“What’s the ‘L’ stand for?” He pointed to her monogram. “It wouldn’t be Lynn, would it?” He squinted. “Leigh? Or Loretta?”
“None of the above.” Cait locked her classroom door.
Then again, maybe secrecy was just part and parcel of being a woman. They always thought they had to be so mysterious.
“So, what? You’re not going to tell me? Think I’ll laugh?”
She nodded, standing still and staring at him in the hallway.
He puffed out some hot air. He’d have to brush up on his chitchatting. Not a good idea to alienate the staff so soon, even if he had suspicions about somebody. He’d known her for…what? A whole fifteen minutes? And already she pretty clearly despised him. Well, never let it be said he couldn’t make a strong first impression.
“I won’t laugh.” He tried to radiate sincerity.
She gave him a thorough once-over. “Livie,” she mumbled. “After my grandmother Olivia.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “That’s not so bad. Olivia’s nice, too. Why’d your parents shorten it?”
At this she chuckled. “Think about it, Mr. Ellis. You couldn’t have grown up around here. Even in Wisconsin—the ‘Dairy State’—having the initials C.O.W. is hardly a woman’s deepest desire.”
A laugh erupted from deep within him. So there was a sense of humor behind the snow queen façade. Good. Maybe she’d thaw a bit, they could talk, he’d figure out her angle and, hopefully, discount her from his investigation. He needed to concentrate on forwarding his career…and on keeping his father from disowning him. Ogling attractive women was his brother’s department, not his.
“You have bright parents,” he said finally. “Bet you appreciated their foresight.”
“I did.” She surprised him with a grin that lit up her whole face. For a moment he was rendered speechless.
They strolled outside toward the parking lot.
“Okay,” she said. “Now that you know my secret, what’s your middle name?”
Sheesh. He hadn’t been thinking. Sharing his middle name could only land him in boiling water. “Mine’s not real interesting.”
The light in her face vanished. She turned huge, distrustful eyes on him. “So?”
He grimaced. “My middle initial’s ‘M,’ how ‘bout you guess?”
“What? I practically told you mine outright. There’s no reason to hedge with me. It couldn’t be that terrible.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure. Your parents altered yours from your namesake’s to be less embarrassing, my parents did nothing of the kind.” He hesitated, praying she’d back off. The name recognition, he knew from years of painful experience, could be instantaneous.
But no such luck. This Miss Walsh was a persistent one.
Her forehead crinkled. “Hmm. Well, it couldn’t be Michael or Matthew, could it? Those aren’t unusual enough to upset anyone. Max, maybe? What about Mitch? Or, Marvin?”
“I wish,” he muttered. And he did. For maybe the ninety-thousandth time he wished he came from a family that wasn’t internationally famous.
They reached their vehicles, and he changed the subject. “Look,” he told her, “why don’t you jump in with me? It’ll be easier than taking two cars. I can drive you back here later.”
“Oh, um…sure.”
He opened the passenger door of his red BMW and held it for her. She slid into the black leather seat, her eyes bulging at the rows of gadgets on the dash. He knew how impressive it looked. He liked his cars complicated, his women simple. Yet another reason the chilly and changeable Miss Walsh posed a problem: She did not seem simple. But someone was meddling with funds and, although instinct and experience told him Cait didn’t have the bearing of a ringleader, she might know who was at the center of these thefts.
He slipped into the driver’s seat and retrieved a second list from the glove compartment. Time for a test.
He pasted on a grin, wondering how invested she was in this silly fall festival. If he could draw her off track, it might not be much. “Now that we’re out of school, I hope you don’t mind one addition to our plans. I need to grab a few things from the bookstore before they close. Is it okay if we head there first?”
She gave a curt nod and laced her fingers together, looking about as enthusiastic as a shop mannequin.
Within ten minutes, he had them parked in front of Bookends. First they’d book shop, then they’d drive to the supplies store. His two-part strategy to relax, converse, slide into informality. He’d try to find out what she knew, if anything. If he could rule her out, he could get back to investigating the problem. Alone.
Garrett leaped out of the car. “You coming in?” he asked as she sat, pensive, in the passenger’s seat.
“No, I’ll just wait here for you.”
Damn. “Are you sure? If you don’t want to browse, there’s a nice coffee bar and snack area inside. You could relax a little.”
She glared at him like he’d suggested a round of strip poker. “I’m fine here. Really. Get what you need. Take your time.”
“Okay.” What could he do? Garrett tossed her his car keys. “If you want music, feel free to pop something in. CDs are in a case under your seat.” At that she looked almost intrigued.
“Thank you.” Cait doled out one of her angelic smiles. It made him tense, uncomfortable and kind of…warm. Aw, hell.
He took a few brisk strides across the street toward the shop. He had a job to do, he reminded himself again. He didn’t need complications like, oh, lady swindlers.
But he hoped to heaven she was innocent and he could maintain a friendly distance from her. Something about this woman just got to him. A point underscored by the fact that, as he entered the bookstore, he found himself wondering what he might buy her to make her smile again.
At him.
Like that.
An Excerpt from HOLIDAY MAN (November 2012)
In this romance told over a year of holidays, a small-town girl who runs a holiday-themed inn up in scenic Door County meets a wealthy Minneapolis businessman one snowy winter’s evening. The sparks they create succeed in heating up the chilly Midwestern night, not to mention plenty of holiday weekends in the year that follows. But is their relationship reserved for special occasions only...or might there be something much more permanent ahead for them both?
Shannon and the tall, unsmiling man watched as Jake led the happy couple sashaying down the hall. Terrific. Now she was alone with Mr. Intensity.
She cleared her throat. “Welcome to Holiday Quinn, sir. May I have your name, please?”
The man’s glance appraised her—there was no other way to describe it—from her chest upward. Granted, her chest, shoulders and head were all that were visible behind the registration desk’s counter, but still. She mentally fumed over this distinct act of rudeness until she saw his stony face break into a full smile.
“I apologize,” he said in a voice that was far deeper and much more resonant than she’d expected. “I could see immediately why Gina selected you as my personal desk attendant tonight, but you must excuse her matchmaking tendencies. She’s incorrigible.”
Shannon looked into his sharp hazel eyes, stunned by his candor and even more shocked at being “selected” as any kind of a match for him. Alpha males weren’t the type to appear often on her dating radar. And this one was too, too…just too much. Of something. Of everything.
“Why, th-thank you,” she stammered. “I think.” Then added, “Your name, please?”
He laughed briefly. “Yes, of course. The reservation is under Hartwick. Bram Hartwick.” He paused. “Unless it’s under Graybell.” His forehead creased and he frowned. “Perhaps try searching under that name first.”
Shannon stubbornly typed in “Hartwick” and found his computer file, but it was cross-referenced with, yes, an Angie Graybell—the woman who’d originally made the weekend reservation. Shannon didn’t know why, but her stomach roller-coastered downward at this news. From the “matchmakin
g” comment, she’d foolishly assumed this towering, commanding man was single. Silly her.
“I’ve found your reservation, Mr. Hartwick. You’re from Minneapolis, Minnesota, correct?” she asked him in her most professional voice. He seemed the type to demand a professional demeanor in all things.
He nodded once.
“We’re all set, then.” She printed out his form and handed him a pen. “Will Ms. Graybell be arriving later tonight, or shall we expect her in the morning?”
The handsome Mr. Hartwick didn’t respond immediately, but his face turned to rock-like seriousness again in an instant. He pressed his lips together in a line of clear displeasure, and Shannon was certain of only one thing: This was not the kind of man she’d ever want to upset. He looked capable of biting off the heart-shaped heads of all her Valentine’s Day pens, starting with the red-sequined one he was holding in a death grip. Not an image she wanted to cling to, thanks.
“Ms. Graybell will not be coming tonight. Or tomorrow. Or Sunday. You may safely remove her name from the reservation,” he said stiffly.
Okeydokey.
“Very well, Mr. Hartwick.” And Shannon had to admit to feeling a perverse pleasure in deleting the heretofore-unseen Angie Graybell.
“And what would be your name, if you don’t mind my asking?” he said to her, still intense-looking but his lips turned up a tiny notch at the corners.
“My name is Shannon Quinn, sir.” And why, exactly, did so much as telling him her name make her heart rate speed up and her fingers twitchy? It must be that Bad-Boy/Dangerous-Man Factor again. Truth be told, this trait was starting to bug her.
Bram Hartwick, of course, did not look nervous. He did, however, appear downright surprised, and he couldn’t seem keep the shock off his face.
“Is your last name a lucky coincidence, Ms. Quinn, or are you related to the original owners of this charming establishment?”
“The luck of the Irish is always with me,” she shot back, determined not to let him intimidate her. “But, yes, I’m a direct descendent. The original owners were my grandparents, who opened the inn back in the mid-1940s.”
He quirked a brow. “Fans of the classic film, then?”
She knew what he was asking. Everyone wanted to know if Holiday Quinn was named after the famous Bing Crosby-Fred Astaire movie musical Holiday Inn.
“Yes,” she informed him. “The picture came out in 1942 and it was one of my Grandma Quinn’s all-time favorites. When she and my grandfather opened up their inn a couple of years later, the play on the name was intentional. However, until a few years ago, we were open all year round, not just on holidays. My parents made that change themselves.”
“Hmm.” He tilted his head, leaned in toward the counter and said, “Why?”
Why? Because, as much as she tried to help them, they could no longer take care of the inn day after day by themselves. Because they loved her and wanted to leave her family’s legacy in good condition. Because they deserved to finally retire and enjoy the relaxation their elderly years afforded them.
Only, once they did, they died.
But Shannon wasn’t about to confide her personal life story to a man whose face, as far as she could tell, resembled a block of granite.
“Because they had a great sense of humor,” she said instead.
“Ah.” He glanced around the lobby, a glint of interest in those intelligent eyes. He focused them again on her. “And what about you, Ms. Quinn? Do you have a great sense of humor, too?”
“I’d like to think so, but everyone believes that about themselves. I could be sadly deluded.”
Mr. Stonyface actually laughed. “Delightful,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. He signed the forms, pushed her copies back across the counter toward her and pulled out his iPhone. After a moment of squinting at it and fiddling with the buttons, he said, “So, Gina tells me there are also singles’ events at the inn this weekend. What’ve you got scheduled?”
“We have a High Tea Mix-n-Mingle tomorrow at four, the Queen of Hearts Singles’ Dance tomorrow night from eight until midnight and the Valentine’s Morning-After Breakfast on Sunday at nine.”
“The Queen of Hearts Singles’ Dance…” he repeated, staring down at his cell phone again. “That sounds almost promising.”
“Almost?”
He gave her one of his cool, assessing stares. “Well, I’d only be sure if I knew who was planning to attend the function.” He paused. “Any chance you’ll be there?”
A strange but thankfully temporary panic gripped her throat. “Of course, Mr. Hartwick,” she managed to reply. “I run the inn. I oversee everything.”
He broke into a near-grin, one clearly calculated to subdue women into compliance. “In that case, count on me to show up.” Then he leaned forward, as if about to ask a personal question, when the electronic version of an old Prince tune, “Little Red Corvette,” blared from somewhere inside his clothing. Odd choice.
He grimaced and reached into his coat pocket. “Excuse me,” he told her before clicking on his cell phone. “Hartwick,” he said into it. Then, “Ciao, Senior Niccolo.” He listened, winced and took the room key she extended toward him. He waved his thanks, grabbed his bag and strode in the direction of the stairs. The last words she heard him say were “Il problema con la sapone in Milano?”
Italian. The man spoke rapid-fire Italian. How weird was that…and, okay, how very cool. For someone with such a stately façade, she never would’ve guessed he’d be fluent in a Language of Love. What other surprises hid behind that composed demeanor?
And here is some information about Marilyn’s women’s fiction, published by Kensington Books:
FRIDAY MORNINGS AT NINE
Every woman remembers her firsts: Her first kiss. Her first lover. And her first time contemplating an affair...
Each Friday morning at the Indigo Moon Café, Jennifer, Bridget and Tamara meet to swap stories about marriage, kids and work. But one day, spurred by recent emails from her college ex, Jennifer poses questions they've never faced before. What if they all married the wrong man? What if they're living the wrong life? And what would happen if, just once, they gave in to temptation...
Soon each woman is second-guessing the choices she's made—and the ones she can unmake—as she becomes aware of new opportunities around every corner, from attentive colleagues and sexy neighbors to flirtatious past lovers. And as fantasies blur with real life, Jennifer, Bridget and Tamara begin to realize how little they know about each other, their marriages and themselves, and how much there is to gain—and lose—when you step outside the rules.
PRAISE:
“Marilyn Brant’s sophomore effort is a brilliant character study of three very different women each asking the question we all wonder about sooner or later: did we make the right choices during our journey and if not, what steps do we need to take in order to live our best life?” -- Manchester Books Examiner
“Emotionally packed, it’s hard to put down… What intrigued me most was this book was as much about friendship as it was about what goes on behind the closed doors of marriage. Does anyone really know someone? Do we even know ourselves? Will we have the courage to go after what we want when presented with the options? …A highly recommended women’s fiction read.” -- Kelly Moran, award-winning author and reviewer
“Marilyn Brant masterfully writes on the intricacy of female friendship in a carefully crafted, entertaining and yet philosophical look at love, marriage and family…Fans of women's fiction shouldn't miss this novel full of wonderful insights into our friendship and family, people and topics always at the forefront of our minds. I was so pleased with the way this one turned out and highly recommend it and Brant's debut novel, ACCORDING TO JANE.” -- Megan Snider, Write Meg reviewer
“Readers will sympathize with women who feel stuck in their lives and don’t know what to do next…” -- Romantic Times BOOKreviews
A SUMMER IN EUROPE
Brant transpo
rts readers across the pond on a grand journey of self-awakening amidst the classic architecture and stunning vistas of Europe...
On her 30th birthday, Gwendolyn Reese receives and unexpected present from her widowed Aunt Bea: a grand tour of Europe in the company of Bea's Sudoku and Mahjongg Club. The prospect isn't entirely appealing. But when the gift she is expecting—an engagement ring from her boyfriend—doesn't materialize, Gwen decides to go.
At first, Gwen approaches the trip as if it's the math homework she assigns her students, diligently checking monuments off her must-see list. But amid the bougainvillea and beauty of southern Italy, something changes. Gwen begins to live in the moment—skipping down stone staircases in Capri, running her fingers over a glacier in view of the Matterhorn, racing through the Louvre and taste-testing pastries, wine and gelato. Reveling in every new experience—especially her attraction to a charismatic British physics professor—Gwen discovers that the ancient wonders around her are nothing compared to the renaissance unfolding within...
PRAISE:
“How I wish I were on this European tour with Marilyn Brant's winsome, wonderful characters. I loved every minute of this delightful novel, from the breathtaking sights to the deliciously described food to the thrilling new experiences.” -- Melissa Senate, bestselling author of The Love Goddess’ Cooking School and See Jane Date
“A SUMMER IN EUROPE is Brant's best book yet. A thinking woman's love story, it swept me away to breathtaking places with a cast of endearing characters I won't soon forget. Bravissima!” -- Susan McBride, author of Little Black Dress and The Cougar Club
“Reading a Marilyn Brant book is like eating a piece of rich chocolate -- it gets you excited, it’s deliciously satisfying, and it leaves a smile on your face after you’ve finished it!” -- Simone Elkeles, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of the Perfect Chemistry series
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