“I love you,” she whispered. “You’re the reason I’m alive, and my reason for living.”
“Marry me. Let me be the man you share your life with, the new daddy Mandy wants.”
Tears of joy trickled down her cheeks. “Yes.”
He pulled her into his arms. His lips met hers, mindful of the swelling Carlotta had caused, but she pulled him tightly to her, pouring all of the love she had into her response. This was her man, her hero, her guardian angel. On his watch, their future was secure.
About the Author
Susanne Matthews was born and raised in Cornwall, Ontario, Canada. She’s always been an avid reader of all types of books, but always with a penchant for happily ever after romances. In her imagination, she traveled to foreign lands, past and present, and soared into the future. A retired educator, Susanne spends her time writing and creating adventures for her readers. She loves the ins and outs of romance and the complex journey it takes to get from the first word to the last period of a novel. As she writes, her characters take on a life of their own, and she shares their fears and agonies on the road to self-discovery and love.
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More from This Author
(From Just for the Weekend by Susanne Matthews)
“You’re serious? A weekend in Vegas?” Cleo stared at her best friend, Michele “Mitch” Trent, and grinned. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I have a couple of book signings to do, that’s all.” Mitch looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze, and Cleo knew instinctively there was something else involved, something she probably wouldn’t like.
“What aren’t you telling me, Mitch? I can always tell when you’re holding something back.”
“You make it sound as if I’m trying to trick you. I’m offering you four fun-filled days in Vegas, all expenses paid. The only thing you’ll have to do is dress up in a costume and help me at the book signings during the convention.”
Alarms went off in Cleo’s head. “What kind of costume and what convention?” She gave her friend her strictest kindergarten-teacher, no-nonsense stare. The look worked on everyone, and Mitch was no exception. Cleo crossed her arms and waited—yep, there it was: the squirm.
“An alien costume, and it’s a sci-fi convention, okay? Before you say no, listen to me. My publisher has made arrangements for four of its authors to be there, including yours truly. It’s a great opportunity for free publicity with people who live and breathe the genre. It’ll be fun. It’s not as if we have to spend every second at the convention. There are lots of other things to do.”
Cleo looked around Rachel, Nevada’s, alien-themed bar and sighed. She’d gotten used to the fascination people here had for UFOs and alien conspiracies. If she applied for a transfer to Alamo for the next school year, she’d be stuck right in the middle of alien-oriented tourism, but to volunteer for an entire weekend with people playing dress-up?
“Let me get this straight. You want me to spend the Independence Day weekend with you at a sci-fi convention in Vegas dressed up as some space creature?”
“That’s it. As I’ve got to go to Alberta to do the rest of the onsite research for my new book, it’ll be our only chance to get together until late summer. What do you say?” Mitch fidgeted, waiting none too patiently for her answer.
Cleo tried to get her slightly alcohol-befogged brain around the notion. She didn’t drink often, and doing so on an empty stomach hadn’t been a good idea, but lately her life had gone from bad to worse. She hated confrontations, and arguing with Dad this morning had left her edgy. If he’d told her ahead of time he wanted to host a Memorial Day barbecue for his students, she wouldn’t have made arrangements to spend the weekend in Rachel. With Mitch’s demanding writing schedule and book tours, they hadn’t had face-to-face time together in more than a year. Dad had expected her to change her plans, but damn it, she was his daughter, not his social convener. She was thrilled he wanted to do something, even if it was something as simple as this, but she was entitled to a life, too. She’d been looking forward to this holiday. She’d stopped on her way home from school, picked up the things he’d need for his party, then packed her bag. She’d left him a note wishing him a great weekend. She’d be back Monday. Before she could talk herself out of it, she’d headed for the Extraterrestrial Highway. She hadn’t hit Warp 7, but she’d definitely pushed the speed limit.
“I don’t know, Mitch. It sounds good, really it does, but Vegas? It isn’t my thing.”
“You don’t have a ‘thing.’ When was the last time you had fun? Since your mom died, you’ve become chained to that mausoleum you call home and a slave to your father.” Mitch put her hand up to stop Cleo from interrupting. “I know what you’re going to say—he needs you. Well, I need you, too. You’re my best friend, and I rarely get to spend any time with you.”
Cleo shook her head. “I miss spending time with you, too, Mitch, but life at home is complicated. You haven’t seen Dad since the funeral; he’s changed. He’s not that Indiana Jones, larger-than-life adventurer he was. He may look the same, but he’s lost his spark. He’s become withdrawn, retreating into himself and that strict moral code he has, and I’m worried about him. When the bottom fell out of my world, he was there for me—I want to be there for him now.”
“Cutting loose for one weekend isn’t going to change that. Think of the possibilities. We’ll be registered under my pen name, and my publisher has sworn never to reveal my identity. You can be anyone you want to be. What have you got to lose?”
“I’m all for going on vacation. I know I need a break, but you know how Dad feels about Vegas. He sees it as the sin capital of the world—murder, gambling, prostitution—his list goes on. And don’t forget I work in the bastion of fundamental conservatism—even a hint of something that violates the school board’s moral code could cost me my job. We had this discussion the last time you wanted to go to Vegas.”
“The professor and the other Gordon’s Grove fuddy-duddies are in a time warp. My God. I’m not asking you to do something illegal or immoral, I just want you to relax and have fun. There’s nothing wrong with Vegas. Over thirty-six million people, including teachers, travel there each year. It’s not anywhere nearly as dangerous as Chicago, Detroit, or Los Angeles, and he’d have no problem with you going to any one of those cities. He just doesn’t want you spending time with me. He’s convinced I’ve become a bad influence. The week I spent at your place before your mom died was a disaster and you know it. All he did was glower at me. I write sci-fi novels, a crime for which he may never forgive me, but I’ll bet if I decided to do some time travel thing to Ancient Egypt, he’d be among the first to offer his expertise on the period.”
Cleo giggled, proof the beer Mitch had been plying her with was doing what her best friend hoped it would.
“He’d certainly want to make sure your research was accurate, but he doesn’t dislike you, Mitch. It’s the whole space rock Internet business you have going on the side that sets him off each time I bring up your name, not your three bestselling titles. Those are on the living room bookshelf.”
“Hey, it’s a hobby, and believe it or not, there are hundreds of people out there willing to pay big bucks for a chunk of authentic space rock, and each piece is certified and verified official. I’m not a shyster, but who am I to deny them? Is it really so different from guys trying to sell authentic Egyptian artifacts?” Mitch laughed and took another mouthful of beer. “Everyone needs a hobby. You take pictures, he digs up antiquities, and I collect space rocks. Why should one hobby be more acceptable than the other?”
“I don’t know, and I’m sick of arguing about it. I’m worn out. Between the high-maintenance kids in the class and Dad’s unrealistic demands, I’m drowning. Mom’s been gone almost three years now, and he’
s just as lost today as he was the day she died. I miss her too, but I can’t live the rest of my life this way. After Dave the Slug, I swore I’d never let another man hurt me again. I’d be content to live life on my own, on my terms, maybe get a cat or two, but damn it, I want a husband, a family—a house with a white picket fence. I want to meet someone who makes my toes curl just by looking at me. Is that so wrong?”
“Wanting to find love and happiness is never wrong, and your mom would be the first to tell you that. She was the best. She’d want you to go to Vegas, and you know it.”
Cleo laughed. “You’re pushing your own agenda here, but you’re probably right. Mom wanted me to experience life. Dad stopped living the day she died, and I guess I have too. Do you remember when you dragged me into that hotel in L.A. four years ago just to have a look? We ended up fighting off those two would-be Ferengi merchants who wanted to brag about their share of the Divine Treasury while we practiced oo-mox, something that somehow would have required us to be naked, rubbing their lobes. Mom found the whole thing hilarious—even Dad could see the humor in it.”
Mitch snorted. “They weren’t talking about their lobes, and they were dentists from Cleveland. It wasn’t that bad; you could have had the whitest teeth in town. We had a few laughs—no harm, no foul.”
Cleo stared down at the long-necked bottle in her hand and picked at the label. “I guess I’m just picky. I’ve been doing some thinking about maybe moving out—not just getting my own place, but leaving Gordon’s Grove. Cutting the apron strings will be hard on both of us, but Dad isn’t going to move on as long as I’m there. He needs to stand on his own two feet and so do I. There’s an opening in Alamo for a third grade teacher in September. I have the state transfer application papers in my purse.”
“Oh my God, that would be wonderful.” Mitch grabbed her hands and held them. “But right now, I need a decision. I have to let my publisher know before midnight her time; that’s twenty minutes from now. Will you or won’t you?”
Cleo didn’t understand the draw of science fiction and its accompanying alien conspiracy theories, but you didn’t have to understand best friends, you just had to love them.
“You can be as demanding as my father! Yes, damn it, yes. I know I’m going to regret this.”
• • •
The Rio Hotel and Casino was amazing. She and Mitch had dinner at one of the onsite Italian restaurants, and were now enjoying drinks in the VooDoo Lounge at the top of the hotel, with its incredible bird’s-eye view of the Strip. Cleo stood in awe of her first view of Las Vegas at night. Her friend had her eyes focused elsewhere.
Mitch had wanted to get tickets to a Chippendale show that night, but they’d sold out. Cleo wasn’t too disappointed. There’d been a number of teachers suspended and fired across the country in the last couple of years for engaging in perfectly legal activities, like attending a male dancer show, because a parent or school official found out about it and thought it inappropriate. It was okay for them to indulge in those activities, but teachers were kept to a higher standard. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been aware of that when she’d chosen the profession. At the end of the workday, most people went home, and whatever they did, as long as it wasn’t illegal, didn’t matter. But teachers were teachers twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. The old double standard was alive and well, especially in Gordon’s Grove.
Mitch had gone into the Chippendale gift shop and bought a calendar and a few other souvenirs. Cleo hadn’t dared. The last thing she wanted were souvenirs that would set Dad up on his soapbox with a sermon on ethics, morality, and everything wrong with today’s generation. As expected, he hadn’t been happy with her decision to come here, but at least he hadn’t nagged nonstop about it. He’d urged her to be careful and remember who she was and the values he’d instilled in her, and had slipped her a couple hundred dollars. She loved him dearly, but there were times when he drove her nuts.
“Mitch, for God’s sake. Stop ogling them,” she hissed when she saw her friend’s eyes openly fixed on the two hunky guys at a table not far from them. Their suits, definitely made-to-measure, enhanced their broad shoulders and although she tried to be more circumspect than her friend, Cleo couldn’t keep her eyes from straying that way either. While the blond was attractive, it was the dark-haired, dark-eyed hunk who sparked her interest.
He was clean-shaven, with a Kirk Douglas dimple. His sun-streaked hair and deep tan suggested hours of hard work in the sun, rather than twenty minutes in a tanning booth. He and his friend were engaged in an animated discussion, and she’d heard his laughter at least twice. It sounded honest, not forced the way some people did when they laughed to be polite. When he looked her way, she quickly averted her eyes. Damn.
More than a little annoyed at herself for being caught looking, her tone was sharper than she intended. “They’ll see you. You’re practically drooling.” She reached for her Witch Doctor cocktail and sipped.
“I want them to notice us, silly. That’s the whole point. It’s called flirting or have you forgotten that too? Besides, you’re just as guilty. I’ll bet you can tell me what color tie the guy’s wearing.”
“He’s not wearing a tie.”
Mitch nodded. “Uh-huh. Now who’s looking? Gorgeous guys like that are used to being checked out. Come on, live a little.” She turned away from her perusal of the men and took a sip of her martini.
“The bartender said some of the male dancers come up here to relax after the revue when they aren’t on duty fraternizing in the Flirt Lounge. Just look at them: tall, handsome, in phenomenal shape, and sexy as hell. They have to be Chippendales. Have you noticed they’ve been paying for each round with cash—small bills, no change. I read these guys can pick up as much as $800 a night.”
“Seriously? You’re letting your writer’s imagination run wild. This must be one of the most popular nightclubs in Vegas. I’m sure lots of attractive businessmen come up here for drinks. Many people carry small bills. I do.”
“Uh-uh. Don’t buy it. Those guys are wearing thousand-dollar suits. Why aren’t they running a tab? We are. I’m right, and you, with your old-fashioned notions of what’s acceptable for you and that outdated morality clause that hamstrings you, don’t want to admit it. I wouldn’t mind letting them entertain me.” Mitch licked her lips. “Seeing that blond in nothing but bowtie and white cuffs would definitely ring my bells . . . aw, damn.” Cleo’s heart echoed the sentiment.
Two women, one noticeably pregnant, joined the men, who’d obviously been waiting for them. The pregnant redhead kissed the blond, while the brunette whispered something in the other man’s ear that made him laugh uproariously.
“I should have guessed they’d be taken.” The disappointment was heavy in Mitch’s voice. “Come on, we might as well go down. It’s after midnight. If you want to check off all the sites on your to-see list, we’ll have to be up early tomorrow.”
“That works for me. Another drink, and I’d fall off my shoes.”
“You mean you’d fall off my shoes. We seriously need to do some shopping tomorrow. I think my aunt, the nun, is more stylishly dressed than you.”
Cleo frowned. It was true she hadn’t bought anything new in a while, but skin-tight clothes and stilettos weren’t on the acceptable dress code for elementary school teachers with a limited clothing budget. Living at home gave her a break on the rent, but she’d have that expense if she took the job in Alamo. Her black dress was a classic, and paired with Mitch’s spikes, she thought she looked chic and stylish. So far tonight, she’d managed to walk without a telltale wobble. It was better to leave while she still could. She stood and followed Mitch toward the exit.
The alcohol played havoc with her equilibrium, and Cleo moved carefully. The last thing she wanted to do was fall flat on her face. She looked straight ahead and tried not to notice milk chocolate eyes staring curiously as she made her way across the room. She moved passed the table, distracted by the
intensity of his gaze. She’d almost made it to the exit when she realized she’d left the brochures about the Grand Canyon helicopter tours on the table. She turned to go back and get them, and watched in surprise as her dark-eyed hunk lifted his glass in mock salute and gave her an approving nod. She frowned. What kind of man flirted openly—even from a distance—with a woman when he had one sitting right beside him? She’d dated that kind of jerk. She had no intention of getting involved with another one. She pivoted on her heel and moved as quickly as she could toward the exit.
• • •
Cleo turned off the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and went out into the suite. “Okay, I’m freshly showered, now what?” she asked Mitch. It was time to pay the piper for this long weekend getaway.
“Now, I paint you. Come on. The can says it’s good for six to eight hours and it’s best applied to clean skin right after a shower.”
“Why are you painting me? You said I was wearing a costume.” Cleo stared warily at the spray can in Mitch’s hand and the paintbrush and liquid sitting on the floor.
“It’s part of the costume. I have some too.” She removed the yellow rubber glove and lifted the sleeve on her robe to show off the mahogany skin on her arm and hand. “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe. I’ll use the liquid on your face.”
Cleo gasped as cold mist hissed from the can and chilled her skin. She tried not to twitch while Mitch covered most of her body in kelly green paint, and what little wasn’t covered in paint she hoped would be covered by her costume—in fact, she hoped the costume would cover a whole lot more. After the paint job, Cleo went into the bathroom to dry her hair, letting it curl and fall in waves down her back as Mitch had insisted. God, she hoped the green color came off her face easier than the green oil paint young Tyler had brought to school that had ruined her skirt and still stained the classroom floors.
On His Watch Page 28
