Dateline Matrimony

Teresa asked reporter Riley O’Neal, a regular at the Rainbow Café.

“How about a date with you?” Riley answered, a boyish grin resting on his lips.

It was hard to resist him, but Teresa had two kids and too many bills. Besides, this gray-eyed charmer might be the sexiest man that she’d ever seen, but she wasn’t interested in his reckless attitude and irresponsible fun.

“The answer is no. I’m not on the menu, Mr. O’Neal.”

“Teresa, one day I will come in here and you will offer me more than just eggs.”

—A conversation between reporter Riley O’Neal and waitress Teresa Scott at the Rainbow Café

Dear Reader,

“It was a high like no other,” says Elaine Nichols. She’s speaking, of course, about getting “the call.” After numerous submissions, Elaine sold her first manuscript to Silhouette Special Edition and we’re pleased to publish Cowgirl Be Mine this month—a reunion romance between a heroine whose body needs healing and a hero whose wounds are hidden inside. Elaine has many more Special Edition books planned, so keep an eye out for this fresh new voice.

And be sure to pick up all the novels Special Edition has to offer. Marrying the Bravo fortune heir granted the heroine custody of her son, but once the two are under the same roof, they’re unable to sleep in separate beds, in Christine Rimmer’s The Marriage Conspiracy. Then a hungry reporter wishes his tempting waitress would offer him a tasty dish of her each morning, in Dateline Matrimony by reader favorite Gina Wilkins.

What’s The Truth About Tate? Marilyn Pappano tells you when her journalist heroine threatens to expose the illegitimate brother of the hero, a man who would do anything to protect his family. She hadn’t giggled since her mother died, so His Little Girl’s Laughter by Karen Rose Smith is music to Rafe Pierson’s ears. And in Tori Carrington’s The Woman for Dusty Conrad, a firefighter hero has returned to divorce his wife, but discovers a still-burning flame.

We hope you enjoy this month’s exciting selections, and if you have a dream of being published, like Elaine Nichols, please send a self-addressed stamped query letter to my attention at: Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd St, 6th floor, New York, NY 10017.

Best,

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor

Dateline Matrimony

Gina Wilkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GINA WILKINS

is a bestselling and award-winning author who has written more than fifty novels for Harlequin and Silhouette Books. She credits her successful career in romance to her long, happy marriage and her three extraordinary children.

A lifelong resident of central Arkansas, Ms. Wilkins sold her first book to Harlequin in 1987 and has been writing full-time since. She has appeared on the Waldenbooks, B. Dalton and USA Today bestseller lists. She is a three-time recipient of the Maggie Award for Excellence, sponsored by Georgia Romance Writers, and has won several awards from the reviewers of Romantic Times Magazine.

Contents

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

Epilogue

Chapter One

The man with the sharp gray eyes was back for breakfast. It was Friday morning, and it was the third time he’d come in during Teresa’s first week on the job in the Rainbow Café. Still she hadn’t gotten any more comfortable with him. On each occasion he had been reasonably well behaved, but there was something about him that made her nervous.

He flirted with her—not overtly, but with an underlying impudence that made her wonder if he was mocking her. What was it he found amusing about her? Was he one of those smug and superior types who thought everyone else was slightly beneath his intellectual level, especially a waitress in a small-town diner? He looked the type, she decided, then chided herself for making judgments about a man she didn’t even know.

“What can I get you this morning?” she asked him.

She had never seen him open the menu, but he always had his order ready when she asked. “Denver omelette with a side order of salsa. And coffee. Black.”

“Biscuits or toast?”

“Toast. Has anyone ever mentioned that you look a bit like Grace Kelly?”

“Oh, sure. I get compared to dead movie-star princesses all the time,” she answered airily. She’d decided the first time she met him that he enjoyed disconcerting people with off-the-wall comments, and she’d quickly decided that the best way to respond was in kind and without making it personal. She figured this guy didn’t need any encouragement. “I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

She made another couple of stops on the return trip with the coffee carafe. Two elderly gentlemen, old friends who met in the diner every morning for breakfast, flirted outrageously with her when she refilled their coffee cups. She deflected their teasing easily, comfortable with them as she couldn’t seem to be with the gray-eyed man watching her from the back table.

Though most of the customers were pleasant enough, there’d been a few who were rude, one or two whose innuendos went a little over the line, even a couple who were downright obnoxious. Having worked as a waitress before, she handled them all skillfully. The man who’d introduced himself to her only as Riley didn’t fit any of those descriptions. He just made her…nervous.

“You aren’t letting those guys turn your head with their flattery, are you?” he asked when she approached his table again to fill his cup. “Old Ernie thinks he’s a real Romeo. He’s probably proposed to you two or three times already.”

She poured his coffee and answered blandly, “They seem quite nice.”

It appeared to her that his smile turned faintly mocking again. “Do you say that about everyone you serve here?”

“Not everyone.” With that subtle zinger, she stepped away from the table. “I’ll go check on your food.”

She didn’t hurry to the kitchen, stopping twice on the way to refill coffee cups and check on customers. Letting the kitchen door swing closed behind her, she set the carafe down with a thump. “That guy is just strange,” she muttered.

Shameka Cooper looked up from the pancakes and sausage links sizzling on a large griddle in front of her. “Which guy is that, hon?”

“Around thirty, brown hair sort of falling in his face, silvery gray eyes. Attitude.”

Shameka didn’t even have to glance toward the pass-through window that gave her a view of the dining room. “Sounds like Riley O’Neal.”

“Yes, he said his name is Riley. Is he a jerk, or have I gotten a bad first impression?”

Shameka responded with the deep chuckle that had drawn Teresa to her from the beginning. “Oh, Riley’s a sweetie who comes across as a jerk. Usually you just want to hug him, even though there are times you’d really like to whomp him a good one.”

Teresa couldn’t imagine actually hugging the guy, though she could picture herself wanting to whomp him. “He acts so smug,” she said. “As if he knows something I don’t. Something he finds amusing.”

“That’s Riley. And that’s exactly why some folks don’t care much for him. Myself, I’ve always gotten a kick out of him. He’s not half as cynical as he pretends to be. He just thinks it goes with his image—you know, hard-nosed reporter.”

“He’s a reporter?” Teresa curled her lip. No wonder he acted so bored and worldly.

“Sure. He works for the Evening Star. That sort of makes him a co-worker of ours, I guess, since the family that owns this diner also owns the newspaper. Marjorie’s daughter and son-in-law run the paper, while Marjorie keeps the diner going.”

“Great,” Teresa muttered. It was Marjorie—the mother of her college roommate—who had given Teresa this job. Marjorie Schaffer was one of the nicest people Teresa had ever met, and she’d bet the older woman had a soft spot for the carelessly charming reporter.

“You’ll like him once you get to know him,” Shameka assured her with a broad smile. “Nearly everyone does. Just don’t let him give you any guff. Here’s his breakfast.”

Even as she accepted the well-filled plate, Teresa found herself doubting that she and Riley O’Neal would ever be friends.

Riley considered himself one of the most misunderstood men in his small Arkansas town. He knew who and what he was—but many people tended to get mistaken ideas about him.

There were some who deemed him lazy. He wasn’t, of course—it was just that he did most of his work in his head. Others thought his pointed humor was evidence of a sarcastic and cynical nature. He thought of himself more as a droll observer of human foibles. Some called him blunt and tactless, but he just tried to be honest.

Dubbed a loner by many, he simply valued his privacy. He needed peace and quiet for his writing, something he couldn’t get with a bunch of people around all the time. On those occasions when he was in the mood for company, he found it. That hardly made him a loner—did it?

Because he could savor a cup of coffee in peace there, he had decided to have breakfast at the Rainbow Café last Monday morning. He’d known the owner, Marjorie Schaffer, for a long time and was almost as comfortable in her diner as he was in his own kitchen. There were always plenty of greetings, of course, when he arrived. Edstown wasn’t very big, and he’d lived there most of his life. Because of that and his job as a reporter for the Edstown Evening Star, he knew many of the local citizens. They also knew him well enough to leave him alone while he read his newspaper and ate his breakfast.

He had opened the paper as soon as he settled into his seat, burying his face in the pages. It was an effective deterrent to conversational overtures—and besides, he really enjoyed reading the newspaper. He had an appreciation for the little local paper that paid his salary—the few real news stories on the front page, the local gossip and trivia on the inside pages, the cooking section edited by a retired, eighty-year-old former home-ec teacher, the sports pages written by rotating high school sportscaster wannabes. The Edstown Evening Star had its own charm, its own place in this town, but it was the statewide morning paper Riley perused to stay connected with the rest of the world.

He’d been surprised when someone new had taken his order that morning—and even more surprised that the new server was a real knockout. Shoulder-length dark blond hair streaked with gold was neatly secured at the back of her neck. Clear blue eyes framed with long, skillfully darkened lashes dominated her heart-shaped face. Her nose was straight and perfectly proportioned, and she needed no cosmetic enhancement to make the most of naturally rosy, sweetly curved lips. Her chin was a little pointed, he had decided, trying to be objective—but he liked the shallow dimple there.

Maybe it had been that enticing dimple that had brought him back two more times in the past week, even though he usually visited the diner for breakfast no more than once or twice a month.

His newspaper forgotten for a moment, Riley watched her walk away after taking his order Friday morning. Nice figure, he noted, not for the first time. Not too thin—he’d never been drawn to the bony supermodel type. As befitted the ultra-casual atmosphere of the place, she wore jeans with a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and sneakers. The jeans fit very well, he observed, his gaze lingering for a moment on her shapely derriere.

He guessed that she was close to his own age, thirty. She didn’t wear a wedding ring—no jewelry at all, actually, except for a no-frills wristwatch. She was new in town and probably didn’t know many people yet. He’d decided to give her a call some time when he was in the mood to go out, though she hadn’t given him much encouragement so far.

She returned quickly with his breakfast. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

A half dozen flip responses leaped into his mind. Casual flirting had always come easily to him, and there were plenty of women who’d reciprocated. Because she seemed to be braced for just such a remark, he bit back the innuendos and answered circumspectly. “Not right now, thank you.”

“All right. I’ll be back soon to refill your coffee.”

“Thanks. By the way, what’s your last name, Teresa?” He should know that by now, he thought, having met her three times so far. He must be getting slow.

“Scott,” she answered without elaboration. “Excuse me, one of my other customers is signaling for me.”

He wouldn’t exactly call her friendly, he mused as she turned to leave. Polite enough—but only to the point that her job required. Could be a challenge.

He smiled. When it didn’t require too much effort on his part, Riley enjoyed the occasional challenge.

“So, have you gotten a good look at that pretty new waitress over at the Rainbow Café yet?” Bud O’Neal asked his nephew Sunday afternoon.

Riley nodded toward the television screen in front of him. “I’m trying to watch the race, Bud.”

“They’re running under a caution flag now. You’re not going to miss anything by answering my question. Have you seen the new waitress yet?”

Dragging his gaze from the NASCAR race, Riley shoved a hand through his shaggy hair. “I’ve seen her.”

Bud gave a cackle. “So I’ve heard.”

Riley shook his head in exasperation. “Then why did you ask?”

“I hear you’ve suddenly become a regular at the diner. Some folks that say you’ve been having trouble taking your eyes off the pretty waitress.”

“Yeah, well, we both know there’s nothing folks in this town like better than fabricating gossip out of thin air.” Riley turned pointedly toward the television and lifted a can of soda to his lips to signal that he considered the subject closed.

He knew, of course, that Bud wouldn’t cooperate. He was right. “You always did like leggy, big-eyed blondes,” Bud drawled, obviously having a fine time needling his only nephew.

Riley heaved an exaggerated sigh. “What do you want me to say? I’ll admit she’s nice to look at. And maybe I’ve flirted with her a couple of times. But when I did, she nearly gave me frostbite with those big, cold blue eyes of hers. So, if you’re finished making fun of me, let’s get back to watching the race.”

There were few people Riley would have allowed such leeway, but he was fond of his uncle. Besides, Bud was still recovering from the tragic death of one of his two closest friends earlier that year. It was good to see him smile again, even if it was at Riley’s expense.

Bud’s smile turned to a scowl. “She shot you down? What’s wrong with the girl?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her, as far as I can tell. She’s just not interested. Not everyone is, you know. I’m not quite the lady-killer you seem to think I am.”

Bud snorted. “I’ve never seen a woman yet who didn’t come around when you gave it your best shot. So, only thing I can figure is, either you’ve decided the pretty waitress ain’t worth the effort—or you’re just taking your time about going after her.”

“Would you stop calling her the pretty waitress? She has a name. Teresa.”

Bud’s bushy, steel-gray eyebrows shot upward in response to his nephew’s testy tone. “Not that you’re interested, of course,” he murmured.

Riley looked pointedly at the big-screen TV. “Watch the race. They’re going green again.”

Knowing when he’d pushed hard enough, Bud crossed his hands over his beer-swollen belly and leaned back against the couch. His feet, like Riley’s, were crossed on the scarred coffee table in front of them. They sat in the living room of Bud’s double-wide mobile home, salvaged from his second divorce five years ago, after dining on a Sunday lunch of chili dogs and Tater Tots.

Riley and Bud tried to get together like this often, since they were the only members of their family still living in Edstown. Sixty-five-year-old Bud had never had children, so he’d always taken a rather fatherly interest in his only brother’s only son, especially after Riley’s parents had retired to Florida almost ten years ago while Riley was a senior in college.

Watching the brightly painted advertising-covered stock cars whizzing past the cameras, Riley changed the subject by asking, “How’s R.L. these days? I haven’t seen him much since he retired from the insurance business.”

“We’re going fishing Wednesday morning. Meeting here at a quarter till six. You want to go with us?”

“No, thanks. I’ll pass. I’m planning on sleeping in that morning.”

“Wuss,” Bud muttered with a chuckle.

“Hey, it’s chilly out on a lake at dawn in the middle of September. There are some parts of my body I don’t want to risk freezing off, okay? I’m not quite finished with them yet.”

Bud laughed, then shook his head. “I keep telling you, you don’t get cold if you dress right. And come mid-morning, it still gets downright hot this time of year.”

“No, really, Bud. Thanks, but it’s just not my thing. You and R.L. go and have a good time, okay?”

“I’m sure we will. ’Course, we’ll miss Truman.”

Riley nodded somberly, never knowing quite what to say when his uncle brought up Truman’s name.

Truman Kellogg, who’d been practically inseparable from Bud O’Neal and R. L. Hightower for nearly fifty years, had died in a house fire almost eight months ago. The remaining two buddies had taken the death hard. Bud hadn’t really been the same since.

Had his pal’s death forced him to confront his own mortality? Or was it simply that he’d never imagined a time when the three of them wouldn’t all be together? The friendship had lasted through their school years, Bud’s and R.L.’s marriages and divorces, the death of Truman’s wife several years ago, good and bad economic turns—it was only natural, Riley supposed, that Bud and R.L. were having a hard time dealing with their loss.

“Good grief, will you look at that?” Bud shook his head in dismay as several cars in the race crashed into the wall and each other. “That wreck’ll put a bunch of ’em behind the wall, I bet.”

“Damn. Martin didn’t have a chance to avoid the mess,” Riley muttered, looking morosely at the formerly sleek race car that was now smashed on both ends from the chain-reaction collisions. The Arkansas-native driver Riley usually rooted for was unharmed, but there was no chance he’d finish the race. “He’s had a hell of a season, hasn’t he? One thing right after another.”

“I know the feeling,” Bud said morosely. And then, before Riley could comment, he asked, “You sure you don’t want me to talk to that pretty little waitress for you? I bet I could convince her you’re not as bad as you’ve probably come across to her.”

“Stay out of my love life.”

Bud snorted, making a visible effort to cheer up. “What love life? Looks to me like you could use all the help you can get. You want another drink?”

“No. And I’m serious, Bud. Don’t you say a word to Teresa.”

His uncle grinned as he headed for the kitchen, leaving Riley feeling decidedly wary.

Riley was on his way to the newspaper office after a routine interview with the mayor Monday afternoon when he spotted Teresa Scott stranded on the side of the road. She was standing beside an aging sedan, looking at a flat tire on the right rear, her pretty face darkened by a frown. He promptly pulled his classic two-seater to the side of the road behind her car.

“Looks like you’ve got a problem,” he said, climbing out of his car.

He could tell that she recognized him immediately. He would have described her expression as resigned. He could almost hear her thinking, “Of course he would be the one to show up now.”

“I can handle it,” she said instead. “It’s only a flat.”

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans while he studied the problem. The tire was deflated down to the rim. “Have you ever changed a flat before?”

“Once,” she replied, probably unaware of the touch of uncertainty in her voice.

“Pop the trunk,” he said, pulling off his thin leather jacket and tossing it into his car. He didn’t want to risk getting it dirty, and it was too warm a day for it, anyway. He just liked wearing it. “I hope you’ve got a jack and a spare.”

“I have both—but I’m quite capable of changing the flat myself.”

“I’m sure you are, but since I’m here, and since I’m hoping to impress you with my efficiency—not to mention my gallantry—I’d be happy to volunteer my services.”

“But I—”

“No strings,” he added. “You don’t even have to thank me, if you don’t want to. Open the trunk, will you?”

She sighed and shoved her key into the trunk lock. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for your help. I’m just accustomed to taking care of my own problems.”

“No, really?” He bent into the neat-as-a-pin trunk, thinking she must vacuum it twice a week. He could have a picnic in there, it was so clean.

“Yes. It’s…easier that way.”

“I agree. Hmm. Full-size spare. You don’t see those very often any more. Note the way my muscles flex as I lift it effortlessly from the trunk.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched her struggle against a smile. “Very impressive,” she said dryly.

“Do anything for you?”

“Yes. It makes me glad you’re the one lifting it and not me.”

“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” he replied in a pseudo-grumble, kneeling beside the flat. She stood out of his way as he went to work.

“There’s your problem.” He pointed to a large metal screw gleaming from within the tread. “Looks like you ran over it recently and the air’s been escaping ever since.”

“A screw? That’s what caused the flat?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You were expecting me to say that someone slashed your tires?”

“Of course not,” she said, looking more annoyed than amused by his teasing.

He often seemed to have that effect on her.

After a few moments Teresa conceded almost reluctantly, “You do that very well. You’ll have it finished a lot more quickly than I would have.”

He spun the lug wrench, unable to resist adding a bit of flair to the movement. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be on the pit crew of a NASCAR team.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I found out it was hard work. Involved sweat and dirt and stuff like that. Not for me. I’m content now to just watch the races on TV.”

She looked at him as if she weren’t quite sure whether he was joking. “So you gave up your boyhood dream because of laziness?”

“Exactly,” he answered readily. “Writing’s a lot easier. I hardly ever break a sweat doing that.”

“I would think that being a reporter for the local newspaper is a fairly demanding career.”

Without pausing at his task, he gave a bark of laughter. “Working for the Evening Star? Have you actually seen the local newspaper?”

“Well, no. I just moved here a couple of weeks ago and I…”

“Take my word for it. Real news happens maybe once a month during an exciting year in this town, and there are two of us on staff to cover it. Basically it’s a part-time job for me—which leaves me free to pursue other interests.”

“Yes, I heard you’re writing a novel.”

Riley looked over his shoulder. Had she been asking about him? He rather liked that idea. “Did you?”