by A. J. Goode
They'd missed her ratty old backpack, though. She had duct-taped it to the underside of the seat early that morning, just in case. It didn't have much in it: a couple of outfits and the envelope full of cash. She had no more than ripped it free of the duct tape when she’d heard the sirens approaching, so she took off into the woods with nothing but the backpack. By the time she realized that the sirens had nothing to do with her, she was completely turned around and lost in the woods. She had wandered for hours before stumbling out into the road just in time to find herself staring into the headlights of an oncoming pickup truck.
But this was not the time to dwell on the string of circumstances that had brought her here. She'd been lucky enough to hitch a ride with the handsome fireman – and even luckier to catch the show in the refrigerator light – but it was time to take control of her situation.
After all, that was what she did best: find a way out of every situation and always manage to land on her feet. Her dad called her “Shortcut Maggie” because she had long since perfected the art of finding the quickest and easiest way out of trouble.
Of course, Dad didn’t mean it as a compliment, she thought, quietly letting herself out of the garage and pulling the door shut behind her.
Chapter Three
As it turned out, the firefighter's home was on a quiet street that was just a short walk from the center of town, although Maggie hardly thought the tiny collection of buildings and small businesses qualified as "town." There were two streets lined with colorful storefronts that were obviously designed to capture the tourist business, with a few stragglers placed farther out from the center. The few remaining streets were lined with small, tidy houses.
The signs at the main intersection said Phoenix and Dykman. She stood there for a moment, looking to the west, and drank in the early-morning beauty of her surroundings.
From where she stood, she could see the channel leading out into Lake Michigan. The long pier to the left had a bright red lighthouse at the end, with an intricate black catwalk that followed its entire length. The pier on the right was longer and skinnier, with a simple green and white beacon standing at the end. Maggie felt an immediate liking for the poor, plain pier overshadowed by its flashy neighbor, and vowed to visit it before she moved on from this place.
The Lake itself was calm this morning, glittering like so many diamonds in the light of the sun that rose behind her. If she squinted, she could just make out tiny figures moving around on the piers and in the sand; she wondered what on earth could make anyone go out on the beach this early in the morning.
Maggie dragged her gaze away from the peaceful view. She needed to find a payphone, and she needed coffee. Lots of coffee. The stronger, the better.
She found both at a gas station with signs that proudly announced "Open 24 Hours" and quickly decided that the coffee had most likely been sitting on the warmer for at least twenty-three of those. Not even four packets of sugar and a giant dollop of creamer did much for the taste. Still, caffeine was caffeine, so she sipped at it and made a wry face as she headed back outside the building to use the payphone.
Considering the early hour and the fact that it was even earlier in Chicago, she was surprised when Lindsay Newman answered on the first ring.
"Where the hell are you, Maeve?" the publicist snapped. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You're in a lot of trouble."
"I know."
"Two hours of live television, and nothing to air! Nothing! Millions of people tuned in to see a live wedding, and what did they see instead? Devon Rock, standing at the altar, alone, because his bride skipped out. On live TV!"
"Lindsay, I can explain –"
"You signed a contract, Maeve. The show's lawyers are all over this. What were you thinking?"
"Devon signed a contract, too." Maggie's hands trembled as she raised the cardboard cup to her lips. She blanched at the smell and lowered it again without taking a sip.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I caught him with another woman, Lindsay. Right there at the church, just a few minutes before we were supposed to get married."
"Did you –did you see the other woman?"
"Not her face."
The publicist was silent for so long that Maggie wondered if they'd been disconnected. "Okay," Lindsay finally said; "okay, time for some damage control. Maeve, have you talked to anyone about this?"
"Just you."
"Good. Don't talk to anyone else. Stay where you are, lay low for a few days while I try to find an angle to work this. Where is the car? People might recognize the car."
"I hid it. Lindsay, can’t I just come forward with a public apology or something? I want to go home."
"Absolutely not. You just stay hidden until I get this situation under control, and I'll do everything I can to keep you out of trouble. Don't let anyone recognize you. Call me back in, oh, three days. Can you do that?"
"I—I guess so. But can I at least call my Dad?"
“It’s better if you don’t. Let me call him for you, okay? I’ll let him know you’re all right.”
“I’d appreciate that, Lindsay.”
Click.
Maggie looked at the silent payphone, and then glanced up at her reflection in the gas station window. Don't let anyone recognize you. No concern there. She'd peeled off the false eyelashes and tugged out the blonde clip-in hair extensions within moments of pulling out of the church parking lot in the stolen car. Her nighttime wandering in the rain had taken care of the rest of her make-up, and the gash from her encounter with the trunk lid had swelled into an ugly purple bruise. The tired face peering back at her from the tinted glass bore little resemblance to the glamorous Maeve Renault the world –and Devon Rock—had fallen in love with over the past twelve weeks.
Pretended to fall in love with, she silently corrected herself. Devon hadn't loved her any more than she had loved him.
She could think about that later. For right now, she had to find a place to stay, a place to eat, and a place to sleep. And not necessarily in that order. She could see two hotels from where she stood, both within easy walking distance, but would either one be willing to take cash for a room at the crack of dawn for a woman wandering around with no identification, no credit cards, and no luggage?
Only one way to find out. Maggie straightened her shoulders, shifted the weight of her backpack and set out with new determination in her step. She could do anything as long as she had a plan.
The problem was, she thought as she walked, that her plans didn’t always go as well as she hoped. Take her career plans that had gone so badly awry. Finish culinary school, work as a chef for a few years until she saved up some money, and then open her own restaurant. As plans go, that one was fairly straightforward. But no one wanted to hire her as a chef until she had more experience, not even as a Sous-Chef. She’d had to start as a lowly assistant, impatiently jumping from restaurant to restaurant until she’d racked up a total of five different jobs in just under a year.
All she really needed was a break, she told herself again. Somehow, somewhere, she needed to make enough money to open her own restaurant. That was why the reality show had seemed like such a Godsend, especially since it was going to be filmed right in her hometown of Chicago. All contestants would make some money; the longer she stayed on the show, the more money she would make. If she could just make it to the final round without actually winning on Battle of the Brides, she’d have enough money.
She really hadn’t expected to win. The show’s premise involved a group of single girls competing for the chance to marry actor Devon Rock, and Rock was just a little too Hollywood-pretty for her liking. Oh, he turned out to be nice enough, but there just hadn’t been any . . . . zing.
Not that she really knew what zing felt like. Maggie stopped to rest, dropping wearily onto a brightly painted bench near the sidewalk. Sure, she’d dated, and she’d had some genuine feelings for the men in her life, but there just hadn’t been anyone yet
who made her feel any electricity. Chemistry. Fireworks and all that ridiculous nonsense that she had no business believing in anyway. When she actually won that stupid competition, and Devon had been so sweet and charming, she’d convinced herself that there was no such thing as zing. She told herself she might as well go ahead and marry the actor.
Right up until they zipped her into that abomination of a gown.
She dropped the vile, unfinished coffee into a garbage can and stood up to stretch. Something smelled good. Astonishingly good, actually. She suddenly realized that she was absolutely starving.
The smells seemed to be coming from a little restaurant across the street. It looked terribly plain and simple next to all of the bright colors and waving banners of the tourist-trap businesses around it, but there was no mistaking the tantalizing aroma of breakfast foods wafting her way. Sleep could wait until after breakfast, she decided, and strode across the street toward Ronda’s Place.
Chapter Four
Sean glanced at his watch as he pulled into a parking spot in front of Ronda's Place. 8:17. He was late for work, but not too late, and there was just no way he was going to face a day at the garage without some strong coffee and a quick breakfast.
The waitress did a double-take when he walked in. "You look like hell," she announced.
"Thanks, Ronda. Nice to know I look better than I feel. Coffee, please."
"Want that to go, or should I just hand over the whole pot and a straw?"
Sean grinned. "To go will be fine. And two fried egg sandwiches on wheat?"
"You got it, Spiffy." Ronda disappeared into the back.
Sean leaned against the counter and looked around the familiar dining room while he waited. He stopped here a few times each week, and he knew most of the people he saw here enjoying their breakfasts. There were busier, more expensive restaurants a few streets over, but those were usually filled with tourists who tended to want more exotic fare.
The locals regarded Ronda's Place as a little-known treasure that they kept to themselves, even though she’d had a Business For Sale sign in the front window for the last several years. Everyone knew she would never sell her beloved restaurant to just anyone, no matter how often she said she was ready to retire.
There was one unfamiliar face today. She sat in the corner booth, with her chin in her hand and her body leaned against the window at an odd angle. She appeared to be sound asleep.
Sean frowned as his training kicked in. The woman had a large, purple bruise on her forehead, near the temple. She had obviously tried to hide it behind long blonde bangs pulled awkwardly to the side, over large dark sunglasses. Her shoulder-length hair had been tucked behind her ear, revealing a pale face and a slightly rounded jaw. Her pink lips were parted slightly, revealing even white teeth.
He let his gaze move lower, watching as her chest rose and fell slowly with the rhythm of her sleeping breaths. It was a rather nice chest, he decided; at first glance, the woman seemed thin to the point of gauntness, but a closer look at her full, rounded breasts beneath the rumpled blue t-shirt told another story.
"I see you've noticed our Sleeping Beauty," Ronda commented.
Sean felt his face flush as he wondered if the waitress had noticed where he had been looking. "How long has she been like that?" he asked.
Ronda shrugged. "She wandered in here right after I opened, ordered eggs and coffee, and fell asleep like that. I woke her up a few times to top off her coffee, but she kept dozing back off. It's a slow morning, so I figured I might as well let her stay there."
"That's a pretty nasty bruise."
"Yeah I noticed that too."
Sean ignored her knowing grin and strolled casually over to the sleeping woman. He cleared his throat a few times, hoping to wake her. "Excuse me?" he said softly. "Miss? Are you all right?" When he got no response, he touched her arm and called her again.
The blonde woman started and sat up abruptly, knocking her sunglasses askew. She smacked her hand against her coffee cup and caught it as it began to tip over, swore, and sent her silverware flying over the edge of the table. She looked up at Sean, one sleepy brown eye visible behind the crooked sunglasses.
"What?" she demanded.
"You were asleep in a restaurant. I just wanted to make sure you're all right."
"I'm fine." She removed the sunglasses and blinked several times before looking around the restaurant. Her gaze landed on the now-cold plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her. "Oh, man, that looked really good, too. Darn it."
"What happened to your head?"
She touched the bruise with her fingertips and winced. "I forgot to duck," she told him. "It's not a big deal. Do you think I could get her to make me some fresh eggs? I'm really hungry."
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind. You should really have someone take a look at that. I'm with the local fire department—"
The blonde woman looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, and he watched as a deep blush travelled slowly across her pale cheeks. There was something strangely familiar about her.
"Have we met before?" he wondered.
She shook her head vehemently.
All right, then. If she wasn't suffering from head trauma, she was just odd. That was the only possible explanation. "My name is Sean Jackson," he tried again. "I'm a certified Medical First Responder, and you look like you've got a pretty serious bump on the head. Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"N-no, I'm fine. I'm just . . . tired. I drove all night and. . . . I'm fine," she repeated. "I'm Maggie. Nice to meet you, Sean. "
He shook the hand she offered. She had long, slim fingers that fit perfectly in his hand, and his skin tingled from the contact. He had a strange, sudden urge to hold on to her hand forever.
"I need your help," she blurted, clinging to his hand as tightly as he clung to hers.
"Whatever you need," he told her. He shook himself, dragging his gaze away from those pink lips. “Wh-what do you need, Maggie?”
“I need a place to stay. I don’t have a car . . . or . . . or my purse or my Driver’s License or anything. I have cash, though.” She spoke quickly, her words tumbling over each other. “Are there any other hotels that are little smaller than those two big ones out there? More private? I need to be . . . discreet.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No! I just . . . My friend left me here, okay? Drove off with my purse in the car.”
“And your suitcase?”
“Um, yeah.”
“This friend,” Sean asked slowly, his eyes narrowing; “Was it a man or a woman?”
“Does it matter?”
He wanted to say that it most certainly did matter, seeing as how he was still clutching her hand, but she yanked away from him at just that moment. “No, I guess not,” he told her instead. “But if you need any kind of protection . . .”
“I don’t need protection. I just need a place to stay that isn’t crawling with noisy tourists, all right? I value my privacy. Now, can you recommend a place or not?”
It took all he had not to laugh out loud at the obvious lie. She was a terrible liar, but he was sure she must have a good reason for lying. And he wondered if that reason had anything to do with the ugly wound on her face. “How long do you need to stay?” he asked...
“Three days. I have cash,” she repeated.
“Let me make a phone call. I have some friends who own a Bed and Breakfast over by the North Beach.”
# # #
Carrington Manor was a stately old Victorian that sat well back from the main road just north of Beach Haven, high up on the bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. Several years earlier, a retired couple from Illinois had purchased the place and turned it into a Bed and Breakfast. When a small chimney fire broke out during their first summer there, Sean had been the first volunteer firefighter to arrive, and from that day on the Carringtons treated him with a kind of gratitude that alm
ost approached hero-worship.
They catered to an elite clientele that tended to value privacy and discretion above all else. They even had their own private section of the beach that just bordered on the northern edge of the public beach. Sean had heard all sorts of rumors about wild parties and nudity on the private beach, but he sincerely hoped those stories were exaggerated. Especially now, as he pulled into the small parking lot with a woman he barely knew in the truck with him.
A strange woman who made him tingle when he touched her hand, he reminded himself. This was probably a really bad idea.
“Brad and Angie Carrington are friends of mine,” he told her as they climbed out of the truck. “They’re giving you a discount because it’s a weekday.” And because they know me, he thought but didn’t say.
“It’s beautiful,” Maggie breathed. “I’ve never seen so many lilacs!”
Angie Carrington greeted them at the door, pulling Sean into a bone-crushing hug and planting a warm kiss on Maggie’s cheek. Maggie adored her immediately, feeling more like a guest than a paying customer.
“I’ve put you in the Rose Room,” the woman told her, ushering them both toward an elegant curving staircase. She bustled up the stairs, talking all the while. “It’s one of our most popular, and it’s very private.”
If she giggles, I’m out of here. Sean felt his face grow warm as Angie raised her eyebrows at him and gestured toward the door. She seemed a little too happy to jump to all the wrong conclusions about him and Maggie.
“We’re not--” he started.
“It’s perfect.” Maggie cut him off. She had entered the bedroom and was staring around in open-mouthed wonder.
It was a tiny room, almost overpowered by the enormous four-poster bed. The place was ridiculously feminine, from the rose-covered ruffled comforter and soft pink curtains to the delicate rose-themed knick-knacks that sat on the dresser and nightstand. He was dimly aware of Angie Carrington pulling the door closed behind her as she left, and then he was suddenly intensely aware of the fact that he was alone with Maggie Reynolds.
