Cutting Loose

Coming Undone

“Snappy and sexy…. Upbeat and fun, with a touch of danger and passion, this is a great summer read.”

- Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Sexy, wisecracking fun…. Passionate, romantic, emotional at times and always fun.”

- Contemporary Romance Reviews

Just for Kicks

“Deft characters, smart dialogue, laugh-out-loud moments and sizzling sexual tension (you might want to read Chapter 15 twice) make this hard to put down…. Lovers of romance, passion and laughs should go all in for this one.”

- Publishers Weekly

“Andersen’s follow-up to Skintight retains the charm and wit of the previous story…. Hot, hot, hot!”

- Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Hot & Bothered

“A classic plot line receives a fresh, fun treatment…well-developed secondary characters add depth to this zesty novel, placing it a level beyond most of its competition.”

- Publishers Weekly

Skintight

“Andersen again injects magic into a story that would be clichéd in another’s hands, delivering warm, vulnerable characters in a touching yet suspenseful read.”

- Publishers Weekly, starred review

“Written with Andersen’s signature sass and sizzle, this book will appeal to fans of Sandra Hill and Rachel Gibson.”

- Booklist

Dear Reader,

I don’t know what I’d do without my girlfriends. Women forge connections that make crummy days better, breakups a tad easier and bad hair days, well, still bad hair days, but so much less dismal with a pal to make you laugh or lend you her hip new hat to disguise it. So I’m really excited to introduce the first of my new Sisterhood Diaries trilogy, because this series features three women who have been friends since the fourth grade.

Jane Kaplinski thanks heaven for her two best friends. It wasn’t easy being the only child of self-absorbed second-rate actors, and there were times growing up when only Poppy and Ava’s friendship made all the stormy exits and theatrical reunions in her household bearable.

These days Jane has her life on track, and the only thing on her mind is fulfilling the final request of a dear old lady who bequeathed the Sisterhood her estate. Jane is certainly not looking for love-she’s way too familiar with the damage done in its name. Still, if she ever does fall in love, she intends it to be with someone stable. A nice cerebral professor, maybe.

Then Devlin Kavanagh, a footloose international yachts sailor with steamy stamped all over him, comes home to help his family business during a crisis. And all Jane’s careful plans go up in flames. Who knew arguing with an irresponsible heartbreaker could be so exciting? Or that they’d generate such heat? He’s got issues of his own, of course, so this can’t possibly last.

Or can it?

It was fun making sparks fly, as well as creating Dev’s and Jane’s friends and families. As always, I hope you enjoy my efforts.

Happy reading!

Susan Andersen

MILLS & BOON

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Cutting Loose

Susan Andersen

This is dedicated, with love, to a woman I’ve known

since I was ten.

To

Marilyn Hansen

Who took the time to sit on her porch steps

to talk to me when I was a kid.

And who has been a warmhearted

friend since I became an adult.

You rock.

~Susie

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Dear Diary,

Families suck. Why can’t I have a regular mom and dad?

May 12, 1990

“J ANE , J ANE, WE’RE HERE !”

Twelve-year-old Jane Kaplinski leaned out her bedroom window. Below, her friend’s chauffeur-driven car was parked at the curb in front of her middle-class house, her friends Ava and Poppy spilling out the vehicle’s back door.

“I’ll be right down,” she called, watching Poppy’s cloud of blond curls swaying in the breeze, her filmy skirts plastered against her slender legs. She’d probably bought her outfit at Kmart, but as usual she looked stylish and pulled together, while Ava, who had developed a full year and a half ahead of everyone else in their grade level, looked sort of packed into her pale green dress, its expensive workmanship tugged akilter at bust and hips. But her sleek red hair, brighter than a four-alarm fire, blazed beneath the spring sunshine’s sudden peekaboo appearance through the clouds and her dimples flashed as she grinned up at Jane.

Smoothing a hand down her own navy skirt, Jane flicked off her radio, aborting Madonna’s “Vogue” midsong. The front door banged open downstairs as she picked up her backpack and carefully closed her bedroom door behind her. She smiled as she headed for the staircase, imagining Ava’s usual insistence that they knock while Poppy countered they didn’t need an engraved invitation.

But it was her mother’s voice calling her name that froze Jane in place on the bottom step a moment later.

The suitcase in the foyer should have been her tip-off, but she’d been so focused on her outing with her best friends that she hadn’t even noticed it. Now here came her mother, ice clinking a familiar Parent rhythm in the highball glass clutched in her hand as she bore down with frenetic joy on her only child.

Crapdanghell.

“You’re back,” she said flatly as her mother gathered her to her bosom, and choked when her nose sank into Obsession-scented cleavage. She stood rigid until Dorrie loosened her grip, then edged toward the door.

“Of course I am, darling. You know I could never stay away from you. Besides-” she gave her hair a pat “-your father simply begged me to return.” Dorrie slung an arm around Jane’s shoulders and looked down at her, the aroma of Johnnie Walker Black wafting from her breath to clash with her perfume. “Look at you, all pressed and shiny! Are you going somewhere?”

Jane twisted away and took a giant step backward. “I’ve been invited to tea at Miss Wolcott’s.”

“Agnes Bell Wolcott?”

She nodded.

“My little girl is so highfalutin.” Dorrie gave her a swift once-over. “You couldn’t find something a little more colorful to wear?”

Casting a glance at her mom’s neon-hued top, she merely said, “I like this.”

“I have some nice red beads we could use to jazz it up.” She lifted a shiny brown hank of Jane’s stick-straight hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “Maybe fix up your ’do a little? You know how important staging is-if you want to look the role, you need to pay attention to the costume!”

Jane managed not to shudder. “No, thanks. I’m going for tea, not starring in one of your and Dad’s productions. Besides, didn’t you hear Ava’s car pulling up out front?”

“Did I?” Dorrie dropped the tendril and took another sip of her Johnnie Walker. “Well, yes, I suppose I did, now that you mention it. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Big surprise. Mom was usually all about Mom. Well, that or focused on the drama du jour of the Dorrie and Mike Show.

The doorbell rang and with a sigh of relief, Jane eased around her mother. “Gotta go. Me and Ava are spending the night at Poppy’s, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And, boy, was she grateful to be spared tonight’s theatrics when her dad discovered Mom was back. It was guaranteed to be filled with passion and fireworks, and having lived through both too many times to count she was just as happy to miss the show.

Ava and Poppy let themselves in before she could reach the door. They immediately surrounded her and, calling, “Hello, Mrs. Kaplinski, goodbye, Mrs. Kaplinski,” hustled her to the car.

Daniel, the Spencers’ chauffeur, opened the Lincoln’s back door. As Poppy dove into the backseat he tipped his neatly capped head at Jane. “Miss Kaplinski.”

She always wanted to giggle at his formality, but she gave him a grave nod in return. “Mr. Daniel.” She climbed in sedately after Poppy.

Ava plopped down next to her and Daniel closed the door.

The three friends looked at each other as the chauffeur walked around to the driver’s door, and, clutching her hair, Poppy mimed a scream. “Can you believe this?” she stage-whispered. “Tea at the Wolcott mansion!” She looked past Jane at Ava and asked in her normal register, “Why did Miss Wolcott invite us again?”

“I told you, I’m not sure.” Ava tugged on the hem of her dress to cover her pudgy thighs. “Maybe because we all talked to her at that dumb musicale thing my parents had. They were, like, so psyched that she accepted their invitation. I guess she turns down more than she accepts these days and everyone wants to have the party she comes to. But at the same time my mom says Miss Wolcott’s a genuine eccentric and she was a little nervous that she might say or do something Not Done By Our Kind.” She shrugged. “Dunno-she seemed pretty regular to me. Except maybe for her voice. My dad says it’s like a foghorn.”

“I thought she was interesting,” Jane said.

“Well, yeah, ” Poppy said. “She’s been everywhere and done everything. Can you believe that she’s been to places like Paris and Africa and even flew her own plane until a couple of years ago? Plus, she’s got that great mansion.” She bounced in her seat. “It makes your place look like a shack, Ava, and I didn’t think there was any place prettier than your house. I’m dying to see Miss Wolcott’s on the inside.”

“Me, too,” Jane agreed. “It sounds like she collects all kinds of rad stuff.”

Ava pulled a candy bar from her backpack, ripped the wrapper from one end and offered Poppy and Jane a share. When they declined, she shrugged and chomped off a large bite. “I’m just glad to get out of Cotillion class. Any excuse to avoid Buttface Cade Gallari is a good one in my book.”

Upon arriving at the three-storied mansion on the crowded western slope of Queen Anne hill they were ushered into a large parlor by an elderly woman wearing a severely styled black dress. She murmured assurances that Miss Wolcott would join them shortly and backed out of the room, rolling closed a long, ornate pocket door.

The high-ceilinged parlor was dim and cool, the windows all mantled in velvet curtains. Eclectic groups of artifacts cluttered every surface, making a space that could easily contain the entire first floor of Jane’s house seem almost cozy.

“Wow.” She turned in a slow circle, trying to take in everything at once. “Lookit all this stuff.” She edged over to a glass-fronted case and peered at the crowded display of antique beaded bags. “These are awesome!”

“How can you tell?” Ava asked. “There’s no light in here.”

“Yeah,” Poppy agreed. “Look at the size of those windows-I’d keep the curtains open all day long if I lived here. Maybe paint the walls a nice yellow to brighten things up.”

“Ladies,” a deep, distinctive voice said from behind them, and they all turned. “Thank you for coming.” In tailored camel slacks and fluid jacket, with a high-necked blouse as snowy as her carefully arranged hair, Agnes Bell Wolcott stood framed in the now partially open pocket door. A beautiful antique-looking cameo nestled in the cascading ruffle at her throat. She glanced at Poppy. “You may open the curtains if you wish.”

Without so much as a blush at being overheard, Poppy ran to do so and the high-cloud pearlescent glow of an overcast Seattle afternoon immediately brightened the southerly facing room.

“Well, now. Would you girls care to explore some of my collections or would you rather enjoy a light repast first?”

Before Jane could vote for option number one, Ava said, “Eat, please.”

Their hostess led them to another room that held an exquisitely set table in front of a marble fireplace. A three-tiered pastry stand, set squarely in its middle, held an array of beautifully presented desserts and crustless sandwiches. They sat themselves according to the little name cards at each place setting and Miss Wolcott rang for tea.

She then focused her undivided attention on them. “I imagine you’re wondering why I invited you here today.”

“We were just talking about that on the way over,” Poppy said frankly as Jane gave a polite nod and Ava murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

“This is my way of saying thank you for your company at the Spencer musicale the other night. It’s not often young ladies will take the time to keep an old woman company, and I very much enjoyed talking to you.” She regarded them with bright-eyed interest. “You girls are very different from each other,” she observed. “I wonder if I might ask how you met?”

“We all go to Country Day,” Poppy said. Intercepting Miss Wolcott’s discreet inspection of her inexpensive clothing, she grinned. “My folks are all love, peace and joy types, but my Grandma Ingles is an alumna. She pays my tuition.”

“And I get financial aid,” Jane volunteered. Not that her parents had bothered to arrange it. If her second-grade teacher hadn’t submitted the original scholarship application Jane would still be attending public school. Nowadays she filled in the annual paperwork herself, so all her folks had to do was sign it.

“I’m just a regular student,” Ava admitted. “I don’t do anything special for tuition and Jane and Poppy are better at school than I am.” She smiled, punching dimples deep in each cheek. “Especially Jane.”

Warmth flushed Jane’s cheeks, ran sweetly through her veins. “Ava’s special in other ways, though.”

“I find it lovely to see such a close friendship between girls,” Miss Wolcott said. “You’re quite a sisterhood.”

Jane savored the word as the black-clad woman entered the room, rolling a cart that bore an elegant tea service. Miss Wolcott indicated the rectangular packages lying across the girls’ plates as her servant settled the silver teapot in front of her. “I got you a small token of my appreciation. Please open them while I pour.”

Jane carefully untied silver ribbon and peeled gold-and-silver paper from her package while Poppy ripped hers off with abandon and Ava unwrapped hers with a just-right show of attention that she’d no doubt learned in one of the Miss Manners classes she was always attending.

Jane smiled to herself. Maybe it truly wasn’t easy being a rich girl. Heaven knew Av told them so often enough.

Nestled in the paper was a deep-green leather-bound book with her name engraved in gold on the front cover. Poppy’s, she saw, was red, while Ava’s was a rich blue. Wondering how the older woman had known green was her favorite color, she opened hers, but the gilt-edged pages within were blank. She glanced at Miss Wolcott.

“I’ve kept a diary since I was your age,” the white-haired woman said in her deep basso voice. “And finding you all such interesting young women, I thought you might enjoy keeping one, as well. I find it a great place to share my secrets.”

“Awesome,” said Poppy.

Ava’s face lit up. “What a great idea.”

Looking from Miss Wolcott to the friends she’d known since the fourth grade, Jane thought of all the impressions and feelings that were constantly crowding her mind. Things weren’t always great at home, but she didn’t really like to talk about it-not even to her two best friends. Sometimes especially not to them. Poppy had great parents, so while she could and did sympathize with the way Jane’s folks were constantly slamming in and out of her house, she didn’t truly understand how shaky that could make the ground feel under a girl’s feet. And although Ava’s own home life was far from ideal, at least her parents weren’t a couple of actors who lived for the drama of constant exits and entrances.

But the idea of writing down how she felt really appealed to her. She smiled.

“Maybe we could call them the Sisterhood Diaries.”

CHAPTER ONE

I am so never wearing a thong again. Poppy swears they’re comfortable-which probably should’ve been my first clue.

“O MIGAWD , J ANE ,” Ava screeched. “Oh, my, gawd. It’s official!”

Jane pulled the phone away from her ear. Her friend’s voice had gone so high she was surprised the leashed dachshund sniffing the light standard down on First Avenue didn’t start barking. But she clapped the receiver back to her ear as excitement danced a fast jitterbug in her stomach. “Probate finally closed, then?”

“Yes, two minutes ago!” Ava laughed like an escapee from a lunatic asylum. “The Wolcott mansion is officially ours. Can you believe it? I sure miss Miss Agnes, but this is just too thrilling. Omigawd, I can barely breathe, I’m so excited. I have to call Poppy and tell her the news, too.” She laughed again. “We’ve gotta celebrate! Do you mind coming to West Seattle?”

“Lemme see.” Stretching the telephone cord as far as it would reach, she stepped out of her cramped sixth-floor office at the Seattle Metropolitan Museum to peer through the director’s open door two doors down. The coveted corner office showcased a panoramic view from Magnolia Bluff to Mount Rainier, with the Olympic Mountains rising dramatically across Elliott Bay and Puget Sound. Not that she could see more than a fraction of it from her angle, but she wasn’t trying to scope out the scenery, anyway. Traffic flow was her objective. “No, that oughtta work. The freeway looks pretty clear your way.”

“Good. Let’s meet at the Matador in an hour. Overpriced drinks are on me.”

She found herself grinning as she changed into her walking shoes and threw her heels into her tote in preparation to leaving. Swinging her butt to the happy dance song playing in her head, she freshened her lipstick, tossed the tube back in her purse and stuffed it into the tote as well.

“You look jazzed.”

Jane let out a scream. “Good God!” She slapped a hand to her racing heart and whirled to face the man in her doorway.

“Sorry.” Gordon Ives, her fellow junior curator, stepped into the room. “Didn’t mean to startle you. What was the little dance for?”

Ordinarily she wouldn’t consider telling him. She had a strict policy of keeping her private business out of the office that had worked well for her over the course of her career and saw no reason to change it now.

And yet…

Part of the inheritance was going to impact the museum, so it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t soon find out anyhow. And the plain truth was, she was excited. “I’m getting the Wolcott collections.”

He stared at her, his pale blue eyes incredulous. “As in Agnes Bell Wolcott’s collections? The Agnes Wolcott, who traveled the world wearing trousers when her generation’s women stayed at home to raise the kids and didn’t dream of stepping outside the house attired in less than dresses, gloves and hats?”

“Yeah. She didn’t wear only trousers, though. She wore her share of dresses and gowns, as well.”

“I’ve heard about her collections forever. But I thought she died.”

“She did, last March.” And grief stabbed deep for the second time today at the reminder. There was an unoccupied space in her soul that Miss Agnes used to fill and she had to draw a steadying breath. Then, perhaps because she was still off balance, she heard herself admitting, “She left them to me and two of my friends.” Along with the mansion, but Gordon didn’t need to know that as well.

“You’re kidding me! Why would she do that?”

“Because we were friends. More than that, actually-Poppy and Ava and I were probably the closest thing Miss Wolcott had to family.” Their original visit eighteen years ago had led to monthly teas and a friendship that had deepened as the fascinating, wonderful old lady took a hands-on personal interest in their lives and accomplishments, treating the three of them as if they were somehow equally as fascinating. She’d always gone the extra mile for them, making a fuss over their accomplishments in a way no one else had ever done-well, at least in her and Ava’s lives. Like the celebratory dinner she’d thrown at Canlis the evening Jane had landed her job here.

She rubbed a hand over her mouth to disguise its sudden tremble-then sternly pulled herself together again. This wasn’t the place or person in front of whom she wanted to indulge her emotions. “Anyhow,” she said briskly, “I’ll only be around in the mornings for the next two months. A couple of the collections are being donated to the museum and Marjorie’s letting me work afternoons at the Wolcott mansion to catalog them.”

“The director knew about this?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised no one else here heard, then.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why would they?”

“Well, it’s just-you know. Nothing ever seems to stay a secret in this place.”

“True. But this was a private inheritance that came as a complete surprise to me and my friends. Then there were months of probate before it was finalized. It’s been all we’ve been able to do ourselves to figure out how this all works, and I only told Marjorie because one of Miss Agnes’s bequests directly affects the museum. I saw no reason to talk about it with people not involved in the matter.”

Sensing her curious co-worker was about to ask what the bequest was and perhaps even who else had received one, she looked at her utilitarian leather-banded, large-faced watch. “Oops, gotta go. I’ve got a bus to catch.” She grabbed up her tote and ushered him out of her office, closing the door behind her.

Emerging onto the street a few minutes later, she pulled on her little black cashmere sweater against the brisk wind and her sunglasses against the bright October sun. She’d only mentioned the bus to get Gordon out of her office, but after a quick mental debate she decided against going home for her car and hiked up to Marion Street to catch the 55 instead.

As the bus approached the Alaska Junction a short while later she changed back into her heels, smiling down at the leopard-skin, open-toed construction. She loved these shoes and knew this would probably be one of the last times she’d get to wear them this season. According to the KIRO weatherman on the news this morning, their sunny days were numbered.

She beat Ava and Poppy to the restaurant, but even though it was a weeknight and early yet, the Matador’s tequila bar was starting to fill up. She bought herself a club soda at the stained-glass-backed bar and staked out one of the few free tables.

She’d never been here before and spent a few minutes admiring the open-concept flow of bar into restaurant and the intricate metalwork on display. She killed another minute perusing the menu, but people-watching soon proved more compelling and she gave herself over to checking everyone out.