Maggie waved a hand at her. "Och, no need to thank us, lass. He’s a joy."
“He looks wonderful. What have you been feeding him?" Natasha said.
"Plenty of food and double doses of love," Maggie replied with a smile.
Evita growled and snapped at them, reminding everyone that Arthur wasn’t the only one who needed sustenance and love—not to mention attention.
Laughing, Natasha kissed Evita’s head and made a snap decision. She turned to Ian and said, “As much as it pains me not to take my little Evita with me, I’ll leave her here to keep Arthur company until I return.”
Ian braced his hands on his hips, very much the laird of the land. “That’s fine, the dog can stay, but you’re not going anywhere until I place a wedding band on your finger. I made that mistake once before and I’m not making it again.”
Natasha threw her arms around him and said, “Damn right, you’re not!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
One month later
Natasha stood on stage looking out into the dark theatre and listening to wild applause. She smiled and held hands with her co-stars as they bowed to the second curtain call. A year ago she would have felt ecstatic and fulfilled by the audience’s reaction, but tonight she couldn’t wait to go home and call Ian. It would be early morning there, but he had insisted she call him after the show.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she called out to the audience, waving as she left the stage. It didn’t feel like Thanksgiving though. She hadn’t even eaten turkey today. She had refused the kind lunch invitations from friends and spent Thanksgiving alone at home.
Back in her dressing room, she took off her auburn bob wig and placed it on the mannequin head on the counter. She hummed to herself as she peeled her fake lashes off and washed her face of her stage make-up before changing into her street clothes. After receiving great news earlier, she couldn’t wait to share it with Ian. She’d wait till she was home where she could speak in private without anyone barging in.
She had much to be thankful for, she reflected, gazing at a picture of Ian and Arthur on her mirror. She still couldn’t believe she was Ian’s wife and Arthur’s mother. Ian had insisted on a quick marriage and later they adopted Arthur. She had hated leaving them in Scotland and spoke to them daily via Skype. She loved hearing about Ian’s clinic and how he had already performed two treatments on Arthur, whose face was responding well to the laser. Evita was always in the picture when they Skyped, preening and barking along with their conversation, making sure she got her share of attention.
Natasha took Ian and Arthur’s picture off her mirror and kissed it, yearning to be with them on this holiday. With a sigh, she put it back and reminded herself not to get melancholy. She had too many wonderful things to look forward to in the coming year.
A knock on the door surprised her. “Come in,” she said.
The door opened and Ian appeared holding a large bouquet of coral roses in one hand and Arthur’s small hand in the other.
Natasha jumped up from her chair and ran to them joyfully. “Ian! Arthur! I can’t believe you’re here!” she cried happily, hugging her two favorite men at once. “When did you get here?”
“This afternoon. You were wonderful tonight. Well done, angel,” Ian said beaming at her.
“Aye, you were brilliant, Mum,” Arthur piped in. Dressed in a dark blue wool coat and sporting a tweed newsboy cap, Arthur looked utterly adorable as he grinned at her with twinkling eyes. Very much a little laird in the making sporting a MacGregor tartan wool scarf like Ian’s.
“Thank you, King Arthur of the round table,” Natasha said, bowing to him. “I am so touched you came, Ian, and that you brought Arthur with you.”
“We couldn’t let you spend Thanksgiving alone, could we, Arthur?” Ian said to him.
“No, Dad, we couldn’t,” Arthur said, grinning up at Ian in agreement.
“I told wee Arthur, we’ll be coming to New York for Christmas too,” Ian said.
“Oh no you won’t. I’ll be home for Christmas,” Natasha said, enjoying the surprise on Ian’s face.
Arthur’s eyes widened. “To Glenhaven?”
“Is there any other home?” Natasha asked with a lift of her brows.
“That’s great!” Ian beamed at her. “How did you manage to get the time off?”
“Just this morning, Marty confirmed that I can leave before my contract is up.”
“I meant it when I said I was willing to commute until you finish the run of the show. Are you sure you want to do that?” Ian’s brow knitted as he searched her eyes.
“Yes,” she said with absolute certainty. “I refuse to spend another holiday away from you.”
“How are you going to get out of the contract?” he asked.
Natasha smiled slyly and patted her belly. “Easy. I’m pretty sure Simon won’t want Legs LaRue dancing on stage with a baby bump,” she said, breathlessly awaiting his reaction.
Ian’s eyes shot open. “We’re having a bairn?” he shouted happily.
“Aye, we are, Dr. Who,” Natasha said, affecting a Scottish burr.
He touched her belly in awe. “I’m so happy…and so proud,” he said, husky with emotion.
Natasha’s eyes lovingly swept over Ian’s gorgeous features. Every nuance was indelibly printed in her heart and soul since she first fell in love with him. “I hadn’t realized how empty my heart was until I saw you again in your office after all those years," she said with a hitch in her chest.
He gently rubbed her belly. "Thank God you came to me that day, darling.”
Happy tears stung her eyes as she tilted Arthur’s chin up to meet her gaze. “Are you ready to be a big brother?” she asked, smiling at him.
“Aye. I’ll be the best,” he said, puffing out his chest proudly.
“What about your career? You sing like an angel, Tasha. It seems a shame not to share your talent,” Ian said.
She smiled through her tears. “I can't imagine living anywhere other than Glenhaven. With you and Arthur."
“You can always go back to performing if you want to,” Ian said.
Natasha shook her head and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Not for a long while. Maybe I'll make a comeback when our children are older, but not now. I’m happy with my decision,” she said with total sincerity.
Ian kissed her deeply. Her fingers pushed into the satiny thickness of his hair and she lost herself in his kiss, forgetting everything but him.
“Ewww, Dad, yuck,” Arthur said, making a gagging sound.
Ian stopped kissing Natasha and laughed. “Someday you’ll understand.” He hugged Natasha and said, “Too bad you were cheated out of a wedding reception.”
She smiled ruefully. “I wanted to share the happy moment with everyone I love, especially my Heart sisters. I was hoping for a party.”
“Aye, with lots of cake!” Arthur cried eagerly.
“Who said anything about not having a party?” Ian asked, silver-green eyes twinkling. “We’ll have a grand celebration at Glenhaven Castle and invite everyone.”
"Oh, Ian, I adore you. Both of you," Natasha said, pulling Arthur into their tight embrace. The joy of having them so close filled her to bursting as they clung together.
“No matter where you are, here or in Scotland, you belong with us and nothing will ever change that, darling.” he said, making her eyes well up again.
Ian smiled and her heart turned over. His passionate words, fierce and heart-wrenchingly beautiful, were sweeter than any music Natasha had ever heard.
The End
Excerpt: Heart Raider
by Sophia Knightly
Prologue
Thirteen-year-old Veronique Whitcomb gazed at the sparkly stars in the clear North Carolina sky and let out a frustrated sigh. Sitting cross-legged in front of the campfire, she swallowed against the lump in her throat and tried to smile. It was the last night she’d spend with her two best friends at sleep away camp and she wished it would never
end. Tonight she’d enjoy their company…tomorrow she’d have to face the disaster called home.
“I hate that we’re leaving tomorrow,” Veronique said, grabbing each girl’s hand. “I’m gonna miss you guys.” They’d first started coming to camp as little girls and none of them had sisters. Tash and Teddy would always be her Heart Sisters.
“I bet you’ll miss Nick even more.” Natasha White’s blue eyes danced as she tossed her long strawberry blond hair. “You’ve been trying to get his attention all summer.”
“I have not, Tash,” Veronique retorted. God, had she been that obvious? The first time her eyes had connected with the deep blue eyes of the cutest counselor at Camp Merry Cascades, her heart had done a cartwheel and was never the same.
Theodora Behr clutched her heart dramatically. “Nick is sooo hot. I can’t stop dreaming about him.” She grinned and nudged Natasha.
“You can’t have him, Teddy. I want him too.” Natasha pretended to swoon. “Admit you like him, Ronnie. We all do.”
“Cut it out, guys.” Veronique’s chest hitched at the thought of not seeing Nick again, but she rolled her eyes to hide her feelings.
Natasha smiled. “Hey, you don’t have to get so defensive.”
“Yeah, we’re just messing with you. We won’t mention him again. No more Nick—I promise,” Theodora said, lifting her right hand in a pledge. “I’m gonna miss you too.”
“We have to stay in touch after we leave,” Natasha said earnestly.
“Pinky swear.” Veronique raised her pinky with the bitten-down nail and ragged cuticle.
“I’m in.” Theodora linked her suntanned pinky with Veronique’s. “I plan to travel the world and marry a hot prince in a foreign land, but I’ll always stay in touch.”
“Me too.” Natasha looped her bejeweled, manicured pinky with theirs. “I’m going to be a famous Broadway actress,” she said dreamily. “Of course…if Nick proposed to any of us today, we’d say yes.”
“You promised not to mention him again,” Veronique reminded her. “Anyway, I’m gonna be too busy reporting important stuff to think about marriage. I probably won’t marry anyone,” she added with a touch of cynicism to throw them off.
“Unless it’s Nick!” Theodora and Natasha added in unison and collapsed into giggles.
Fifteen years later…
Chapter One
Veronique squelched a sharp intake of breath at the dangerous looking man whose wide shoulders filled the doorway. She hadn’t expected to find him looking so untamed and ominous on this steamy August morning on Starfish Island, a barrier island off the Gulf Coast of Florida. He looked annoyed too. She couldn't blame him really—she'd stood there ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door until he finally answered.
Nick Cameron’s cobalt blue eyes locked on hers, flashing with impatience. Veronique’s stomach fluttered nervously as she lifted her chin and stared back, her lips unsteady with the effort to smile. The foreboding glint in Nick’s eyes made her knees knock, yet she was not the knee-knocking type—not by a long shot. Veronique Whitcomb, intrepid reporter for Ace News, was not easily frightened. Still…Nick’s sheer size and intimidating air gave her pause. She held onto the wooden balustrade and gaped at him. Dark stubble shaded his chiseled jaw. The angles of his face were sharper than she remembered, his cheekbones and jaw taut, his nose a hawkish blade. He was almost unrecognizable, save for the brilliant blue eyes pinning her with an intensity that made her smile falter.
“Ronnie?” Nick’s searing gaze raked over her. “What are you doing here?”
Her heart lifted. Nick remembered her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all. Maybe the large, scowling man would revert back to the childhood heartthrob she remembered. She’d flown into Miami two days ago from New York and driven across to the west coast of Florida in a rental car, stopping to do some interviews in Fort Myers before crossing over the causeway to Starfish Island. She would have driven anywhere to seek him out.
“Never mind. I know why you’re here,” he said caustically. “You’re not getting an interview.” He looked behind her, peering from left to right.
“Relax, I came alone,” she said, guessing that he was checking to see if there was a camera crew waiting to ambush him.
“You’re leaving. Now.” His hand on the door, he began to close it in her face.
“Wait a minute!” She stepped up to the door ledge and he took a step backward. “How did you recognize me?”
He looked at her tousled, layered shag with narrowed eyes. “I’ve seen you on TV a few times—reporting. Your hair’s still reddish brown, but you haven’t changed much from the thirteen-year-old brat with long pigtails and freckles who raised havoc wherever she went.”
“Gee thanks.” Why was Nick making her feel like a gauche tomboy when she’d gotten all dolled up in a floral sundress and pretty sandals? She had even put on make-up, for God’s sake. She did not look like the ragtag, wild Ronnie he remembered from Camp Merry Cascades years ago.
She drew herself up to her full five foot, five inches. “I have changed a lot in fifteen years and you know it.”
Nick’s steely gaze flickered over her flushed face. “Fifteen years or not, I’d recognize your freckles in a heartbeat, especially when you’re blushing.”
She wished her fair skin didn’t turn bright pink under duress. It was one of those things a reporter could do without. Not even the self-tanner she’d applied before coming down from New York could hide her vivid blush.
“Fine welcome after all those years. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No.” Nick towered above her with tanned, muscular arms folded across his chest and solid legs braced apart. His thick black hair was longer and shaggier than any businessman would ever have. She stared at his well-developed arms and the imposing chest straining his cotton T-shirt. His uncivilized appearance wasn’t exactly what you’d expect of a billionaire corporate raider. He looked more like a muscle-rippling wrestler ready to take down his opponent. There wasn’t an ounce of fat or flab on him.
Her pulse quickened as she took in every detail. Nick, at twenty when she’d last seen him, had been lean and lanky, but he’d put on at least fifty pounds of roped muscle since. He’d grown a few inches too.
“How did you find me? Nobody knows where I live and I plan to keep it that way,” he warned, his voice low and tough.
Veronique lifted her hair up and fanned her neck. “Please let me in and I’ll tell you. It’s hot out here and these sandals are pinching my feet,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other. Why had she even bothered to wear the strappy sandals? Oh yeah, to impress the grouch blocking her entrance.
“Make it brief and then skedaddle. Got it?” Nick opened the door and gestured for her to enter his plantation-style mansion.
Veronique nodded, even though she had no plan to skedaddle. Not when she’d managed to get inside his house. Delighted to pass the threshold of his reclusive digs, she followed him past a high-ceilinged portico and into his living room. As Nick ambled ahead, the play of taut thighs and well-formed butt muscles contracting and relaxing in his low-rise jeans snared her attention.
She forced her gaze away from his jeans and studied her surroundings. A mahogany staircase led to an upstairs loft and other rooms at the back of the house. The living room and dining room were decorated in greige tones, a relaxing combination of gray and beige. Other than basic, minimalist furniture and a few abstract paintings, the house was sparsely decorated.
The living room had a plush, square sectional surrounding an oversized travertine stone coffee table. The dining room, with a long sleek table and six chairs, looked like it was never used. A modern, diamond shaped crystal chandelier hung from a high beam ceiling over the table.
“Aren’t you happy to see an old friend?” Ha, she was being delusional. Nick looked ready to throttle her.
His brows knotted over irate eyes. “I wouldn’t exactly call you an old friend. More like a lit
tle rebel without a cause. I’m surprised they didn’t send you home, with all the havoc you raised,” he groused. “Especially the last summer you spent there.”
Why did he have to mention the worst summer of her life?
“You forget I had famous, rich parents.” Damn, this wasn’t going as she’d expected…and hoped. She’d wanted him to take notice of the new, grown-up Veronique. “My thirteenth year wasn’t exactly a happy one. After Daddy’s death and Maman’s nervous breakdown, I toughened up real quick.”
From that low point in her young life, she had vowed never to feel so vulnerable again. Her father, Brett Whitcomb, a renowned TV news anchorman, had died of a lethal cocktail of drugs and alcohol the summer of her thirteenth year. Her genteel French maman, Helene, had always been prone to depression and bouts of paranoia. The more Brett had self-destructed, the worse it had become. She had worshiped her dashing celebrity husband and refused to acknowledge he was an alcoholic and drug addict. When reality finally set in after his death and Helene found out Brett had lost their family fortune in a Ponzi scheme, she spiraled down into a nervous breakdown, leaving behind her frightened, rebellious daughter to cope with the press.
“That was a rough time for you,” Nick conceded in a quiet tone. He knew all about her childhood traumas, he’d witnessed them first hand—especially Helene’s penchant for high drama and histrionics.
Her thirteenth year was the last time she’d seen Nick—until today. She’d kept tabs on him, rejoicing in his triumphs and success over the years. She met a lot of men in her line of work on a daily basis, but no one had held her interest long enough to build a relationship. Maybe she was “commitment phobic” as Maman often proclaimed gloomily…or maybe no one measured up to Nick. He’d been her hero then and still was, albeit a fallen one. Now that she’d found him, she wasn’t about to let things rest until they were set back to right.
Veronique expelled a heavy sigh. “There’s no use dredging up bad memories. Mind if I sit down?” she asked, eyeing the living room couch.
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