sam King mistook the hand on his chest for a caress and took a step forward, backing Adele against the front door. Cool October air slipped across her cheeks and between the lapels of her coat, and she watched horrified as Sam lowered his face to her. “Baby, you don’t know excitement until I fire you up with a kiss.”
“I’ll pass. I don’t thi—urggg—” Sam smashed his lips against Adele’s and silenced her protest. He shoved his tongue into her mouth and did some sort of weird swirly thing. Three quick circles to the left. Three to the right. Repeat. She hadn’t been kissed like that since Carl Wilson in the sixth grade.
She forced her free hand between them and shoved. “Stop!” she gasped as she reached into the small purse hanging from her shoulder and pulled out her keys. “Good night, Sam.”
His jaw dropped and his brows lowered. “You’re not inviting me in?”
“No.” She turned and unlocked her front door.
“What the hell? I just spent a hundred and twenty bucks on dinner and I don’t get laid?”
She pushed the door open and looked over her shoulder at the moron standing on her porch. The evening had started out okay, but had begun a downward descent with the salad course. “I’m not a prostitute. If you’d wanted a sure thing, you should have called an escort service.”
“Women love me! I don’t have to pay a prostitute,” he protested a bit too much. “Women are dying to get some Sammy.”
By the time the dinner plates had been cleared, the date had nosedived into the third level of hell, and for the past hour Adele had tried to be nice.
“Of course they are,” she said, but failed to keep a bite of sarcasm from her voice. She stepped into her house and turned to face him.
“No wonder you’re thirty-five and alone,” he sneered. “You need to learn how to treat a man.”
For the past hour she’d pretended interest in his narcissistic ramblings. His nonstop bragging and his presumption that he was quite the catch and she was very lucky. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t his fault. That lately she’d begun to suspect there was something about her that made men insane, but he’d just crossed the line. P£sedoked at a very sore spot. “And you need to learn to kiss like a man,” she said, and slammed the front door in his stunned face.
Maddie Dupree isn’t in Truly, Idaho, seeking a husband, boyfriend, or anything in between. No, in TANGLED UP IN YOU she’s determined to discover the untold story about the town’s sordid past…and Mick Hennessy is part of that story.
The glowing white neon above Mort’s Bar pulsed and vibrated and attracted the thirsty masses of Truly, Idaho, like a bug light. But Mort’s was more than a beer magnet. More than just a place to drink cold Coors and get into a fight on Friday nights. Mort’s had historical significance—kind of like the Alamo. While other establishments came and went in the small town, Mort’s had alw
ays stayed the same.
Until about a year ago when the new owner had spruced the place up with gallons of Lysol and paint and had instituted a strict no-panty-tossing policy. Before that, throwing undies like a ring-toss up onto the row of antlers above the bar had been encouraged as a sort of indoor sporting event. Now, if a woman felt the urge to toss, she got tossed out on her bare ass.
Ah, the good old days.
Maddie Jones stood on the sidewalk in front of Mort’s and stared up at the sign, completely immune to the subliminal lure that the light sent out through the impending darkness. An indistinguishable hum of voices and music leached through the cracks in the old building sandwiched between Ace Hardware and the Panda Restaurant.
A couple in jeans and tank tops brushed past Maddie. The door opened and the sound of voices and the unmistakable twang of country music spilled out onto Main Street. The door closed and Maddie remained standing outside. She adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder, then pulled up the zipper on her bulky blue sweater. She hadn’t lived in Truly for twenty-nine years, and she’d forgotten how cool it got at night. Even in July.
Her hand lifted toward the old door, then dropped to her side. A surprising rush of apprehension raised the hair on the back of her neck and tilted her stomach. She’d done this dozens of times. So why the apprehension? Why now? she asked herself, even though she knew the answer. Because it was personal this time, and once she opened that door, once she took the first step, there was no going back.
If her friends could see her, standing there as if her feet were set in the concrete, they’d be shocked. She’d interviewed serial killers and cold-blooded murderers, but chatting up nut jobs with anti social personality disorders was a piece of cake compared to what waited for her inside Mort’s. Beyond the NO ONE UNDER 21 sign, her past waited for her, and as she’d learned recently, digging into other people’s pasts was a hell of a lot easier than digging into her own.
“For God’s sake,” she muttered and reached for the door. She was a little disgusted with herself for being such a wimp and a weenie, and she squelched her apprehension under the heavy fist of her strong will. Nothing was going to happen that she did£en not want to happen. She was in control. As always.
TRUE LOVE AND OTHER DISASTERS’ Faith Duffy doesn’t need the pro hockey team she just inherited, and she really doesn’t need the loathsome team captain who comes with it. Ty Savage has lethal sex appeal…and Faith knows it would be disastrous to get involved with him. But as we all know, sometimes disaster is just waiting to happen…
He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” A slight frown creased her smooth forehead and her big green eyes looked up into his face. She was even more beautiful and looked much younger up close. She placed her hand in his; her skin was soft and her fingers a little cool. “You’re the captain of Virgil’s hockey team. He always spoke highly of you.”
It was her hockey team now, and what she did with it was up for speculation. He’d heard she was going to sell it. He hoped that was true and that it happened soon.
Ty dropped her hand. “Virgil was a great guy.” Which everyone knew was a stretch. Like a lot of extremely wealthy men used to getting their way, Virgil could be a real son of a bitch. But Ty had gotten along with the old man because they’d had the same goal. “I enjoyed our long talks about hockey.” Virgil might have been eighty-one, but his mind had been sharp and he’d known more about hockey than a lot of players.
A smile curved her full kiss-me-baby lips. “Yes. He loved it.”
She wore very little makeup, which surprised him given her former profession. He’d never met a Playmate who didn’t love to paint her face. “If there is anything the guys and I can do to help you out, let me know,” he said without much sincerity, but since he was the captain of the team, he figured he should offer.
“Thank you.”
Virgil’s only child stepped forward and whispered something in the Widow’s ear. Ty had met Landon Duffy on several occasions and couldn’t say that he liked him much. He was as ruthless and driven as Virgil, but without the charm that had made his father such a success.
The Widow’s smile faltered and her shoulders straightened. Anger flashed in her green eyes. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Savage.” Like a lot of Americans, she’d mispronounced his name. It wasn’t savage, like in beast. It was pronounced Sah-vahge.
Ty watched her turn and walk away, and he wondered what Landon had said. Obviously, she hadn’t liked it. His gaze slid down her blonde hair to her nicely rounded behind in the plain black dress that looked anything but plain. He wondered if Virgil’s son had propositioned her. Not that it mattered. Ty had more important things to worry about. Namely, this Thursday’s game in Vancouver when they’d take on the dual threat of the Sedin twins in the playoffs opener. Until three months ago, Ty had been captain of the Canucks, and he knew better than anyone to never underestimate the bo£estys from Sweden. If they were on their game, they were a defenseman’s worst nightmare.
“Have you seen the pictures?”
Ty removed his gaze from the Widow’s departing ass and...
“Her boobs are real.” Out of one corner of his mouth Sam added, “Not that I looked.” He tried to appear innocent, but the black eye ruined it.
“Of course not.”
“Do you think she can get us invited to the Playboy Mansion?”
“See ya tomorrow,” Ty said through a laugh and moved toward the entry.
With the publication of New York Times bestselling author...
Readers can write to Rachel Gibson at P.O. Box 4124, Boise, Idaho 83711-4124, or visit her website at www.rachelgibson.com.
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NOTHING BUT TROUBLE
TRUE LOVE AND OTHER DISASTERS
NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE
TANGLED UP IN YOU
I’M IN NO MOOD FOR LOVE
SEX, LIES, AND ONLINE DATING
THE TROUBLE WITH VALENTINE’S DAY
DAISY’S BACK IN TOWN
SEE JANE SCORE
LOLA CARLYLE REVEALS ALL
TRUE CONFESSIONS
IT MUST BE LOVE
TRULY MADLY YOURS
SIMPLY IRRESISTIBLE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpts from Untitled, True Confessions, Not Another Bad Date, Tangled Up In You, True Love and Other Disasters copyright © 2011, 2001, 2008, 2007, 2009 by Rachel Gibson
NOTHING BUT TROUBLE. Copyright © 2010 by Rachel Gibson. All...
First Avon Books paperback printing: May 2010
EPub Edition © March 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-199127-1
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