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The Wild Rose Press
www.thewildrosepress.com
Copyright ©1999 by Sherrie Kelley and Donna Smith
First published in Berkley 1999, 2008
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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With a husky laugh, he pulled her against him so that she leaned into his hard frame. Rosalyn gasped and tried to pull away, suddenly remembering where she was and who she was with. Someone who made her forget everything she had been taught. “Let me go, Chris."
He ignored her plea. “Did you really think I would let you fall?” came his throaty question.
The buttons of his coat pressed into her breasts. Rosalyn tried not to imagine what else might be pressing into her. He felt hard all over. Hard and delicious. She shifted, trying to ease out of his hold. His hands began move up and down her arms, adding to the weakness in her knees. Why did he do this to her?
She began to panic. “What are you doing here?” she asked again, holding her face away from his. She didn't want to—oh, no—what she really wanted to do was lean into him and press her mouth against his—
"Why, following you, like you guessed.” He slid his arm around her waist and with his free hand, began unbuttoning her coat while he spoke. “So what are you doing here? Forget something? This is your friend's house, isn't it?"
Rosalyn searched her muddled mind for an answer. What was she doing here? Looking for red beads to go on a valentine? Oh, no, he wasn't going to trick her into mentioning the valentine, because she hadn't forgotten his last reaction. But she could tell him the partial truth. “I'm looking for decorations for a special project Miss Howland has requested.” It was true, all of it. So far, so good. “Callie, she has—had—a collection of colored beads, you see.” What in heaven's name was wrong with her tongue?
"So you thought you'd sneak in and retrieve them,” he finished.
He also finished unbuttoning her coat and began to push the bulky material aside.
Rosalyn licked her lips, deciding she'd better find out what he was up to. “Why are you unbuttoning my coat?"
Other books by Sheridon Smythe...
A Heart Untamed “This delightful, light-hearted comedy with an undertone of seriousness floats like a fluffy cloud across an azure sky of romance."
~Affaire de Coeur
The Love Lesson “The Love Lesson is an entertaining western romance that features several enjoyable characters. Sub-genre fans will quickly realize that Sheridon Smythe is a wonderful new force who is providing readers with pleasurable novels.
~Harriet Klausner
Hero For Hire “Don't miss this tender love story, which makes you wish Mac and Savannah lived next door. A great story, great characters and a great ending.
~Old Book Barn review
Where The Heart Is “Putting this book down was hard to do, especially with the way the characters come to life, making it seem as if you truly are standing there with them. Where the Heart Is will spirit you through an emotional roller coaster ride that you won't soon forget.
~Affaire de Coeur
Mr. Complete “Sprinkled liberally with laugh-out-loud scenes, and not one but several yummy hunks, this fast-paced story will keep you engrossed to the last page.
~Romantic Times
Hot Number “Hot Number is a fast-moving story with loads of sexual pressure and plenty of hot scenes ... a light and humorous tale."
~RT BOOKclub
Those Baby Blues (Romantic Times Top Pick!) “A compelling, sexy romp that leaves you smiling!"
~Christine Feehan, New York Times bestselling author.
A Perfect Fit “Lots of good chuckles and a modern relationship that goes from zero to racing speed in seconds flat."
~Romantic Times
Mr. Hyde's Assets “A warmhearted and charming tale of secrets, lies and true love."
~Romantic Times
My Valentine
by
Sheridon Smythe
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
My Valentine
COPYRIGHT ©
1999, 2007 by Sherrie Kelly and Donna Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
Previously Published by Berkley Publishing Group, 1999
First American Rose Edition, 2008
Print ISBN 1-60154-211-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
I dedicate this book to everyone lucky enough
to have known true love in all its impressive glory;
I'm one of those lucky few—thanks, Gene.
You will always have my heart.
To Desha and Davis,
the biggest, brightest stars in my galaxy, I love you.
Thanks to all our readers.
We hope Cupid's arrow finds you!
Love,
Sherrie
I'd like to dedicate this book to my own hero.
We grew up together. In the early years you saved my life time and time again, and have taught me so much.
You have always stood beside me and believed in me. Thank you so much, Matthew Ryan Smith,
my firstborn son. May we stand against all odds and stay forever young together. This one's for you.
And also for the wind beneath my wings,
my partner and friend for twenty-five years,
Sherrie Kelley. We did it!
Love,
Donna
Chapter One
Love at Last Calls at My Door
It Could Be Passion and No More
What ‘Ere it Is, My Heart Does Soar
Soon I Shall Know...
With a determined glint in her eye Rosalyn Sue Mitchell skillfully navigated the crowd of people milling about the train station. Miss Balderdash was counting on her to catch that train, and by Heaven's, she was going to if it killed her.
Clutched in her gloved hand was a valentine card from the good woman herself. A grin tugged at Rosalyn's mouth as she automatically dodged a wailing toddler clinging to his mother's skirts. Since landing the prestigious job of delivery girl at The New England Valentine Factory, she discovered it didn't matter to the single citizens of Worcester, Massachusetts, that Valentine's Day was on February fourteenth—still more than three weeks away. It seemed getting an early start gave sweethearts plenty of time to make up their minds about the serious state of holy matrimony.
Rosalyn's job was to make local deliveries. Lately, the deliveries consisted mainly of valentine proposals. As Valentine's Day drew closer, the recipients either accepted the proposal by keeping the valentine, or rejected their suitors by returning the valentine through Rosalyn. And on Valentine's Day—the very busiest day of all, her employer had explained�
�she would be appointed a helper to handle the enormous job of delivering more valentines, and returning the rejected proposals. Miss Howland had also cautioned that consoling heartbroken beaus was part of her job.
Today was a different case entirely as Miss Balderdash wanted an immediate response from Mr. Boyd Letterman. Her heart couldn't take it, the woman had declared breathlessly. She simply had to know before Mr. Letterman left on his week-long business trip to Chicago.
And Rosalyn had given her solemn word she would not leave the train until she got his answer. The fact that Miss Balderdash was the one proposing—via Rosalyn—was a scandal in itself should anyone find out.
Well, they wouldn't, Rosalyn thought staunchly, at least not from her. She was sworn to secrecy, helped along by a ten-dollar gold piece compliments of Miss Balderdash.
The train emitted a warning whistle and Rosalyn began to skip, not daring to risk showing a flash of ankle by running. Oh, the restrictions society put upon women! With a heartfelt sigh, she reached the platform and climbed the steps leading to the train. Frantically, she began a search along the windows, looking for a man fitting Mr. Letterman's description. Mentally, she covered Miss Balderdash's detailed list; distinguished, blonde mustache and hair, handsome, blue eyes, noble jaw, heart-fluttering smile...?
Rosalyn's gaze caught the glint of blonde hair and choked on a laugh. Miss Balderdash forgot to mention roly poly, with a hawk nose and close-set eyes. Of course, to Miss Balderdash, who was obviously deeply in love, Mr. Letterman was an attractive man. Looking into his blinding blue eyes, Rosalyn knew she'd found her man,—er—Miss's Balderdash's man.
"Mr. Letterman?” She grasped the window frame and planted the toes of her boots on the lower ledge of the train, hauling herself up to the window. The gentleman's eyes widened as Rosalyn lifted the window and stuck her head through, smiling.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You are Mr. Letterman—aren't you?” Rosalyn held her breath, knowing she had only moments before the train pulled out. If this wasn't her man, then she was wasting precious time—
"I am. What can I do ... for you?"
His astonishment lingered, making Rosalyn chuckle. “I've got a delivery from Ilene Balderdash.” Instantly, his expression softened. A dreamy look appeared in his eyes and Rosalyn nearly snorted her satisfaction. She handed him the valentine, her avid gaze on his face as he read the verse on the inside of the card. Since she had versed the card herself, she could easily follow his moving lips: I look into your eyes and see my own feelings reflected there, I love you so and fully realize how much you care. Why should we continue to live our lives apart? We are destined to be together and become one heart. So tell me now before you leave me alone for eternity, upon your return will you marry me?
"This is highly irregular,” he stumbled out, his face suffusing with brilliant color. Nevertheless, he looked pleased, studying the outside of the elaborate valentine and running pudgy fingers over the pinhole design in the shape of two love-birds kissing. “I don't know...?
The train began to rumble, then jerk. Steam hissed loudly, followed by the second whistle. Rosalyn clung tightly to the window. She wasn't leaving without an answer—she had promised. “Mr. Letterman, may I make a suggestion?” When he nodded hesitantly, she deliberately lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Marry the woman. She's obviously silly in love with you, and willing to risk her reputation by proposing."
"But...” Still, he looked undecided.
Heaven's sake, Rosalyn thought with rising exasperation, the train would leave any second now. Instinctively, she played on his obvious weakness. “Have you sampled her gingerbread cookies yet?” She rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “She offered one to me while I was...” Rosalyn's mind went blank. What? What could she have been doing? Oh. “While I was waiting on her to finish writing the valentine verse and it was delicious—"
"She wrote this?"
A tiny white lie surely wouldn't hurt. “Yes. Then, I gorged myself on a helping of roast beef and gravy, with the lightest biscuits I've ever tasted—"
"Okay, okay! Yes, I'll marry her.” Once said, Mr. Letterman seemed relieved, confirming Rosalyn's suspicion the man suffered from a shy nature.
"Ahem. Ma'am?"
Flushed with victory, Rosalyn beamed at him, willing to give him the moon. “Yes?"
"Did you know the train is moving?"
Startled, Rosalyn glanced down at the platform, which seemed to be passing by at an alarming rate of speed. No, the platform wasn't moving—she was! “Oh, dear,” she muttered.
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Moments before Rosalyn reached Mr. Letterman, Christian Garret descended from the warm train onto the platform and faced the January wind without flinching. He shoved his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his burgundy wool overcoat and paused to sweep a measuring gaze over the crowded train station.
People embraced loved ones just arriving in the bustling town of Worcester: Others waiting to board the train readied their luggage and said final goodbyes.
A youngster's wailing cries resounded through the station house, triggering painful memories Christian wasted no time rejecting.
He was here to bury those memories deep and forever, and to collect his due from his father. Money couldn't erase the past, but Christian found he preferred the cold comfort money could bring over love, lies, and ultimately, pain.
Stepping off the platform, he flung a handful of change into a waiting crowd of street urchins, a rag-tag mixture of hollow-cheeked boys who depended on the well-to-do to put food in their bellies. It was the same in New York, and he was always generous. He wished he could do more, but knew that one person alone could not solve the world's poverty epidemic.
"I'll need a conveyance, and my luggage loaded.” He smiled at the smallest boy, surely not more than eight years old. “And a local paper, if you please. There's more where that came from.” Christian knew he took the risk of never seeing their faces again, but he wasn't concerned.
"Yes, sir."
"Right away, sir."
They dispersed as quickly as they appeared. Christian turned to watch as people began to board the train, urged by the last whistle call.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash of bright pink hanging from a passenger window several yards down from the boarding steps. Christian frowned, then gaped as he identified a woman's rear—covered by a pink velvet bustle—hitched in the air.
Surely his eyes deceived him?
He blinked incredulously, then stared hard. Yes, it was a woman, clinging to the outside of the train with her head stuck inside the window. Christian suppressed a spontaneous chuckle at the bizarre sight. Ladies didn't hang from trains, at least in New York they didn't. Maybe the rules of society were less strict in a smaller town. As he continued to watch, she reached her arm through the open window, revealing a rare show of trim ankles at the base of her long pink coat.
Christian experienced an odd stab of pleasure at the sight. He frowned, wondering what the devil had gotten into him. She was just a girl, a stranger, and he'd viewed many ankles in his lifetime. Besides, she was probably old or as ugly as homemade soap—or both.
He was about to turn away, disgusted with himself and his curious reaction, when the train began to move. Freezing in place, he watched in growing alarm as the woman continued to cling to the train instead of jumping out of harm's way.
His feet began to move before his brain realized his intentions. Silly fool, he thought, jumping onto the platform and racing after the hanging girl. The train picked up speed and Christian ran faster, eyeing the platform ahead and wondering where it ended. A huge water tower lay just beyond the platform, definitely an unbridgeable obstacle. Christian muttered a breathless curse. Blast it, she was going to get herself hurt if she didn't let go—!
The thought barely registered when she did let go, spilling into his arms and sending them crashing to the platform in a tangle of limbs and petticoats. Quite by accident, C
hristian's hand closed around a firm breast as he sought a handhold.
"For the love of God, woman!” he exploded, untangling himself and getting to his feet. He grabbed her arm and hauled her up against him as she regained her balance. “Are you insane?"
She jerked loose and busied herself smoothing the skirts of her coat, apparently unconcerned with his anger and her near brush with death. Christian clenched his jaw, wanting to shake her until she realized what a fright she'd given him. Hell, he couldn't fathom why he bothered to save her in the first place. It wasn't like him to concern himself with others, especially with strange, demented women. In his book, this young girl definitely fit into that category. And she was young, he noticed, which would explain her impulsive behavior.
"Are you insane?” he demanded again, slightly mollified when she appeared too ashamed to face him. He soon found out she was nothing of the sort.
She tipped her head back and the haughty look she gave him left no doubt she thought him insane. “I am not insane, sir. I knew exactly what I was doing."
Christian stiffened, more from her ridiculous statement than from the sight of her angelic face, he told himself. And he would definitely ignore that curious little jerk around his heart as his brain made the connection between the ankle, the face, and every delectable inch in between.
She was beautiful, with a sweet curve to her full lips and rosy color splashed against creamy white skin. Dark brows arched elegantly above eyes so compelling, Christian had to tear his gaze away before he could breathe again. Nothing but after shock, he assured himself. His gaze slid briefly to the rich dark hair wound around her head in a charming fashion before he disciplined his roving thoughts and asked, “Then please enlighten me as to what you were you planning to do when your backside connected with that water tower there?” He lifted a gloved hand and pointed to his right without taking his eyes from her face.
A perplexed frown creased her brows as her gaze followed his hand. Deep brown eyes narrowed into the sun, then stretched wide. Her generous mouth parted and she slid her tongue along her bottom lip in surprise.
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