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Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
About The Author
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Epilogue
Copyright
“Johnny, Don’t Kiss Me.”
Before he could misunderstand, Francesca rushed on. “I want you to kiss me, but don’t, because if you do, I’m gonna do something crazy, and I can’t do anything crazy because I have to go to work.”
He did draw back, but the look he gave her left her as feverish as he’d been. “Maybe you should throw me out of here. I can’t seem to resist touching you.”
“Maybe that’s why I can’t throw you out, Johnny. No one’s ever found it a problem to resist me before.”
“Ah, sweetheart…” He took hold of her hand and placed an ardent kiss in her palm. “Don’t tell me things like that. It puts even crazier ideas in my head than are already there.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the wonderful world of Silhouette Desire! This month, look for six scintillating love stories. I know you’re going to enjoy them all. First up is The Beauty, the Beast and the Baby, a fabulous MAN OF THE MONTH from Dixie Browning. It’s also the second book in her TALL, DARK AND HANDSOME miniseries.
The exciting SONS AND LOVERS series also continues with Leanne Banks’s Ridge: The Avenger. This is Leanne’s first Silhouette Desire, but she certainly isn’t new to writing romance. This month, Desire has Husband: Optional, the next installment of Marie Ferrarella’s THE BABY OF THE MONTH CLUB. Don’t worry if you’ve missed earlier titles in this series, because this book “stands alone.” And it’s so charming and breezy you’re sure to just love it!
The WEDDING BELLES series by Carole Buck is completed with Zoe and the Best Man. This series just keeps getting better and better, and Gabriel Flynn is one scrumptious hero. Next is Kristin James’ Desire, The Last Groom on Earth, a delicious opposites-attract story written with Kristin’s trademark sensuality.
Rounding out the month is an amnesia story (one of my favorite story twists), Just a Memory Away, by award-winning author Helen R. Myers.
And next month, we’re beginning CELEBRATION 1000, a very exciting, ultraspecial three-month promotion celebrating the publication of the 1000th Silhouette Desire. During April, May and June, look for books by some of your most beloved writers, including Mary Lynn Baxter, Annette Broadrick, Joan Johnston, Cait London, Ann Major and Diana Palmer, who is actually writing book #1000! These will be months to remember, filled with “Tceepers.”
As always, I wish you the very best,
Lucia Macro
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Just a Memory Away
Helen R. Myers
www.millsandboon.co.uk
HELEN R. MYERS
satisfies her preference for a reclusive life-style by living deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas with her husband, Robert, and—because they were there first— the various species of four-legged and winged creatures that wander throughout their ranch. To write has been her lifelong dream, and to bring a slightly different flavor to each book is an ongoing ambition.
Admittedly restless, she thinks that helps her writing, explaining, “It makes me reach for new territory and experiment with old boundaries.” In 1993 the Romance Writers of America awarded Navarrone the prestigious RITA award for Best Short Contemporary Novel of the Year.
For Pam Williams
a special friend “Down Under”
with love and thanks to you and the family for the friendship and the laughter
Prologue
He’d been driving for hours since he’d stopped in Oklahoma City for lunch, and the miles were beginning to take their toll on him, along with the strain of driving in the dark. Unable to conclude whether his eyes or his butt ached more, he scowled at the green-and-white road sign that became visible on his right. According to it, he still had another ninety-minutes-plus of torture ahead of him before he reached Houston.
Hell. The fuel gauge indicated the car was getting seriously low on gas again, and he couldn’t wait much longer before stretching his legs. But except for the out-of-the-way filling station he’d noticed advertised behind that mileage sign, the next major rest stop was a good twenty miles down the road. He doubted the car had that much gas left in it. It served him right for not exiting ten miles back; but no, he’d snubbed that station once he’d recognized its corporate logo. No way had he been willing to give them another dime of his money; not after he’d lost that tidy bundle in the stock market because of them.
Why the devil hadn’t he simply flown down to Texas, as he usually did?
Because Sidney said you needed time off.
The first thing he planned to do upon checking in at his hotel was to call his golf-partner-cum-physician and tell him what he could do with himself the next time he got another of his brainstorms. “’Your blood pressure is going through the ceiling,’” he mimicked Sid with disgust. “’Slow down now or the only golf you’ll be playing is with the likes of J. Paul Getty and Diamond Jim Brady at that great country club in the sky.’”
So what had he done? When the business trip to Oklahoma City and Houston came up, he’d let Sid talk him into renting a car and driving down from Chicago. Driving. “Take time to notice the scenery for a change. Then catch a connecting flight to the Cayman Islands for a week and ingest some sea air. Ease up on the old ticker. Do it for me, okay?”
Well, he had news for Sid; if the Great Accountant in the Sky had wanted him to waste his time taxiing himself along some of the flattest geography in this country, He would never have allowed the invention of supersonic jets.
He sighed with exasperation as he exited for Peavy’s Country Store and Gas, thinking that the place damn well better provide the twenty-four-hour service it advertised.
Pine trees towered on either side of him as he coasted to a stop at the unlit crossroads. In fact, he couldn’t see a light of any kind in either direction, let alone a hint of any type of man-made structure.
It’s enough to make you miss downtown Chicago. At rush hour.
With a long-suffering sigh, he cut a sharp left turn as the advertisement had directed and thought he would like a few words with the environmentalists who kept crying wolf about the world’s population dilemma. The only thing in excess around here seemed to be trees.
He drove for about a quarter of a mile. The view didn’t change: varying degrees of blackness continued to cocoon him, thanks to the encroaching woods, and all that his headlights picked up was—
“What the…?”
His car’s beams illuminated a white compact with its hood raised. But what sent his mood plummeting straight into gloom was seeing that the driver was female.
Just what he needed. More woman problems.
If it had been a guy, he would have kept driving and notified the attendant at the station; but no such luck. The woman stood beside the car waving a white handkerchief or something. Apparently no one had ever told her that it was unsafe to get out of her car at night and flag down strangers.
“Brainless twit. You’re a walking crime statistic waiting to happen.” Lucky for her, he’d come along, because there was only one thing on his mind and it wasn’t trouble.
He turned on his emergency flashers and pulled up beside the miniskirted brunette. As he lowered the passenger window at the push of a button, she pressed a hand to her low-necked blouse and leaned over to eye him anxiously.
Now she got cautious? he fumed silently. He didn’t bother responding to her tentative smile. “Engine trouble?”
She eyed his attire and visibly relaxed.
“Thank God. I thought I was going to have to spend the whole night stranded out here. Do you know how to change a flat tire, sir?”
He stretched to peer at the compact’s front and back wheels. “I don’t see any flat.”
“It’s the front right one. I hate to trouble you.”
Right. He watched her abandon demureness to brush her hair back from her face, which gave him a blatant view of generous cleavage and creamy skin swelling over the cups of a lacy black bra. Sure, you hate to trouble me.
He sighed. “Save the floor show, honey. I’m in a hurry, but I will drive you to the station down the street. Peavy’s, I think the sign said. Someone there should be able to help you.”
For an instant her expression hardened, but she quickly replaced it with a beguiling smile. “You’re obviously not from around here or you’d know that place went out of business ages ago.”
Swearing under his breath, he downshifted, and climbed out of the car. What choice did he have? Contrary to what his last secretary had accused as she’d walked out on him, he wasn’t a bastard; just disciplined and busy. In any case, if the woman was a local and knew about Peavy’s, maybe she could tell him where the nextPreoccupied, his senses as numb as his body from the hours of monotonous driving, he was slow to hear someone approaching him from behind, slow to react. He began to turn, only to be stopped by a sharp blow to the back of his head.
The night exploded into dozens of headlights that blinded him. A sonic boom roared in his ears. As panic splintered every bone in his frame, he tried to run; but his legs betrayed him and he toppled to the street.
He knew another savage instant of pain as he hit the oily road. Then he knew nothing at all.
One
“Frankie—dance with me!”
“Thank you, Moose. But I value my toes too much to expose them to those clodhoppers of yours. Besides, it’s time for last call. Want another beer before you go home for the night?”
He did and he ordered another round for the other two regulars seated with him. Frankie nodded, wheeled around to her next table, and repeated the question.
“I got a better idea, Frankie, darlin’,” the potbellied man at the farthest end drawled with a tomcat smile. “Why don’t you take me home to that li’l ol’ trailer of yours? I’ve got a powerful hankerin’ to be tucked in t’night.”
“There’s no missing that you need tucking in, Howie,” she told him, as she exchanged the filled ashtray on the table for a clean one. “But what would your wife say?”
He grinned and his twinkling eyes vanished in the folds of his pudgy face. “That you didn’t have the sense of a chigger.
”
Frankie waited for his buddies to stop guffawing and slapping at the table. “Well, you know I do respect Pru’s judgment. On top of that, you don’t like animals. The man who gets tucked in by me has to be crazy about my pets, too.”
“Aw, ain’t nobody on earth ‘cept you could find those critters lovable, Frankie.”
With a shrug and a smile, she collected several longnecked beer bottles and added them to the empties on her tray. “They may not all be as pretty as Lassie or hold a conversation like Mr. Ed, but they’re better company than the two-legged critters I’ve gone out with. Stayed around longer, too,” she added with a wink. “Now except for Howie, who’s going to have coffee or else have his keys taken, what’ll it be, boys?”
A few requested a repeat of their last order, and she returned to the bar and called her list to Benny. As the owner of The Two-Step Club reached into the cooler for the beers, Frankie dropped the empty cans and bottles in their proper recycling drums.
When she’d started working here fourteen months ago, the routine was to toss everything into the industrial garbage receptacle out back. She convinced everyone to separate aluminum from glass. Once a week Benny loaded the barrels into her truck, and she took them to the recycling plant in the next town. Once a month the proceeds were split between owner and employees.
“Sure has been slow since those timber-company fellas moved up the road,” Benny muttered, adding a bourbon and water to her tray.
Frankie wrinkled her nose, as much for the cigarette-buttfilled ashtrays she dumped as for his observation. Just because her boss didn’t have people stacked three-deep at the bar, he acted as if he had one foot in bankruptcy court. For her part, she didn’t miss the timber people’s tips.
“Be glad they left while there are still some trees around,” she told him, thinking about the mess they’d left behind. She had to pass several of their so-called “cleared sites” on her way to and from work, and they more accurately resembled the aftereffects of a forest fire—or worse.
The skinny man’s sailor’s cap nearly fell off as he threw back his head and groaned to the ceiling. In the background the jukebox switched from a mournful country-andwestern ballad to a bawdy rock-and-roll tune. “Could we skip the environmentalist lecture for once?” He had to all but shout to be heard above the pulsating music. “You wouldn’t have so much time to stand on a soapbox if you got yourself a life!”
His declaration was nothing new, but it still didn’t bother her. “I have a life.”
“You live m an aluminum hot-dog wrapper, you collect garbage, and you commune with terrorist reptiles, rude birds, and neurotic flea-breeding strays.”
She eyed him mildly. “To each his own. Do I criticize your customers?”
“Never you mind them. They pay my taxes. What you’re doing isn’t normal. Look at you. You’re young, kinda cute in a short sort of way.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that five-five isn’t short, it’s average.”
“Sure, sure, and to a penguin you’re a giant. Well, you’d be five-six if you didn’t have that mop weighing you down.”
As he added the mug of draft beer to the rest, Frankie blew her thick, shaggy bangs out of her eyes, and gave him a benign look. “Now don’t let your insecurities get the best of you. I heard all about your disorder on one of those talk shows last week.”
“I have a disorder?”
With tongue in cheek, she swept up her tray. “In a manner of speaking. You’re one of those people who find the easiest way to ignore your own shortcomings is to point out someone else’s.”
“Who gets to ignore ‘em? Me? Ha!” The retired chief petty officer’s finger shook as he pointed at her. “I have news for you, Miss Mouth. Estelle keeps a list of my shortcomings on the refrigerator! Disorder, nothing. You’re looking at a persecuted man.”
With a playful “Aw,” Frankie left to deliver the drinks. She performed an abbreviated rendition of the Lambada to maneuver between the tables, secretly admitting to herself that she really didn’t mind Benny’s nagging. In fact she’d now been in Slocum Springs longer than she’d stayed anywhere since inheriting the Silver Duck from her grandfather five years ago. If Benny had been anything less than a sweetheart, she would have been long gone by now.
Nevertheless, his comments did linger in her mind, and it was what she was thinking about as she left the club an hour later. While driving home she concluded that regardless of how patiently she’d tried, she hadn’t yet succeeded in making people appreciate, or at least respect, her philosophy of life.
“Tough cookies,” she announced, tired of the subject.
She was twenty-seven years old, for pity’s sake. If her ideas didn’t come close to what the rest of the world practiced—
“Aaah!”
She hit the brakes, and hoped Petunia had enough left in her to respond. In the last second, she closed her eyes, convinced she was about to flatten the naked man standing in the middle of the road with her ancient truck.
Either the purple pickup’s brakes were in better shape than she’d believed, or she owed her guardian angel another debt of gratitude. In any case, Petunia squealed to a halt—inches away from the streaker.
Frankie stared at him. He blinked back at her.
“Well, now…what do we have here?”
This couldn’t be an April Fools’ prank, because it was months late. It couldn’t be a Halloween prank because it was months too early. The guy wasn’t wearing some sort of a costume, either; he was honestly naked—save for the handful of cottonwood and oak leaves he held unsteadily in front of his privates.
“Glory be.” This wasn’t some joke one of her mischievous customers had decided to pull on her. A person would deserve an Academy Award to fake that look of shock and fear.
Oh, yes, he was real, and that kept her from bursting into relieved, giddy laughter. Still, he did look funny in a bizarre, incredible sort of way. And how ironic that on the very evening Benny had lectured her again about her love life, she should get this dubious… offering.
As he hesitantly rounded to her side of the car, she rolled down her window. “Um…Adam, I presume?”
“You know me?”
Oh, brother. Maybe you jumped to one too many conclusions, Jonesy.
“That was a joke,” she told him. When he made no response, she decided he might simply be slow. “The leaves and all?” She gestured to his minute ensemble.
His blue eyes remained blank. “Can you help me?”
“I really don’t think-”
It was as he began looking around that she had a clear view of the other side of his face and spotted the blood streaking down his right temple. With a gasp, Frankie downshifted and secured her emergency brake. Careful not to knock him off-balance, she nudged him out of the way with her door, and eased out of the truck. Now that she was closer, she could see that he was shaking like a paint mixing machine, which left him none too steady on his feet.
“Holy hiccups, what happened?” she cried, grasping his upper arms to steady him.
“I—I’m not sure. I woke up, and… I don’t know.”
“Where do you come from?”
He looked around again and pointed over Petunia’s hood. Since there wasn’t a streetlight in sight, all that she could see out there was the ravine dropping off from the shoulder, and the black-on-black shadow indicating the woods beyond.
“Uh-huh.” The smell of being set up returned stronger than before. “Who are you?”
He tried to answer. She could tell by the way his facial muscles tightened and he broke out in a sweat. But in the end he simply gave her a confused look.
“Adam?”
She should have suffered whiplash from the way her skepticism switched to concern. Without thinking, she reached up to touch his bruised face. “You poor man. You don’t have a clue, do you?”
“No. Do you?”
She shook her head. “But don’t worry,” she added quickly. “We’ll find out in no time at all. First let’s get you settled in my truck, and after that I’ll go check out the ditch. Surely something’s there that will tell us what we want to know.”
If he agreed, he kept that to himself, and merely stood there looking as if whatever would come from her mouth had to be the gospel. Frankie decided it was one thing for Lambchop to take on that expression when she had to leave for work; it was another to have a grown man doing it.
With more questions than answers as to what she was dealing with, she helped him around to the passenger side of the truck. It wasn’t easy. He had to be at least six feet, maybe a bit more, and he had a sturdy build. No doubt his mother—or wife, she amended, embarrassed at how neatly she’d almost avoided that thought—had made sure he didn’t skip too many meals. At the same time, he was well toned. Taut. She tried not to let her gaze wander to places the leaves only began to cover, but who could help noticing?
Once she opened the door, she reached inside for the blanket kept behind the seat. “Here you go. This might itch a bit. It’s Maury’s and he tends to shed, but it’s all I have.”
The stranger looked over her shoulder as if waiting for someone to protest his having the covering. “I can share.”
What was she dealing with, here? Once again Frankie eyed him with suspicion. When she still saw no reason to think this was a cunning act, she wrapped the blanket around him and helped him into her vehicle.
She ripped out a few tissues from the mangled box crunched between the windshield and dashboard, to dab at the worst of the blood already beginning to dry on the side of his face. Once she got most of it, she pressed the tissues into his hand, grabbed her flashlight out of the glove compartment, and ran to look for his clothes and whatever else she might find that would indicate his identity.
She found an empty beer can, an ice-cream stick, and a number of cigarette butts, which made her grateful they’d been crushed out when discarded. She didn’t, however, find anything that would help her solve her mystery.
After prolonging her search a bit more, she returned to the idling truck and paused beside the open passenger door to consider the shivering stranger. The way he stared back at her made it clear that no matter what she asked him, she wasn’t going to be reassured by the answer.
But what a nice face—despite the ugly abrasion on his forehead, a less severe one on his cheek, and the dirt and weeds in his brown hair. He had a face that spoke of strength and frankness, centered by an Anglo-straight nose, balanced by a wide, generous mouth, and punctuated with a slightly stubborn chin.
It was his mouth that drew her attention most. With the slightest smile, he would undoubtedly steal hearts. With the grimmest frown, he would undoubtedly scare the hush puppies out of anyone. If she’d been the betting type, she would have bet tonight’s tips that this was the man everyone in school would have voted Most Likely to Succeed. Here was the guy no girl ever forgot, even if she never got lucky enough to date him. No doubt some woman somewhere was beginning to pace the floors and chew her fingernails to nubs with worry over him.
Frankie felt another pinch in the area of her heart, and in self-defense shifted her attention to the large-boned hands that clutched at the blanket. He wore no ring, which meant nothing; these days guys were professionals at hiding such minor technicalities as wives and children. But surely this man wasn’t one of those? Why else would she have such a powerful impulse to say, “Finders keepers"? He was definitely keeper material.
“I’d better get you to the hospital,” she told him, concerned that she’d let her fantasy go too—
“No!”
His sharp response stopped her from shutting the door. “Look, you’re hurt. You need medical attention.”
“You. You help me.”
As charming as this you-Jane-me-Tarzan dialogue was, it was starting to wear thin. “Listen, gorgeous, it doesn’t take a medical degree to see that this is more than a kiss-andmake-it-better situation.”
“You.”
He had no idea what he was asking of her. Shaking her head, she took the tissues from him—he hadn’t done a thing with them, anyway—and once again dabbed gently around his worst wound. “I don’t know why you’re making this difficult for me.”