She picked Clare’s latest romance novel off the nightstand, but after reading the same page three times, she gave it up. At 1:30 a.m., the telephone by her bed rang, and she picked up.
“I’m standing outside,” he said. “I would have rung the doorbell, but I didn’t want to frighten you.”
She smiled, and her heart beat heavy in her chest. “I’ll be right there.” She didn’t bother with a robe or looking through the peephole. She opened the door, and there he stood, on her porch, beneath the soft glow of a sixty-watt bulb. The light shone in his hair and poured over the shirt she’d buttoned that morning. Had it really only been that morning?
His soft “Hello” filled the space between them.
“Hello, Quinn.”
He stared at her for several long moments then cleared his throat. “How are you?” he asked.
“I’m doing okay. The interview wasn’t bad.”
“Good.”
He continued to stare at her, looking a little uncertain, and she asked, “Do you want to come in?”
“Not yet.” He shook his head. “I’m on paid suspension for a while. So I have some time on my hands.” He was standing so still she was starting to feel a little uncertain herself.
“How long are you on suspension?”
“I’m not quite sure. We can talk about what happened later, but right now I want to ask you something important.”
“What?”
He swallowed. “Would you go out with me?”
“Where?”
“On a date.”
She smiled, and her stomach got a little spongy. “Right now?”
“I thought we should get started dating tonight.”
“Okay.” She moved aside, and he stepped into the house. Lucy closed the door and leaned her back against it. “Should I change?”
He shook his head. “What you’re wearing is fine. I thought we’d grab your cat and I’d take you two to my house.”
“Snookie’s invited, too?”
“Yeah. Him too. I want to take you home and make sure you’re really okay, and I think you’ll relax more with your bag of fur around.”
“Maybe I want to take care of you.”
“Then let’s go. I think it’s time Mr. Snookums met Millie.”
She bit the side of her lip. “You said ‘Mr. Snookums.’”
A slow grin turned up the corners of his lips. “I must be in love with you,” he said. “The name of your cat doesn’t shrivel my sac anymore.”
Her chest got all achy and she blinked away the sudden stinging in her eyes. “Well, I must be in love with you, because hearing you talk about your shriveling sac doesn’t make me want to stab my ears.”
He chuckled. “I guess that didn’t sound very romantic.”
She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears. “No. You probably won’t find it on a Hallmark card.”
He took a step forward as the first tear slipped over her lashes. He brushed beneath her eyes. “I love you. When I entered that house and saw that woman on top of you, I came apart inside.”
She kissed his palm. “I love you, Quinn. I fell in love with you when I thought you were a plumber grieving for your dead wife. I tried not to love you when I found out you were a cop and Millie was your dog and you lied to me. I felt so foolish. I thought since I’d fallen for you so fast, I could get over you fast, too. That was truly foolish, because I’d fallen too hard.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and looked at her through those intense brown eyes she loved. “I wanted you when I thought you’d pull a bag over my head and snuff out my life. I wanted you more than I’ve wanted anything. I love you more than I’ve loved anyone. You burst into my life like sunshine and made me see how lonely I was. I don’t want to live that way anymore.” He pressed a kiss to her hairline. “I will love you with my last breath.”
Lucy swallowed as another tear slid down her face. “This is the best date I’ve ever had.”
“No. This is just the first date.” He slipped his hand down her back to her behind. “The best date is yet to come.”
Epilogue
The best date fell on August eighteenth. The bride wore a tea-length gown made of white satin and lace, while the groom wore the requisite black-and-white tuxedo. She promised to love Quinn McIntyre through sickness and in health, when he was trying to be good but especially when he was bad. Quinn vowed to love and honor and take care of Lucy Rothschild and Mr. Snookums as long as they lived.
The couple was surrounded by family and friends and thousands of white and pink roses. In the months leading up to the wedding, Lucy’s mother and three friends had helped her plan the big event. Except for complaining and protesting the choice of attendance dresses, Maddie, Adele, and Clare had been great help. But no matter how much they’d protested, Lucy had turned a deaf ear on her friends and ordered matching pink satin and tulle fluff for the occasion.
After a fierce game of rock paper scissors, Clare won the position of maid of honor during cocktail night. Clare being Clare, she took the honor seriously and threw herself into the job. She arranged a beautiful bachelorette party and offered Lucy her great-grandmother’s Tiffany pearls to wear as “something borrowed.” On the day of the wedding, she forgot the pearls and had to race home to get them. She made it back fifteen minutes before preceding her friends down the aisle. Ever the thoughtful and responsible person, she stood stiff and attentive as Lucy said her vows.
The wedding reception took place at the Double Tree Hotel next to the Boise River. The guests gorged themselves on beef tips, chicken cordon bleu, and, of all things, weenie mac-which the McIntyre clan scarfed like manna from heaven. As the bride and groom took to the floor for their first dance, Clare took up a position by the bar. No one noticed her drinking more than her usual two glasses of wine until she threw off her shoes and attacked the dance floor like she’d come down with boogie fever.
After bumping and grinding her way through “Hot Legs,” Maddie and Adele pulled her aside and asked if she was okay. She simply gave them her perfect Clare smile and said, “I’m fine.”
But an hour later she disappeared, and Maddie and Adele were forced to leave the reception in search of her. They walked down the long hall, passed a Dale Carnegie dinner, and peeked into a large room stuffed with men of all shapes and stripes. The room had a cash bar next to a stage with a spotlight and karaoke machine.
Looking for all the world like an escapee from prom night, Clare Wingate stood center stage in front of an Idaho Steelheads hockey banner. The usually reserved, dignified, and obsessively self-contained romance writer held a wineglass in one hand and a microphone in the other while she belted out a song about a skinny lad.
Maddie and Adele looked at each other, twin expressions of shock rounding their mouths.
“What the hell is she singing?” Adele asked as they returned their attention to the stage. “Did she just say ‘big fat fanny’? That sounds like Queen.”
“Oh my God.” Maddie gasped. “I think it’s Fat Bottomed Girls.”
The men watching the performance whooped and hollered and cheered Clare on as she went into the chorus and begged them to take her home tonight.
Together Maddie and Adele shoved their way through the crowd, two spots of pink froufrou among a throng of muscle-bound men. Something was wrong. Something terrible had happened in Clare’s world. Whatever it was, was bad. Real bad. Bad enough to force the wheels off her perfect pony cart.
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude to Homicide Detective Danny R. Smith for his help in the writing of this book. A twenty-one-year veteran of the Los Angeles County’s Sheriff’s Department, Officer Smith’s assistance was invaluable and went above and beyond the call of duty. Any mistakes are mine, as is any use of creative license. I would also like to thank fellow writer and friend Candis Terry for her answer to my frantic “help me” e-mail. Candis, you really came through.
About the Author
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RACHEL GIBSON’s first two romance novels-Simply Irresistible and Truly Madly Yours-were named among the Top Ten Favorite Books of the Year by Romance Writers of America. And in 2002 True Confessions was awarded the RITA® for the Best Single Title Contemporary Romance of the Year. She has won numerous awards, including the Golden Heart and National Reader’s Choice.
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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Sex, Lies, And Online Dating Page 23
