Книга - Redemption’s Kiss

Redemption's Kiss
Ann Christopher


After Jillian Warner's much-publicized divorce from her ex-governor husband, Beau Taylor, all she wants is a quiet life—out of the political spotlight.And quiet it is: the heiress and single mom runs a quaint B and B in Atlanta. But Beau is back, vowing to win her heart. With desire reigniting, Jillian's more confused than ever. Her seductive ex betrayed her once. How can she ever trust him again? A near-fatal accident has changed Beau in ways he never imagined.Now his number-one priority is becoming the devoted husband and father he knows he always should have been. He's determined to atone for the sins of the past and build a new future with the woman he's never stopped loving. Beau wants Jillian—and this time he's doing it right.









She gasped, a whisper of hot air against his neck


And then she did it again, a curling of fingers in that one spot that wound him up tight.



His breath caught and held because he would do nothing—nothing, God, not even breathe, even if it led to his ultimate suffocation and death—to force her along at this moment.



But…where was this going?



Slowly she pulled back, her face wet with tears and her breasts heaving with uneven panting that sounded, to his confused ears at least, like passion rather than pain. Then she raised her lids to stare at him with wet eyes that glittered with every conceivable shade of brown, from amber to deepest mahogany. And then…



Was he imagining this? Was this a dream after all? A hallucination?



And then she leaned closer…tipped up her chin, just a little…and waited.



Disbelief pinned Beau right where he sat, dazed and frozen, and he could swear he felt his skin vibrate with leashed tension that strained away from his control.



She had to know that he would swallow her whole right now.



Was that what she wanted?



Could he get this lucky? Was this a test? Did anyone really expect him to let this opportunity pass him by when he’d prayed for it for years?



He wanted to do the right thing, but he’d be damned if he knew what that was. “Jillian?”



There. He’d been honorable and raised the question, dumbass that he was. This was her chance. If she wanted this train to stop so she could hop off and run away, now was the time. Run while you can, Jill.




Books by Ann Christopher


Kimani Romance



Just About Sex

Tender Secrets

Road to Seduction

Campaign for Seduction

Redemption’s Kiss

ANN CHRISTOPHER

is a full-time chauffeur for her two overscheduled children. She is also a wife, former lawyer, and decent cook. In between trips to various sporting practices and games, Target, and the grocery store, she likes to write the occasional romance novel featuring a devastatingly handsome alpha male. She lives in Cincinnati and spends her time with her family, which includes two spoiled rescue cats, Sadie and Savannah.



If you’d like to recommend a great book, share a recipe for homemade cake of any kind or suggest a tip for getting your children to do what you say the first time you say it, Ann would love to hear from you through her Web site, www.AnnChristopher.com.




Redemption’s Kiss

Ann Christopher











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Richard

A million thanks to writer pals Kristina Cook,

Lori Devoti, Laura Drewry, Caroline Linden,

Sally MacKenzie and Eve Silver for their invaluable

friendship and support, and especially to Naked Sally,

for helping me with a crucial plot point.


Dear Readers,



Disgraced former governor Beau Taylor has nothing to live for and no one to care if he dies. Once, long ago, he had everything in the palm of his hand: career, prestige and, best of all, the love of Jillian, the woman he’s always worshipped. But then things went horribly wrong, he made poor choices and he lost it all, including his zest for life.



These days, he drinks, parties and fills the excruciating hours with meaningless women. Every day he hates himself just a little bit more than yesterday. Every day he searches for a reason to exist and comes up empty.



And then, in a nightmarish flash, everything changes.



Suddenly, Beau has a second chance at life, one he’s determined not to waste. Now, nothing will stop him from healing his damaged soul and becoming a worthwhile human being. Nothing will stop him from becoming the world’s best father to his precious little girl. Nothing will stop him from becoming a deserving partner to Jillian, and reclaiming her love. Nothing.



I hope you enjoy reading Beau and Jillian’s story as much as I enjoyed putting them back together!



Happy reading,



Ann Christopher



P.S. Please look for my next Kimani Romance, which will be part of the Love in the Limelight series, in October!




Chapter 1


Beau Taylor wasn’t sober, but he wasn’t drunk, either.

Luckily, the Miami night was young enough for him to change that.

Drinking took the edge off. Drinking was good. Drinking was necessary.

How else could he survive in the toxic waste dump of his life without some sort of buffer between him and reality?

As the disgraced former governor of Virginia, Beau was only slightly higher on the social scale than, say, venereal warts, but after a couple of drinks—preferably scotch on the rocks—he could look on the bright side. People thought he was scum. That being the case, it was easy to fulfill their low expectations.

Perfect, eh?

If he wanted a drink, he’d drink. If there were a party somewhere, he’d go. If he met a woman who was beautiful and willing, he’d screw her. Why shouldn’t he? Because he’d disappoint someone who loved him? Easy solution there: no one loved him.

So he found his consolations where he could. Living in Miami, with its astonishing array of after-dark activities, helped. There were always clubs to discover and drinks and women to be savored.

Lucky him.

He was momentarily between clubs, but no worries. A quick glance outside the limousine’s darkened windows showed the Intracoastal Waterway streaking by and the city stretched out before him like a glittering jewel.

Man, he enjoyed Miami.

He also enjoyed being rich, one of the benefits of the beer distributorship his late father started back in the day.

Thanks, Dad.

Having money had its pluses, and riding in style was one of them. Every car should have plush leather seats, a fully stocked bar, a discreet driver and a privacy divider. Beau enjoyed riding in limousines.

Sabrina enjoyed riding him.

And she was good at it.

Sliding his hands up the shapely thighs straddling him, Beau gripped the flexing globes of her naked ass. Ahhh…nice.

Sabrina kicked it up a notch. Flashing a wicked grin, her long black curls wild and falling in her face, she pumped her hips nice and hard, taking him deeper into her body.

Worked for him.

Laughing now, she rubbed her jiggling breasts against his tailored shirt. It was all good. Nothing like a quickie in the car to loosen him up.

Then Sabrina slowed things down. Moaning loud enough to be heard on the other side of the divider, she levered herself up until only the sensitive head of his penis remained inside her.

Yeeeaaaah. That worked, too.

Her back arched and one of her walnut-tipped nipples skimmed his lips. Was that an invitation? Looked like. He sucked it, hard, into his mouth. She rewarded him with a high-pitched cry and impaled herself again, up down, up down, faster, harder, and the fun continued.

Except…the fun wasn’t that much fun. Never really had been fun.

Beau let that nipple pop free, rested his head against the seat and wished again that he were drunk. Things were easier then. He didn’t have to work so hard to feel alive or, depending on his mood, to sink into oblivion.

Oblivion was his own version of heaven, the blessed place where he hated himself just a shade less than he normally did. Oblivion—not another party—was his ultimate destination tonight. Too bad he couldn’t seem to get there.

Staring up at Sabrina through half-closed eyes, seeing the straining column of her neck and the faint smile on her lips, he wondered why he always did this to himself. Always picked women with sparkling amber eyes, straight brows and fine cheekbones. Always wished he were just a little drunker or could pretend just a little more that these women were someone else.

It had never worked. Not once.

Maybe he should try harder.

Holding Sabrina’s hips tighter, he pumped in a blind fury of movement, screwing her mercilessly until sweat ran down his temples and Sabrina began her chanting routine. Yes…yes…yes. Whatever. He just wanted to be done—with this, and with her.

Waiting only long enough to hear the surprised yelp that was his signal that she’d climaxed, he came, too. For five perfect seconds, relief—and it was only relief, not pleasure—surged through him. But then it was over, and nothing had changed.

Did that make sense? Was that fair? When he thrust so much of his emptiness into another body, why did it still fill him to overflowing?

Why, God?

That emptiness always stayed, no matter what, or who, he did.

Jesus. He made himself sick.

He eased the limp Sabrina off his lap and onto the seat beside him, wishing he could shower or, better yet, spray himself with a bleach-filled pressure washer.

Like that, or anything, would ever make him clean.

Every sexual encounter these days—and there were plenty—ended this same way: with relief and disgust. Relief because his body had cooled a little, but disgust because he still hated himself and what he’d become, and knew he’d do it all again tomorrow anyway.

Disposing of the condom, he adjusted his boxer briefs, zipped up, rebuttoned his shirt and smoothed his hair. Great. Good as new. Oh, and don’t forget the seat belt. He buckled up. Now he was ready for more partying.

If the self-hatred didn’t kill him first.

For now, he needed to get the everlasting bitterness off the back of his tongue, so he reached for his snifter of cognac and drank deep. He waited for his brain to fog, but…nothing. Shit. He drank again, draining the glass.

Sabrina, meanwhile, adjusted her negligible black dress, reached for her glittery little purse and found her lipstick. A few minutes of primping followed. “Where are we going now?”

Beau heard the slight slur in her words and hated her for it. Why was she drunk and he wasn’t? Where was the fairness in that? Reaching for more brandy, he shrugged.

“I forget. We’ll let it be a surprise when we get there.”

No arguments from Sabrina, who closed her compact with a snap. “How do I look?”

He would have preferred not to see her again just now—if ever—but he did the polite thing and glanced over. By the dim interior lights he surveyed the skimpy-skanky black dress, the cleavage, the bare legs, the screw-me heels, the makeup and the hair. It was funny how she looked equally naked whether she was dressed or not. How did she manage that?

Sabrina waited for his answer and, focusing on her total package, he tried to frame one. The bottom line on this lovely lady was that she was vacant, shallow and soulless enough to be his ideal companion for tonight’s debauchery.

Knowing she’d never hear the sarcasm in his voice, he raised his snifter in a toast and flashed a smile that felt as natural as shoving glass shards through his cheeks. “You look perfect—”

The sudden painful glare of headlights directly into the car was their first warning.

Then came the earsplitting screech of tires and a violent lurch strong enough to knock the drink from Beau’s hand.

His seat belt tightened across his hips and his body jerked.

Shit.

Sabrina screamed.

With a surge of full-blown panic crushing his throat, Beau whipped his head around to see Death barreling at them in a brilliant yellow glow bright enough to power two suns.

Truck, his brain registered. Semi.

The driver tried to veer the limo out of the way again, but that truck kept coming.

The impact took forever to come, giving random thoughts the time to flash through Beau’s mind.

He was about to die.

Good.

Allegra would grow up without a father. Tragic, but ultimately better for her.

The semi rammed into the side of the limousine with the earth-shattering force of a bomb and their screams rose up in a chorus of terror and agony.

As Beau’s world spun out of control and then went black, one face filled his mind’s eye. One beautiful image ushered him through the excruciating pain and fear and into the next life, if there was a next life for the sorry likes of him, which there probably wasn’t.

He saw the bright amber eyes, heard the joyous laughter and felt the love.

Jillian. God, I loved you. You never knew how much.

She smiled at him and he rejoiced at what was now and had always been the most beautiful sight in his life. And then he died.




Chapter 2


Six months later

“Someone’s leased the Foster place.” Blanche Rousseau, vibrating with excitement over today’s gossip, hurried into the kitchen with a brown bag of groceries in each arm.

“Really?”

Jillian Warner paused in her relentless kneading of bread dough and eased the curtains aside. Peering out the window over the sink, she surveyed the Foster place, perched atop the tree-dotted hill at the end of their street.

She half expected to see a moving van speed by, buuuut…no.

Nothing about the massive and weathered white house looked any different in today’s midmorning light. The wide veranda still begged for a fresh coat of paint, and so did the columns. The bushes, as usual, were overgrown monstrosities that would soon reach out to grab unsuspecting children who wandered too close, and the windows were still vacant and eerie.

She was about to return to her dough when a distant flash of movement caught her eye. A big black dog—a standard poodle, maybe—rounded the Foster place, barking with excitement. Oh, and was that the tail end of some sort of SUV in the driveway?

Maybe, but who really cared?

Jillian let the curtain drop and attacked her dough again. They didn’t have time for gossip when there was bread to be made and meals to be cooked for ten hungry guests.

Blanche, meanwhile, set the bags on the wooden counter and surveyed Jillian’s progress with pursed bubblegum-pink lips.

Oh, Lord. What now? Jillian tried to concentrate on her task, but there was no ignoring Blanche—not the blue-beaded chain of her cat’s-eye glasses, her white-blond teased beehive circa 1962 or her plump frame squeezed into electric-blue stretch pants and a matching jacket—especially when she got in a mood.

Finally Jillian looked up, exasperated. “What?”

“You need to ease up on that dough, honey,” Blanche drawled, her lilting Louisiana tones thick with disapproval. “You trying to make shoe leather or dinner rolls?”

“This may surprise you, Blanche, but I’ve made a decent batch of rolls once or twice in my life.”

“That does surprise me,” Blanche muttered, now eyeing Jillian’s work with raised brows. Clicking her tongue, she moved along the counter.

Jillian glared after her, irritated.

Sometime soon she’d have to break the sad news to Blanche—that she was not, in fact, Queen of the Universe here at the historic Twin Oaks Bed & Breakfast outside Atlanta—but for now she’d let this latest insubordination pass.

Though she hadn’t been listed on the contract for sale Jillian signed three years ago when she moved here from Virginia, Blanche had come with the B & B, just like the dormer windows, railed porch with rockers and twelve bedrooms.

Jillian was new to running the B & B and Blanche was…well, old. Since Jillian needed Blanche’s experience and expertise, Jillian spent a lot of time swallowing her retorts.

Jillian floured the counter and reached for the rolling pin. “So who bought the house?”

“No one over at the grocery knows.” Blanche rummaged in one bag and produced several dozen eggs and a couple pounds of butter. “Must be someone with a lot of money, though, ’cause that place needs some W-O-R-K. Maybe it’s a nice man for you. Now that you’re dating and all.”

Jillian rolled her eyes. She’d wondered how long it’d take Blanche to raise this topic and was surprised it had required—what?—fifty whole seconds.

“I am not dating,” she said, now using a floured glass to cut dough rounds and place them on the baking sheet. “I had one dinner with a man—”

“And coffee with him last week. Coffee plus dinner equals dating.”

“I don’t date,” Jillian said flatly. “I meet the occasional nice man and have dinner.”

“Very occasional.” Blanche’s backside poked in all its considerable glory from the depths of the refrigerator, where she was now arranging food. “Since this is the first man I’ve seen you have dinner with in three years.”

Affronted because there was no need for such an unvarnished recitation of the sorry state of Jillian’s love life this early in the day, she put the glass down and frowned at Blanche.

“You just focus on baking that chicken for lunch, okay?”

“No sex.” Blanche emerged from the fridge and pulled a tragic face on Jillian’s behalf. “No fried chicken. All work, no fun. No wonder you’re so uptight all the time. You haven’t got much to live for, far as I can tell.”

Jillian laughed, but it was as hollow as most of her laughter these days. Something inside her had broken and, three years later, she still hadn’t found a way to fix it. Maybe it was time to face the fact that the old Jillian, the happy one, was damaged beyond repair.

The funny thing was, she didn’t really care. Here at the B & B, which she’d bought with her divorce settlement because she didn’t want to return to practicing law and she needed something to do now that she was no longer the first lady of Virginia, she’d built something more lasting than happiness: peace, personal satisfaction and self-sufficiency. Even better, she’d found a mother’s pleasure in seeing her child discover the world.

Wasn’t that good enough?

She knew how to meet a payroll and balance the books, manage several employees, feed up to thirty people in the dining room, unclog a toilet, install storm doors and bandage scraped knees. Best of all, Allegra was happy and healthy.

Those were the important things. As long as they were on track, it didn’t matter that Jillian felt dead inside—when she felt anything at all.

A clatter in the hall jarred Jillian out of her thoughts and she looked around in time to see Barbara Jean, Blanche’s granddaughter, appear in the doorway.

Twenty-one and heading back to Vanderbilt in the fall, Barbara Jean spent most of her time marching to the beat of her own drum. Witness the orange and red hair, the multiple piercings and the iPod, which was always strapped to her arm. On the other hand, Barbara Jean was a straight-A student, levelheaded and responsible. She was, therefore, Allegra’s well-paid and much-appreciated nanny.

Barbara Jean threw her arms wide in a flourish and bowed. “Make way for Princess Allegra!”

Jillian and Blanche, who went through this drill on a daily basis, snapped to attention and bowed as two-year-old Allegra sidled into the room, teetering on purple plastic prostitute-in-training slides with pink ostrich feathers across the open toes. Today’s ensemble also included a pink leotard and tutu combination, a sparkling rhinestone crown and a blue magic wand with pink streamers.

“All hail Princess Allegra,” the adults intoned.

Allegra blessed them with a serene nod. “You may rise.”

Jillian crooked her finger at the girl, who came over. “Come here, Princess Allegra. Mommy’s got something for you.”

“What?”

“This.”

Sweeping her daughter up, Jillian kissed her fat little honey-with-cream-colored cheeks and swung her in a circle. Allegra screamed with laughter, revealing one Shirley Temple dimple on the left side of her mouth and tiny white teeth. After a few seconds of this silliness, Jillian set the girl back on her wobbly legs and ruffled her sandy curls.

“Don’t forget you’ve got a swimming lesson soon. Barbara Jean will take you.”

“Nooo-ooo.” Allegra backed away as though she expected to be dragged off in chains and tortured in a dungeon. “I don’t want to go swimming. I want a tea party.”

“Yeah, well, there’s plenty of time for a tea party after you swim.”

Allegra prepared for a rant by opening her mouth so wide you’d think it had a hinge, but a new distraction arrived before she could get started: someone knocked on the kitchen door.

They all looked around to see a man standing on the other side of the screen with a bouquet of red roses slung over one arm.

Jillian’s pulse quickened and a hot flush crept over her cheeks. She hastily washed her hands while Blanche shot her a smirk and then sauntered to the door and swung it open.

“Adam Marshall,” Blanche cried, laying the charm on so thick she’d need a putty knife in a minute. “You come right on in here and have some coffee and a muffin. How’s our favorite accountant?”

“I’m pretty good now that I know there’s a muffin in my future.” He came inside while everyone said hello and Blanche fixed his snack. His gaze went straight to Jillian and held. “How are you, Jillian?”

“I’m good.”

Adam had been the B & B’s accountant for two years and had been making eyes at Jillian for a year and eleven months. There was an intimidation factor involved, Jillian supposed, because she’d been the first lady of Virginia and was the sister of the sitting president. That, combined with Adam’s natural shyness, accounted for his delay in asking her out, not that Jillian was anxious, given her antidating stance.

But last week he’d finally gotten up the nerve to approach her, and they’d had coffee. Why not? She had to drink coffee, right? Why not drink it with him? Then they’d had dinner. Both had gone reasonably well. Now here he was again.

On paper he was everything a single mother like her should want: single, straight, with a nice job, a sense of humor and no lurking baby mamas. Plus, he was easy on the eyes. Dark skinned with a mustache and skull trim, he had warm brown eyes and the kind of dimpled boyish grin that probably weakened knees wherever he went.

It wasn’t his fault that Jillian’s knees were impervious.

So, yeah, she wasn’t dating, wasn’t smitten and wouldn’t be falling into this guy’s bed—or anyone else’s, come to think of it—anytime soon. And that was just fine with her because she had a drawer full of BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends) upstairs.

But…he was a decent guy and she had to pass the time somehow. Why not do it with him on occasion?

Allegra tottered over on her plastic heels and stared up at Adam.

“I like your flowers.”

Adam looked down at the girl. “Thank you.” Allegra’s curls quivered with her bouncing excitement. “Are they for me?”

Adam, bless his heart, didn’t miss a beat. Smiling, he pulled one perfect red bud out of the huge arrangement and held it out to Allegra.

“For you, your majesty.”

Allegra beamed up at him. “Thank you. You may kiss my hand.”

They all laughed. Adam took her tiny hand with its chipped pink nail polish and kissed it with the appropriate solemnity. Allegra tittered.

And Adam went up another notch or two in Jillian’s estimation.

“Okay, princess.” Barbara Jean took Allegra’s hand and steered her toward the hall. “Time for swimming.”

“Nooo-ooo.” Allegra’s wails echoed down the hall as they disappeared from sight.

Blanche presented Adam with coffee and a pumpkin muffin the size of a small melon. “I’ll just leave you two to chat.” She patted Adam’s arm. “Enjoy your muffin.”

“Thanks, Blanche.” Adam watched her go and then gave the roses to Jillian. “For you.”

“Thank you.” It had been so long since a man had made a romantic gesture that she couldn’t repress her grin. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re a bribe. I’m hoping you’ll go out to dinner with me again.”

Jillian faltered and stalled by placing the flowers on the counter. “Adam—”

“You already told me,” he said good-naturedly. “You don’t date.”

“Oh, good. You were listening.”

“Think about another dinner, though. That’s all I’m asking.”

She hesitated.

Thinking about it probably wouldn’t kill her. Besides. His face was so pleasant and hopeful that she just couldn’t say no. She was in the prime of her life, for goodness’ sake. Life wasn’t over just yet. As long as she was honest about not wanting a relationship, dinner with him was no big deal, right?

“Okay,” she said.

“Good.” Adam grinned and then apparently decided to press his luck. “Can I kiss you? I’ve been kicking myself for not asking the other night.”

Kiss? What?

But Adam, for once in his life, seemed to be in an impulsive mood and didn’t wait. Leaning in and catching her before her alarm could really take hold, he brushed his mouth across hers.

Nothing happened at first, but then there was a spark of something in her belly, a long-forgotten feeling of something she couldn’t quite identify.

Excitement? Longing? Need?

Pulling back, Adam smiled as though he’d been granted eternal life. A similar reaction eluded her and she had to force herself to smile back. Man. This kissing thing threw her for a serious loop. She hadn’t kissed anyone romantically in three years, and hadn’t kissed a man other than her ex-husband in fifteen. How was she supposed to feel? She didn’t have a clue.

“I’ve got to get back to work.” Sounding a little husky now, Adam grabbed his muffin and gulped some coffee. “I just wanted to bring the flowers and get my kiss.”

“I’ll walk you out,” she said, trying to get her mind right.

This was all too weird. She’d been asexual for so long, and now this.

It came as a huge shock that she could still affect a man, still inspire him to think about her, leave work for her and bring her flowers. She hadn’t realized that such tiny miracles were possible after all this time.

They walked outside, down the cobbled path to Adam’s car. The May day was beautiful, bright and clear but not yet humid, not that she could enjoy it with him staring at her with those unnerving, puppy-dog eyes.

Feeling fidgety and awkward, she glanced over at the Foster place. There were definite signs of activity now; a moving van occupied most of the long drive and in front of it sat a dark Range Rover. Uniformed movers swarmed in and out of the front door and up and down the driveway—

Without warning, Adam cupped her cheek and kissed her again, his mouth firmer and more confident this time. After one stiff second, Jillian responded with her lips but the rest of her body remained aloof, well out of Adam’s reach. And then she had enough.

She pulled away, flustered. “What was that?”

“That was, ‘I hope I’ll see you soon.’ I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Watching him drive off, she touched her tingling lips and then caught herself. Don’t be silly, Jill. It was time to get cracking. Those rolls still weren’t in the oven and lunchtime would be here soon—

A low bark from her left startled her.

Turning, she saw the new neighbor’s dog trot out from behind a forsythia bush at the edge of her property, his pink tongue lolling in a friendly doggy smile.

“Hello, cutie.” She held her hand out for inspection. “Hellooo.”

The dog ambled over. He was big and black with short curly hair, pointy ears, long legs and huge paws. Probably less than a year old, he wriggled with excitement and had a red collar with a numbered tag.

He snuffled her hand, apparently decided she was okay, and then nudged her. She accepted this obvious invitation to scratch his ears, and the dog all but passed out with pleasure.

Oh, man. Her heart turned over, hard.

This wasn’t a standard poodle. This guy was a Bouvier des Flandres, the type of dog she’d had as a child. His long hair had been shaved, probably because it was so hot here in Georgia during the summer, but he looked exactly like Ishmael, and the sudden sweet nostalgia from her childhood was almost unbearable.

Just like that, she remembered the joys of pet ownership, especially during that terrible year when Mama died, leaving her and her older brother, John, alone with their grieving and distant father.

It all came back to her: the nightly warmth of Ishmael’s heavy body stretched out across her feet at the end of her bed; Ishmael sprawled between her and John on the floor in front of the TV; a soap-covered Ishmael resisting his bath in the plastic pool next to their estate’s enormous inground pool.

Good times, good times.

Boy, did she miss that dog. He’d died of old age when she was in high school. Come to think of it, she missed Ramona, too, the chatty Siamese she’d named after her favorite Beverly Cleary character. That silly cat. When Ramona wasn’t ignoring her and John or terrorizing Ishmael, which was most of the time, she was underfoot, meowing about the general unfairness of life and demanding to have her chin scratched.

Wow. She hadn’t thought about Ramona in ages. The ache of nostalgia grew. Allegra occasionally made noises about wanting a pet; maybe it was time to think about getting one.

In the meantime, this dog needed to get home before he ran out into the street, and there was no time like the present to meet the new neighbor. Those rolls could wait another minute or two.

Oh, but wait. New neighbors had to be greeted with food. It was a rule.

“Come on,” she told the dog.

He followed her inside the kitchen, where she quickly washed her hands, lined a basket with a large cloth napkin and filled it with leftover pumpkin muffins from breakfast.

“Now we’re ready.”

The dog agreed with another bark.

What a sweetie. Scratching his head again, she led the way.

They walked up the lane to his owner’s driveway, where serious progress was now being made. Someone had lowered the ramp on the moving van, and there were various blankets and dollies lying around, but no signs of human life. A discreet glance inside the van as she passed revealed several nice pieces, including a black leather sofa and an enormous entertainment center. A man’s furniture. Definitely a man’s.

They climbed the shallow steps and crossed the huge veranda, which crunched beneath Jillian’s feet. Hopefully, the new guy had a rake and a broom because there were dead leaves everywhere. This baby needed a lot of cleanup. It was a beautiful house, though, with clean lines, exquisite woodwork and beveled glass framing the open front door.

She knocked and waited.

No answer.

She tried again, this time using the heavy brass knocker.

Still nothing.

The dog looked up at her, and she could swear he raised his furry eyebrows in a What now? gesture.

Well, the door was open.

Stepping inside, she gasped at what had been a remarkable house and, with a little love, would be again. Several rooms spun off the foyer, the centerpiece of which was a wide staircase with a carved handrail, and every room that she could see was bathed in light from full-length windows. Ornate woodwork framed every doorway, and there was an enormous marble fireplace in what was unmistakably the living room.

No signs of life, though, and—

Oh, wait. Were those voices upstairs?

Turning back in the direction of the staircase—maybe she’d wandered a little farther inside than she should have—she opened her mouth to call out a hello, but a movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her.

A man’s hand on the brass handle of a cane came into view, followed by one long khaki-trousered leg and a foot encased in an expensive loafer.

“Hello,” Jillian called. “Your dog wandered down the street to say hi and I was just bringing—”

The rest of the man came into view and Jillian’s words stopped dead.

Oh, God. No. God, no.

Above the khaki pants was a lean, broad-shouldered torso in a white dress shirt. Above that was the face of the man who had destroyed her marriage, her heart and her happiness—the man she hadn’t spoken to directly for three years and who made regular appearances in her dreams to this day.

She staggered back a step, putting a hand on the wall for support.

Beau. It couldn’t be.

But no other man in the world had those amazing hazel eyes. No other man in the world had that beautiful honey-brown skin, those slashing cheekbones or that lush mouth. No other man in the world had those silky-sexy waves of soft sable hair or that potent brand of masculinity that reduced her to a vibrating mass of overheated flesh every damn time, aeons since she’d first laid eyes on him at the orientation at Columbia Law.

“Is it you?”

Stupid question, yeah, but she had to ask, just to be sure; her untrustworthy eyes needed confirmation that it really was him. That despite all the time and distance, both physical and emotional, that she’d put between them, this man was back in her life and would be living down the street.

After an endless wait, one corner of his mouth curled.

His face. Oh, God, his beautiful, ruined face.

He had a jagged, puckered scar that cut across his cheek, went past the edge of his mouth and ended at his chin. Yet he was still breathtaking, damn him, and that was unquestionably still Beau’s wry smile. Worse, those were Beau’s piercing eyes staring at her with such unwavering focus, and Beau’s delicious scent of fresh cotton and sporty deodorant she smelled.

“Yes,” he said, and the world spun out from under her.




Chapter 3


Apparently she looked as shell-shocked as she felt. Leaning on his cane and favoring his left leg, Beau took a halting step forward and put his hand on her arm, his eyes wide with concern.

“Are you okay?”

No. “Yes.”

Pull it together, Jill. You can do this.

She stepped out of his reach and away from the wall with only her pride to keep her going. This man would not get to her; she could stand on her own two feet.

He dropped his hand and stared at her until her burning face made her wish that she were in the molten crater of a volcano or the heart of hell itself—anywhere but here, with him.

Bitter tears of humiliation burned her eyes, but she blinked them back, ruthless in her determination never to shed another tear over this man. She ran through her lifetime allotment of tears for him years ago.

“It’s good to see you,” he told her in that deep, black-magic voice.

“I can’t say the same.”

A faint smile flickered across his face. “I know you can’t.”

She was lying, though. She had to lie. Because even now, even after all the things he’d done to her and all the ways he’d damaged her, there was a tiny corner in the dark recesses of her soul that was glad to see him.

How sick did that make her? Pretty damn sick.

Even scarred and limping, he stole her breath. Always had, always would. Even a near-fatal car accident couldn’t reduce this man’s effect on her and she hated him for it.

She hated herself even more.

“Is that something in the basket for me? I didn’t eat breakfast.”

What? Basket?

He pointed and she belatedly remembered the muffins. Now that her bewilderment was turning into anger, she tightened her grip on the handle and jerked the basket to one side, well out of his reach.

“They were for my new neighbor.”

“That would be me.”

“Not on your life.”

“Ah.” He let his head hang with exaggerated disappointment.

“What’re you doing here, Beau?”

“I’m moving into my new house.”

Having already seen the van outside, this was not breaking news. The confirmation was still a serious jolt, though, along the lines of an anvil dropped on her head.

“Did it ever cross your mind that maybe you should have given me some warning that you’d decided to relocate from Miami?”

“It did, but it’s hard to give you warning when you don’t return my phone calls.”

Oh. She fidgeted with nerves and guilt. So that’s what those voice-mail messages had been about. She’d deleted them all, the way she’d deleted him from her life.

It was all part of her policy to never speak to him again, if she could help it. A little harsh, true, but she’d managed remarkably well. In the three years since the divorce, she’d only seen and talked to him once, in the hospital after his accident, and that didn’t really count because he’d been unconscious at the time.

What else could she do? Why would she talk to this man if she could avoid it? So he could hurt her again? Uh—no, thanks.

Direct communication wasn’t necessary, anyway. He’d lived in Miami, she’d lived here, Barbara Jean had shuttled Allegra back and forth between them and e-mail had worked perfectly well to discuss parenting issues. Now here he was, bringing in stormy seas to rock the boat and ruining things the way he always ruined everything.

She jammed her fists on her hips. “Why didn’t you e-mail me?”

“E-mail doesn’t work for everything.” That bright gaze held hers, but revealed none of his secrets. She was sure there were secrets; there always were with Beau. “I’ve decided to take a more proactive approach with several things in my life from now on.”

“Such as what?”

He paused and stared, drawing out the tension and letting the panic grow in her chest. In no particular hurry to answer, he made his slow way to the only piece of furniture in the room, a console by the far wall, and leaned against it.

“For one thing, I want to be much more involved in Allegra’s life. Seeing her for a couple of weekends a month isn’t enough.”

More time with Allegra? Over Jillian’s cold, dead body. It was hard enough to part with Allegra for those weekend visits—how would she deal with her precious daughter being gone more often?

“I beg your pardon, but you haven’t filed any paperwork to change—”

One hand came up, stopping her bluster in its tracks. “We don’t need to involve the court with this, Jillian. We’re both reasonable human beings and we can work together to find a system for me to see Allegra during the week. How hard could it be with me living right down the street?”

“Why would I want to work with you on anything?”

“Because.” Unmistakable sadness darkened his eyes until they were almost brown. “Even though I was a lousy husband, I’m a good father. Since you’re a good mother, you know how important it is for a young girl to have her father actively involved in her life.”

Shut down on this issue—he was a good father and Allegra did miss him between visits—Jillian hitched up her chin and changed the subject.

“What about your job? You can’t just up and quit—”

“I did up and quit. That’s one of the benefits of having a little money.”

A little money. Hah. Good one. He had a big enough stake in his family’s beer distribution empire to support him and several small countries for decades to come.

“Anyway, my heart wasn’t in the big-firm, corporate-lawyer life.”

Jillian laughed sourly. “Well, I can certainly understand that since your heart has never stayed in one place for very long.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, and her anxiety increased.

“What, pray tell, is your heart into these days?”

“My heart,” he said in the velvety tone that tightened her nipples and resonated deep in her belly every time she heard it, “has only ever been in one place—”

His disquieting gaze swept over her, making her shiver involuntarily.

“—but we’ll get to that another time. If you’re asking what I’m doing with myself these days, you can be one of the first to know. I’ve endowed a new charitable foundation, Phoenix Legacies. I’m running it.”

Jillian couldn’t tamp down her surprise or her growing sense of dread. If Beau was doing good works, she didn’t need to know. Any information that interfered with her unmitigated hatred of him was a bad thing.

“Phoenix Legacies?”

“We give micro loans to worthy applicants who’ve taken a wrong turn with their lives and need a little help getting back on their feet.”

This was too stunning for words. Beau? The former governor of Virginia and current king of Miami’s fast-living, hard-partying lifestyle? A philanthropist now? Beau?

And she didn’t want to ask—was afraid to ask—but she had to know.

“Phoenix? Why would you do that?”

He stared her in the face, deadly serious. “I like the idea of rising from the ashes. If I can help people put their life on the right track, then maybe my life will mean something.” He paused, his jaw flexing with the effort to hold back his words, but the words won. “For a change.”

So that’s what this was about. Redemption for Beau. Fine. He could do all the saintly works he wanted, as long as it had nothing to do with her. Big deal; God knew he had a lot to make up for and he certainly had money to spare. She would not be impressed or interested. It would not matter to her—

“And how much of your fortune did you use to bankroll this little venture?” she demanded because her curiosity had her in a stranglehold. A million or two was nothing to him—

“Ninety-eight percent,” he said, unsmiling.

Jillian’s jaw dropped. He’d given it all away—everything his family had ever worked for or stood for. Gone. He still had enough to live well on, but—

Heavy male footsteps and voices distracted them just then. They looked around to see several uniformed movers descending the steps.

“Still working on the bedroom,” one of them told Beau as they trooped out the front door toward the van.

“Great,” he said.

“What’s gotten into you?” Jillian asked the second they were alone again.

Though he stilled and didn’t move by so much as a blink or a breath, Jillian felt the change come over him, the intensification of his focus on her. As though he’d wanted her to ask this exact question and they were now circling toward the heart of something important and terrifying.

“I almost died,” he said simply.

This reminder did nothing for her nerves, which were already stretching and unraveling. Did he think she’d forgotten the middle-of-the-night phone call that had told her the father of her child and the only man she’d ever loved was near death in a Miami hospital?

Though she hadn’t seen him in years at that point—didn’t want to see him—she’d never forget the blinding horror she felt, especially when she’d heard that his companion du jour, Sabrina something, and the driver had been killed when the driver of that semi fell asleep at the wheel.

In that moment, all her rage fell away and the only thing that mattered was Beau and her need to see him again, not to let him go. So she left Allegra with Blanche and hopped on the next plane and prayed for him not to die or, if he had to die, for him not to die until she got there.

And then she’d arrived at the hospital and survived the shock of seeing the biggest, strongest, most vital man she’d ever known swollen and broken, bruised and slashed, more dead than alive, with internal injuries and a badly broken leg that was begging for amputation.

He’d coded once, the nurse told her. Probably would again, and the next time—if there was a next time—they most likely wouldn’t be able to bring him back.

All through that terrible day and night, Jillian had sat with him, talked to him, prayed for him. Then the second day began and the doctor told her that Beau would live and keep his leg, and that was all she needed to hear. She left before noon, on the next plane back to Atlanta, because she’d made sure her child’s father was okay, but that didn’t mean she forgave him or ever wanted to see him again.

Now here he was and, God, she just couldn’t breathe or think.

“I know you almost died.” She spoke slowly because it was so hard to force the words past the overwhelming knot of dread in her chest and throat. “What’s that got to do with you setting up a foundation, moving down the street from me and getting a dog?”

Again that relentless focus held her in its thrall, hypnotizing her with the splintered shards of bright black, green and gold visible in his eyes, even across the room.

“When I woke up in the hospital, I was sorry I wasn’t dead.”

This merciless honesty unnerved her. Beau dead? Even now she couldn’t bear to think it. “Don’t say that.”

“I was.” He was so matter-of-fact they might have been discussing his need for a house painter. “But then I decided that just because I’d screwed up the first half of my life didn’t mean I needed to screw up the last half.”

“And that means…what?”

But her body already knew the answer even if her brain refused to accept it. It was in her lungs, which couldn’t breathe, in her heart, which skittered on every other beat, and in her belly, which dropped sickeningly.

As the silence stretched, she prayed.

Please don’t let him say it. Please, God, don’t let anything else in this safe, new world here outside Atlanta change on her. Please…please.

Pushing away from the console, Beau made his painful way across the room to where she stood with her clenched fist still clutching that stupid basket of muffins. He stared down at her, doling his words out in measured amounts.

“It means that, while I was recovering in the hospital and working on strengthening my body, I also started working on strengthening my spirit and figuring out why I did the things I did.” He paused, color rising high over his cheeks. “I stopped drinking. And I started counseling.”

This was unbelievable. Too flustered to be coherent, she stammered the first response that came to mind.

“Y-You’re not an alcoholic.”

“No, but I didn’t need to be drinking.”

Wow. That was quite a step because Beau loved his scotch.

“I’m…proud of you.”

This wasn’t a pro forma attaboy; she really meant it. Knowing Beau as well as she had for all these years, she knew what a huge step this was. The change in him was profound—she felt it the way she felt the relentless beat of her pulse in her throat—and it wasn’t just the physical. Whether it was from the accident or the counseling, she couldn’t tell, but it petrified her.

A smile warmed his eyes and it was so achingly familiar she wanted to drown in it. “I’m trying to be a better man, Jillian.”

The way he said her name hadn’t changed after all these years. It was still a loving touch, a melting caress that reached places deep in her soul only he’d ever been able to access. Hearing those three syllables roll off his tongue again renewed her panic and intensified it.

Where was this going? When was he going to drop that final shoe on her? Why couldn’t she breathe?

Because she couldn’t look him in the face and let him see how he was ripping her to shreds all over again, she looked away. To the crown molding, to the empty hallway, to the dog, who was now drowsing on a sunny patch of the floor with his paws sticking up. If Medusa had been in the room, Jillian would have gladly looked at her swirling head of snakes and been turned to stone.

Anything to avoid Beau’s gaze.

Beau waited until finally her cowardice became so humiliating that even she couldn’t stand it for another second.

Be a woman, Jill. Just ask.

“What does your trying to be a better man have to do with me?”

Staring her right in the eye, he hit her with the directness that had always been both a wonderful and a terrible thing about him.

“I want my family back.”

Jillian paused, the words locked tight in her throat. “You never lost Allegra.”

“I want you back.”




Chapter 4


How the hell could he do this to her?

Again?

How was it that this one man could still reach deep inside her and touch her heart? Why, after every terrible thing they’d been through together, did he still have that power over her?

Well, no more. Never again. The independence and self-confidence she’d gained since the divorce were too precious—too hard-won—to risk by letting him into her life again.

God, she was an idiot. If only she could be indifferent enough to laugh and tell him she didn’t give a damn what he wanted. What a glorious day that would be when she finally managed it.

Until then, she felt sudden, choking rage, the kind that burned its way out of her body in an unstoppable eruption. Just this once—just once, God—she wanted to hurt him a millionth as much as he’d hurt her. If not emotionally, then physically would do just fine.

With an incoherent cry, she hurled the basket at him.

That cane didn’t slow him down any. His instincts were still sharp and he deflected the attack, sending muffins flying in all directions.

“How dare you?” The movers would hear her screeching and realize she was insane, but there was time enough to be embarrassed later. “You have a near-death experience and you decide…what? That it’s finally time for you to grow up and be a man? And now you show up here, where I have rebuilt my life, bit by painful bit, and move onto my street and announce you want me back? What do you expect me to do?”

“Exactly what you’re doing.”

The grim resignation in his voice and on his face brought her up short. How could he be so calm when she was losing it? Didn’t he know he was detonating an atomic bomb right in the middle of the carefully constructed house of cards that was her life?

If only she could breathe. If only she could think. If only she’d had some warning that today wouldn’t be just another quiet day at the B & B.

Maybe they needed another joint walk down memory lane.

“Let’s recap, shall we?”

“Jillian—”

“You cheated on me when you were the governor. Is this ringing a bell at all?”

“Jillian—”

“We’d been having problems and I knew our marriage had been in trouble for a long time, so I forgave you. I stood by you at that podium while you gave your little press conference and apologized for the scandal and swore you’d changed. Remember that?”

“I remember.”

“And then we hired Adena Brown to rehabilitate your image and save your career. And what did you do when I thought we were rebuilding our marriage? You had another affair. With her.”

“I know what I did.”

“So you broke my heart again. Created another scandal. Put me through another public humiliation. Made things so bad for me that I couldn’t walk down the street in Richmond without being gawked at. I had to come down here after the divorce and start a new life in a new place where I could hold my head up. And I have.”

“I know you have, baby.”

God, she was shaking all over. He’d made her a mess, after all. Those same stupid tears seemed stuck in her eyes; they wouldn’t fall and they wouldn’t dry up. Worst of all, they didn’t shield her from the yearning in his darkened eyes or from the telltale throb in his tight jaw that told her he was also near tears.

The sight of his raw emotion was almost worse than feeling her own. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to be strong and her voice not to shake.

“So, given our long and painful history together, Beau, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t want any part of your little self-improvement project.”

Noises startled her and for the first time in a while, she became aware that they were not the only two people in the universe. From outside in the hall came the sound of the movers returning with a mattress and trying to negotiate it up the staircase.

The poor dog hadn’t managed to sleep through her shouting. He was up again, snuffling around the room and systematically eating the muffins with appreciative smacks.

All this activity went on around her and still Beau was the center of her existence. He’d always been the sun to her orbiting earth, since the day they met in law school all those years ago, no matter how she wished otherwise.

He crept closer.

Stubborn pride forced her to stand firm and keep her chin up when the smarter thing would’ve been to leave now, call her real estate agent and list the B & B for sale by supper. But she was still a weak fool, even now, because she held his gaze, knowing that he could play her heartstrings the way Eric Clapton played guitar.

“Do you know what I thought about when I saw that truck coming, Jill?”

“God.” Pressing a hand to her chest, she tried unsuccessfully to choke back a hysterical laugh. “Are you going to use your near-death experience against me? Really, Beau?”

“I thought about you.” He shrugged helplessly, as though thoughts of her at the moment of his anticipated death were inevitable and he accepted them as such. “I saw your face.”

If only those words were meaningless. If only she could let them roll off her back, pity him for living in the past and move on with her life with no thoughts of him to torment her in the dark hours of the night. None of that was possible, though, and bluster was her only flimsy defense against him.

“Too bad for you.” She tried to look bored. “I’ve moved on.”

“You have in some ways,” he said evenly. “But we’re still in love with each other. We’re not finished. We’ll never be finished.”

Jillian went still, too shaken even to blink. The words were such a stinging blow that he might have backhanded her across the face.

For no reason at all, she thought of Adam, her numbness when he’d kissed her earlier, and the way she’d been sleepwalking through life for years. She thought of the yawning emptiness she’d felt, and how she’d wondered if and when she’d ever feel anything deeply ever again.

And now, after ten minutes with her ex-husband, she was that same sickening knot of seething emotions—anger, pain, hurt and confusion—that she’d been when she left him.

Oh, the irony.

She gave him the kind of pitying look she knew he hated, and focused on getting out of there as soon as possible, while she was still in one piece.

“You’re in denial. You should ask your therapist to work on it with you.”

This seemed like a pretty good exit line and she turned to go. But Beau’s face contorted with fury and he lashed out, catching her wrist.

Crying out, she wrenched away from him.

This threw him off balance, to her sinking horror.

Oh, no. She hadn’t meant—

He flailed his free arm but couldn’t right himself. She saw his eyes widen with dismay and all her anger evaporated in the time it took her to lunge and catch him around the waist.

Desperate not to let him fall and damage that leg any further, she locked her knees and they staggered a couple of steps together.

Then Beau shoved her away. “I can do it.”

The scar puckered and reddened with his furious pride as he snarled at her. Grunting with the effort to remain upright, he wobbled again and took another five years off her life.

“Fine.” Stung by his rejection and sick with worry, she watched him plant the cane with painstaking care and get both his feet under him. Panting now and looking pale—God, she hoped he wasn’t still in pain—he leaned on the cane, closed his eyes and took a ragged breath. “Fall on your ass, then. See if I care.”

The flash of a crooked smile was her only warning before those hazel eyes flew open and locked onto her face with a hard gleam. Then he sprang into action, caught her around the waist with a free hand that was still as powerful as it had ever been, swung her around and backed her into the wall.

“Don’t.”

Too late. He’d already settled against her and shifted so that her hips cradled his and there was no question about which parts of his body were still in fine working order.

Just like that, her mind emptied out and there was only the pleasure and sweet remembrance of they way they felt together, the way his hands made her body hum with energy.

Push him away, Jill. Do it.

The intent was there, but her flesh was starved and weak and he felt as unspeakably good as ever. She struggled but only wound up gripping his muscular arms, pulling him closer when she should have been yanking herself free.

This small acquiescence pushed him over an edge.

With a sound that was half groan, half growl, he dropped the cane with a clatter. Then he held her head between his hands, and forced her to look into the fractured shards of green and brown light that were his brilliant eyes.

Beau. God, Beau.

His fingers worked through her hair until they massaged her scalp and melted her like a caramel chew left in the sun. She nearly died with the rightness of being back with him like this, seeing him like this, feeling him like this.

All the old chemistry was still there, all the passion and the need. There was no pretending it wasn’t, not with him this close.

“Here’s the thing,” he murmured. “You do care. I know you do. I remember what you told me in the hospital.” Oh, no. He couldn’t have heard—

“You were out of your mind with pain and the meds,” she tried. “You have no idea what—”

“Bullshit.” His lips thinned with stubborn anger. “I heard what you said.”

This was too much. Apparently there was no weapon he wouldn’t use against her; she should have known. Distraught, she abandoned her pride and fought for survival by appealing to his conscience. She knew he had one buried deep somewhere.

“Why don’t you just stab me with a knife and be done with it?” She kept her voice quiet, knowing that would affect him more than yelling. “Wouldn’t that be easier than the way you keep tearing me apart every time I get my life back together?”

That did it. His face contorted with what she hoped was shame and his head dropped.

She sagged with relief.

But instead of moving away and freeing her, he rubbed his face against her cheek—his nose against her hair—and inhaled her the way a drowning man would inhale that first breath of air when he was rescued.

“I love you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve always loved you, and I died loving you—”

“Don’t.”

“—and I wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t think you still loved me. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think I was ready to be the kind of husband you need. We’ve got to face down our demons, Jill. We’ve got to do it together.”

No. Not that. Never that.

A renewed surge of anger and adrenalin flashed through her, giving her the burst of strength she needed. Wrenching free, she hurried a few steps away, out of his reach, and wheeled around to face him in all her terrified fury. She focused on one small part of what he’d said because that was the only thing she had the courage to confront.

“You’re not my husband anymore.”

“I intend to change that,” he said flatly.




Chapter 5


Hurry, Jill. You can make it.

Hurry…hurry…HURRY.

But as she unceremoniously left Beau’s house and sped back down the hill to the B & B, where she belonged, she didn’t think she could make it at all. Overhead, the sun had begun its midmorning blaze and the air was thicker now, a humid sludge of unbreathable oxygen, all but useless to her.

Run, Jill!

No. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t risk Beau looking out the window and seeing what he’d reduced her to. If it killed her, and it just might, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction and ammunition of knowing how he affected her. He’d only use it against her the first chance he got.

Almost there. Hang on.

Ahead of her loomed the B & B, her beacon, the only thing saving her from collapsing in the street. For a minute it seemed like it was coming closer, but then her legs slowed down, her lungs emptied out, and her tiny safe haven from Beau remained as unreachable as a rainbow’s end.

Meanwhile, her frantic heart had gone berserk and seemed determined to pump out a thousand erratic beats per minute. The staccato pounded in her tight throat and battled with her breath for supremacy. Neither won, leaving her gasping and panicked.

Passing out on the sidewalk seemed like a real possibility. With the way her luck was running today, she’d fracture her skull on the concrete as she fell, and lapse into a coma before the EMTs came.

Maybe she should sit on the curb and wait for the spell to pass. Or maybe she should drape herself around the mailbox post so the mailman would see and rescue her when he came to deliver today’s batch of bills and catalogs.

No. She could do this.

One more step, Jill. You can do it. And another. Last one.

She staggered up the stairs and through the kitchen door into her refuge, where the cooler air didn’t make one damn bit of difference.

No sign of Blanche, though, thank God. She could really do without any witnesses to this, her first full-blown panic attack in months.

Doubled over now, the walls spinning until only streaks of random colors and patches of sunlight passed before her eyes, she lurched into the dark pantry, slammed the door behind her and hit the cold floor right between the fifty-pound burlap sack of basmati rice and the flour bin.

Put your head between your legs, Jill. Do it.

She did it.

Breathe, Jill. Just breathe. There’s no reason why you can’t.

There was a reason. Beau had unleashed these demons inside her, and now they had her throat in an iron grip trapped inside a cage of paralyzing anxiety.

It was too much. This was all too much: Beau and the B & B, Allegra and single motherhood, making lunch and the guests and the payroll and facing another day after this one.

She couldn’t do it.

She’d made it this far, yeah, and built a so-called new life, but she’d only been faking it, and the jig was up.

Now her horrible truth was out and the whole world would know her ugly and humiliating secret: she was a mess, unworthy of the title of mother or even woman. She couldn’t fake her way through another day.

Breathe, Jill. Just breaaaathe.

The constricting pressure around her chest eased up, just a little.

It was a start. Not a good start, but a start.

Trying again, working from her belly, she sucked in another molecule or two of air and it was a miraculous triumph, the same as giving birth to a healthy child or landing a rover on Mars.

Panting and choked, she wheezed her way to a complete lungful and then another after that, and by then her training kicked in to save her.

Good thoughts, Jill, she reminded herself. Think them.

She thought about Allegra. She thought about spending a day on the beach, splashing in the waves and enjoying the sun’s bright heat on her face. She thought about warm, gooey chocolate-chip cookies with pecans, and the fluffy comfort of her down-covered bed. She thought about all the emotional progress she’d made and how far she’d come.

The tension left her body by slow but sure degrees, and the crushing pressure let up until it no longer flattened her into a dark smudge on the floor. She took another tentative breath, just to be sure, and the lifesaving air didn’t kick and scream its way into her lungs.

And then, just like that, it was over.

But of course it wasn’t over at all because she was still a mess down to the marrow of her soul.

Exhausted, she slumped back and tried to ignore the low shelf of baking products cutting across her kidneys. The world came back to her and she became aware of the distant voices of guests in the foyer…the open and close of the front door…the heavy, rubberized footfall that announced the imminent arrival of Blanche.

Blanche. Oh, no. God help her if Blanche saw her like this.

Calling on the kind of supreme effort that Superman used to fly around the earth’s circumference and reverse time, she heaved herself to her feet and tested out her wobbly knees. They trembled but held.

She was just swiping some of the wetness from her face—she wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or tears and didn’t really want to know—when Blanche came into the kitchen singing, or rather rapping, Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power,” which was just…wrong.

“Fight, fight, fight the—” Blanche chanted and, without warning, swung the pantry door open, sashayed inside and came up short when she saw Jillian.

Jillian tried to look dignified. Blanche gaped.

Apparently, Blanche couldn’t get a good enough look, because she reached out and flipped the light on. Jillian wasn’t prepared. Wincing, she blinked and covered her eyes. Blanche tsked and jerked Jillian’s hand down.

The women faced off.

Judging from her horrified expression, Blanche knew the worst, but she asked anyway. “Have you had a panic attack?”

Jillian pulled free, flicked off the light and tried to escape before this interrogation reached full swing. “No.”

Blanche didn’t buy the lie, which was no surprise since the woman had the unerring instincts of a baying bloodhound on an escaped convict’s trail. “You’re all wild-eyed and sweaty, missy.” She looked around, as though she expected to see a masked intruder. “What’s going on in here?”

“Nothing.” Jillian smoothed her hair and tried not to sound too defensive. “I was just…you know, checking the supplies and—”

Blanche’s brows inched up toward her artificial hairline. “And—what? You were crying because there weren’t enough tea bags? Don’t kid a kidder, honey. What’s wrong with you?”

Jillian opened her mouth to dodge and deflect, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Why bother? Blanche would know soon enough anyway.

“Beau bought the Foster place.”

Blanche, who knew the rough outlines of the implosion of Jillian’s marriage, if not every gory detail, took this news with appropriate solemnity. With a single sharp nod, she squared her shoulders and marched to the far corner of the huge pantry, where she rummaged around behind an enormous sack of coffee beans and extracted a fifth of Patron tequila.

Whoa. The good stuff. How much was she paying Blanche, anyway? And did Blanche drink on the job? This early? She’d have to revisit these issues later, when she wasn’t so overwrought and behind on the lunch preparations.

And what—Oh, no.

Blanche had by now produced a stack of Allegra’s Dora the Explorer Dixie cups, and poured a shot for each of them. “Blanche, I don’t dr—”

Blanche shoved one of the cups at Jillian and raised the other in a toast. “Cheers. Now drink.”

Yeah. Cheers. Whatever.

Jillian drank.

The liquid courage both burned and was smooth as the finest silk going down. Jillian choked just a bit on the swallow, wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake by imbibing so soon after her panicked trauma of a few minutes ago, but then a funny thing happened. She coughed and gasped and the warmth spread through her, empowering her with enough strength to get mad.

What the hell had gotten into her?

So Beau thought he’d reappear and turn her world upside down, did he? So he thought he could just materialize and pick up where he’d left off? So he thought she’d forgive him?

Well, she had news for Beau: no freaking way.

That man had already taken enough from her. She wasn’t about to give him another inch, thought or tear, not one more cry. It didn’t matter where he lived. It didn’t matter what he said. All of that was meaningless.

The only thing that mattered now was the life with Allegra that she’d painstakingly built here at the B & B. Everything else was sound and fury, signifying nothing—especially Beau.

Let him move down the street. It was no skin off her nose.

Catching Blanche’s watchful eye, Jillian smiled and held out her cup. “Hit me again.”

“That’s my girl.” Blanche beamed with approval and topped them both off. “Cheers.”

“Salut.”

They tapped cups and tossed back the tequila, which Jillian was really starting to appreciate. She was just debating whether a third hit would make the lunch prep and cleanup go any more smoothly, when there was a sharp knock at the kitchen door and her insides turned to stone.

Oh, God. That wasn’t a normal knock. That was Beau’s knock. She knew it.

And it was all well and good to stand there in the closet and tell herself to be brave and strong, but it was something else again to be brave when Beau was actually in the room with her.

Facing him again this soon would take another thirty years off her life. She couldn’t do it.

The blind terror must have shown on her face because Blanche took charge. Hitching up her stretchy pants and reminding Jillian of Gary Cooper adjusting his holster in High Noon before the shoot-out, she gave her a grim nod and took charge.

“You leave him to me, honey.”

Relieved as Jillian was by this offer, how humiliating was it to hide in her own damn pantry while her employee took care of her ex? Sure, she felt a little wobbly at the moment, but was she that big a coward?

Blanche had cracked open the pantry door and peered out to survey the enemy. Now she retracted her head and faced Jillian with a low whistle of feminine appreciation, looking resigned to the worst possible outcome.

“Oh, Jilly,” she said. “That man’s a god. You’ve got a big problem.”

“Thanks for the news flash.”

Beau knocked again, more insistently this time, and Jillian made up her mind. Hiding in the closet was for children like Allegra. She was a grown woman and needed to act like one.

Drawing on some inner reservoir that she really hoped was filled with courage rather than suicidal tendencies, Jillian gave Blanche a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

“Go on and let him in. Give me a second. I’ll be fine.”

Blanche didn’t look at all convinced. “You sure, honey? I can tell him—”

“Now, please.”

Blanche sighed and looked to heaven for strength. Either that or she was praying for Jillian’s ultimate destruction to be as painless as possible. Then she marched out, a stiff soldier prepared for battle.

The second she was gone, Jillian snatched a paper towel from the roll on the shelf and dabbed her eyes and face. No need to look like she’d been teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Then she fluffed her hair and grabbed the nearest thing she could find, which turned out to be a giant bag of dried cranberries, and followed Blanche out into the airy brightness of the kitchen.

Beau and Blanche stood there, shaking hands and sizing each other up, but his penetrating gaze went right to Jillian the second she appeared. Jillian focused on looking cool and unconcerned and trying not to feel the hum of electricity she always felt when they looked at each other. Maybe it was still there, but she didn’t have to succumb to it. Above all, there’d be no more emotional outbursts from her today.

She set the cranberries on the counter and found her apron.

The dog, she realized, had also come down for a visit. On a leash, he’d been sitting quietly at Beau’s feet, but now he walked over and settled on his haunches in front of Jillian, open adoration shining in his midnight eyes.

This guy was a beauty. Maybe she had no smiles for Beau, but she sure had an ear scratch or two for his dog, who groaned with canine ecstasy the second she touched him.

“What are you doing here, Beau?”

“We didn’t really finish our talk.” He leaned heavily on his cane and sweat beaded on his forehead. Was he in pain? Why had he walked all the way down here in this heat? Was he trying to kill himself and give her a heart attack in the process? And why couldn’t she remember that Beau’s health or lack thereof was no longer her problem? “And I was hoping I could see Allegra and tell her I’ve moved.”

“Hmm.” Jillian tied her apron. “This is Blanche.”

“We’ve met.” Blanche looked like she was working on vaporizing him with the glint from her narrowed eyes. “I was fixing to say that my mama always told me to be polite to folks, but I’ll make an exception for you if you start upsetting my Jillian here—”

“Blanche—” Jillian tried, but Blanche was not to be deterred.

“—and I don’t care how pretty you are. I’ll snatch that cane right out of your hand and wallop you upside the head with it. And then—”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Blanche.”

“—I’ll take the broken ends and stick ’em where the sun don’t shine. And that’d hurt me more’n it’d hurt you, ’cause you’ve got one fine ass. But I’d do it.” Here Blanche paused long enough to extend a plate of pumpkin muffins and flash Beau a smile that held all the warmth of a snarl from a rabid wolf. “Help yourself, sugar. There’s butter if you need it.”

Grateful as she was for this massive show of support, Jillian wanted to tell Blanche to duck and run because the poor woman had no idea what she was up against. Any second now, Beau would unleash his overwhelming, devastating charm, and Blanche, who was more susceptible to a handsome man than the average woman, would be reduced to a simpering mass of blushes and giggles.

Jillian might as well pop some corn, pull up a chair and watch the show.

Only, Beau didn’t fall back on his masculine appeal. He didn’t even smile.

Instead—oh, wow, would he ever stop surprising her today?—he nodded in a grim show of humility and met Blanche’s ferocity head-on with no excuses.

“I deserve that,” he told Blanche. “Hell, if you knew all the trouble I’ve caused in my life, you’d go ahead and call the sheriff to escort me off the property right now.”

Neither of the women had expected this and they exchanged a wide-eyed look over Beau’s shoulder. Blanche recovered from her surprise quickly enough to put down the plate, fold her arms over her chest and hike up her chin as though she’d like nothing better than to take the meat mallet to him.

Beau didn’t quake before this withering assessment, didn’t even blink. “I’m glad Jillian has a friend like you. I hope one day I can earn your trust.”

The disapproving lines around Blanche’s mouth softened for a second, but then she caught herself and renewed her disdain. “Doubtful,” she said.

Beau’s energy seemed to dim, as though a light had gone out inside him, but he held tight to his cane and stood tall. “I understand.” One corner of his mouth twisted up, crooked and humorless, and that vivid red scar puckered. “I’m not giving up, but I do understand.”

Blanche shrugged. “Honey, you can do what you want. Long as you understand that I’m protecting my girl here.” She looked to Jillian. “You want me to toss him out? We got lunch to fix.”

Yes. Toss him out. Bolt the door. Call the sheriff.

The words were all right on the tip of Jillian’s tongue, but then Beau pivoted on his good leg to submit to her verdict on his fate, and she couldn’t speak to save her life.

What was this new thing about him? There was infinite patience in his expression, resignation as well as determination, and she had the terrible feeling that if she told him to come back tomorrow each day for the next fifty years, he’d come back tomorrow.

But the one thing he would not do was give up.

This put her in an untenable position, stuck squarely between her need to stay as far away from him as humanly possible, and her conflicting resolve to be brave and not let him turn her into a panic-attack-stricken mess.

Her pride won out in the end, and she shrugged in an Oscar-worthy display of indifference. Keeping her voice strong and audible was much harder.

“If you want to stand there for three minutes and watch me fix lunch for my guests, that’s fine with me. I’ve already said everything I have to say.”

A relieved grin flashed across his face, as brilliant as a streaking comet across the starry night sky. And then he sobered just as Jillian’s knees were weakening to mush. “Thank you.”

Oh, God, this was a mistake.

Already her pulse was flittering again in the telltale skip that told her another panic attack was in her near future, but it was too late to backtrack now. Blanche was moving toward the hall, about to leave them alone together, and there was no way Jillian could weasel out of it without looking like the full-grown, yellow-bellied coward that she was.

“Humph.” Blanche pursed her lips, shot Beau a few more death sparks from her blue eyes and disappeared.

And Jillian faced Beau.




Chapter 6


Breathe, Jill. Breathe.

To give herself something to do while she waited for him to talk, she focused on the dog. “What’s his name?”

“Seinfeld.”

The surprise bubbled up out of her mouth in an unstoppable laugh. Seinfeld. That had been their favorite show a million years ago, when dinosaurs were young and they had a marriage that involved love and fun rather than the endless parade of one heartbreak after the other.

Foolish to the bitter end and beyond, she caught his eye for that one second—oh, man, he was grinning, too—and the laughter was crushed by the sweet ache of nostalgia for things that had probably never been as great as she remembered them anyway.

Turning away from Beau and his furry surrogate, she washed her hands. Forget the dog. If she was determined never to touch Beau again, she damn sure shouldn’t be fawning over his stupid dog.

Seinfeld. Yeah. Right. Like that changed anything.

“What is it, Beau?” Drying her hands, she tried, with increasing frustration, to remember what meal she was supposed to be cooking. It was supper, right? This terrible day had dragged on for so long it had to be suppertime by now, didn’t it? “I have work and—”

“This is a great inn.” Taking baby steps, Beau turned in a loose circle to admire the kitchen and what he could see of the hall beyond. “You’ve worked really hard. I’m proud of you.”

Jillian froze, her hand high overhead, reaching for a copper pan from the rack above the range. Chicken. They were supposed to be baking chicken.

But Beau wasn’t finished reaching inside her and twisting her heart, and the unmistakable light of admiration gleaming in his eyes made everything so much worse. And that was before he spoke again.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do when you set your mind to it.”

Jillian gaped at him, too undone to reply. Though this was the kind of thing he used to say all the time during their early years together, a thousand snide remarks came to mind now.

I couldn’t keep you satisfied in bed, could I?

I couldn’t keep you from screwing other women, could I?

I couldn’t keep our family together.

Oh, yes, she wanted to hurl all that ugliness right in his face, but something stopped her. The touch of God on her shoulder, maybe, or a moment’s grace. It could have been the sudden intrusion of Allegra’s smile and Jillian’s unwavering determination to make things work, as much as she possibly could, with her child’s father.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore it.

So she swallowed the nastiness, which felt bitter going down and settled in her belly like a lead cannonball, and said, simply, “Thank you.”

Beau turned those clear hazel eyes on her. “You’re welcome.”

A second was about all she could stand and then she had to look away. Beau waited, saying nothing and kicking her anxiety level even higher.

Why was he here? When would he leave? Desperate for something to do that wouldn’t reveal the relentless shake of her hands, she went to the fridge and pulled out the chicken, which Blanche had put to soak in a bowl of buttermilk.

Chicken…chicken…what’d she do with it now? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. She’d have better luck trying to fillet a bowl of yak brains.

Think, Jill.

She had the pan. She had the chicken. Oh—flour. She needed flour. And then she needed to get a grip. “If that’s all, Beau, I need to—”

On her way to the far cabinet to get a few more ingredients, she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and stopped cold. Underneath the smooth golden tones of his skin, he looked pale and clammy, with a distinct green tinge.

Well, so what?

She tried not to care, but then he gritted his teeth in a discreet cringe and there was no ignoring that.

The man was in pain. Enormous pain. Terrible pain.

“Beau,” she said sharply. God, was that her voice with all that anguish in it? “Sit down. You’re in pain—”

“I’m fine.”

Stubborn idiot. There were times when she was positive mule’s blood ran through his veins.

“—and you probably need your meds.”

Letting his eyes drift closed, as though he could take a quick nap standing up and then commence running a marathon—no problem—he swayed on his feet. “I don’t take any meds.”

He didn’t take—

What?

Screw the chicken. Screw lunch. Aghast, she stalked back to stare him in the eye when she called him what he was—a maniac. She was so furious she really thought she could spit out a nail or two if she put her mind to it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sweeping her arms wide to encompass every crazy thing he’d done this morning and those he’d been working on for years, she screeched and didn’t care how many paying guests heard. “Trying to win the Martyr of the Year award?”

Those eyes flew open, blazing green now with the fervor of a zealot. “I’m no saint.”

She snorted. “I think we’re all clear on that, thanks. Take your meds, Beau—”

“No.”

“Why not?” Jillian tried to get a grip on her overactive protective gene, but it was impossible when he was so haggard and yet so proud. She could do a lot of things; he was right about that. She could change the oil in her car, install storm windows and do a darn fine job as a single parent. The one thing she could not do and would never be able to do, not if she lived for another thousand years, was ignore his pain. “For God’s sake, why not?”

“Because it reminds me!”

“Reminds you of what?”

He faltered, his expression filling with so much self-loathing and shame that she was surprised he didn’t grab the nearest chef’s knife and jab himself under the fingernails in punishment.

Opening his mouth, he hesitated again, and when he finally spoke it was with the helpless sincerity and vulnerability of someone unearthing a piece of his soul and exposing it to bright sunlight for the first time ever.

“All the work I have to do on myself.”

Jillian stared at him.

Well, what the hell was she supposed to say to that? That he didn’t have work to do? Or maybe she should emphasize the obvious—that he had so much work to do he really needed to look into overtime and weekend options.

If she was smart, she’d just wish him good luck and tell him to get started on it down the street at his own house and well away from her. Why did he have to wallow in his determined martyrdom right here in her house?

Only, he didn’t look like he was wallowing or seeking pity. He looked like a man stating a simple fact without realizing that the simple fact tore her to shreds.

He had work to do on himself. Fine, Beau. Fine.

“Do all the work you want,” she told him. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me.”

A shadow crossed his face, maybe because he knew she was lying.

“But I don’t intend to watch you kill yourself.” She waved a hand to the heavy oak bench against the wall under the far window. “You can sit down, or you can leave. I’d prefer that you leave, but it’s your choice.”

He didn’t miss a beat, the bastard. “Sit with me, Jill.”

She resisted for a second, hating him.

He waited.

The shallow harshness of his breath finally did her in. They’d sit. He’d gather a little strength. Then he’d leave. Brilliant. She had a plan.

“You have one minute.”

Furious, she marched the few steps to the bench and sat. He followed with painstaking care, planting a foot and then the cane, a foot and then the cane.

A thousand deaths claimed her in those few seconds while she glared off in the other direction and tracked his progress with her heart in her throat, ready to spring up and catch him if he wobbled or fell.

He didn’t, thank God.

Arriving at last, he sat with a poorly stifled groan and stretched out that bad leg, rubbing his thigh. Seinfeld, sensing his discomfort in the unerring way pets do, ambled over and watched, making sure he wasn’t needed. When Beau was settled at last, he rested his chin on Beau’s lap and looked up at him with concern in his dark brown eyes, while Jillian worked hard to hate both man and dog.

“The Celtics called,” Beau said. “They want me to play forward for them. I told them I’d think about it.”

This was not funny. She would not laugh at his jokes, nor would she admire his strength, determination and humility. He would not affect her; she wouldn’t let him.

“Fifty seconds,” she said, not looking at him. “Tick tock.”

“Can I see Allegra today?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause during which he apparently decided to press his luck. “Can I get more time with her every week?”

No. Hell, no. A billion times no. If only she were petty enough to keep a girl from her devoted father. Life would be so much easier that way.

“Yes.”

“Will you come back to me?” What?

Jillian whipped her head around, prepared to blast him to kingdom come, but his wry half smile stopped her and dried the words right out of her mouth.

“Just thought I’d ask. While you’re being so agreeable. It was worth a shot.”

Okay. Game over. She’d tried to be a mature adult, but she had another seventy or eighty years of growing up to do before she’d be ready to deal with his teasing. Time for him to go. Lunging to her feet, she took a step toward the door.

“I think we’re done here—”

To her utter astonishment and horror, he took her hand and, before she could protest or snatch it away, laced their fingers. Too bad her body didn’t know that she’d written him off forever and that it should not, therefore, physically respond to him ever again.

Heat flashed through her, a potent and unnecessary warning that although some things had changed, other things could never change. The scorching touch of his skin still undid her and their hands still fit together like the pieces of Allegra’s giant alphabet puzzle upstairs. Whether she wanted to fit with him or not didn’t matter. She just did.

“I’ve told you.” His low voice was hoarse now, overflowing with emotion. “We’re not done.”

The violent contraction of her heart nearly doubled her over, but she gathered her strength and tried to get free. This man would not do this to her, not in her own damn kitchen.

“No, Beau—”

Keeping her hand, he pressed it to his chest, where she felt the unrelenting pounding that matched what was going on with her own haywire pulse.

“We have a lot of work to do, Jill, but we can heal our marriage.”

With rising desperation, she yanked on her hand again, ready to part with it if that was what it took to get him to stop touching her. But he let her go and she backed up a step, fueled by her fear.

“The fact that there’s been a divorce means there’s no marriage. You should check that out when you get a free minute. Divorce and marriage—they’re mutually exclusive.”

The sarcasm rolled right off him, deflected by an unholy light in his eyes that looked like determination to the millionth power. “I don’t mean to scare you and I’ll try not to pressure you. But I won’t give up, either. There’s too much between us.”

If only she could deny it. If only she could open her mouth, laugh and say, “Screw you, buddy! I felt nothing when you touched me just now! Nuuuu-thing!”

But the lie wouldn’t come and her hand still tingled from his touch.

So she went on offense, which was the next best thing.

Shrugging, she did her best to look bored and indifferent. “Do what you want. It’s your time to waste. But I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone now.”

The little bit of remaining color leached away from his face, but she gave him high marks for a quick recovery and managing his shock.

“Dating? Who’s the lucky guy?”

Jillian opened her mouth, ready to rub his nose in it, but that was pretty hard when she suddenly couldn’t remember the guy’s name or face.

“None of your business,” she said instead.

Beau absorbed the blow like a man. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Wow. That’s a first. Have you called the people at Guinness?”

A flash of dark humor lit his eyes, but he said nothing.

“I have to get working on lunch, so—buh-bye.”

At last—at last, Lord, glory hallelujah—he pressed himself to his feet, gathered his cane in one hand and Seinfeld’s leash in the other, and headed for the door.

Jillian all but vaulted across the kitchen to open it for him and hold it wide.

Just as he passed through and she was beginning to breathe easier, thinking she’d survived another encounter without a second panic attack so maybe she should go buy a lotto ticket because this was her lucky day, he stopped, right in front of her, close enough that he took up her whole field of vision and threw waves of heat from his body to hers.

Looking down at her, he stared with those remarkable eyes.

Oh, God. There was more. She should’ve known he wouldn’t go quietly.

Please, she wanted to say, don’t, but her voice locked down when he was this near, and she was exposed and entirely at his mercy.

“I see you’re still wearing the locket,” he said gently.

It was the worst kind of blow, hard and punishing, and she absorbed it in every cell in her body. Her hand moved on its own and went to her throat, to the chain of white gold and, at the end of that, to the flat oval that was warm from her body.

She held it. Protected it. And didn’t answer.

They stared at each other. Hitching up her chin, she tried to manage a defiant glare, but it was hard when the sudden sparkle of her tears nearly blinded her.

“I’ll see you later, Jillian.”

Turning away from the infinite understanding in his expression—she didn’t have to see him clearly to know that it was there—she shut the door in his face.



There they were, Beau saw with knee-weakening relief. Finally.

Jillian, who had the stiff march and impassive expression of a soldier in a military drill, and Allegra, the light of his life, bouncing alongside wearing what appeared to be a ballet costume and tiara.

He stepped back from his living room window and tried to regain some chill, but it was hard with Christmas walking down the street toward him, coming early this year. He was paralyzed with hope, if not outright happiness. But he and happy had never been friends for long, so he couldn’t say for sure.

The late-afternoon sun hit their heads just right and threw off flashes of gold. Their hair was exactly the same sandy color, although Allegra had long ringlets that bounced around her shoulders and Jill had one of those short bob-type dos, with curls around her ears. They held hands, his girls, and Allegra had her chubby dimpled face turned up to her mother, chattering like a squirrel.

God, he loved those two.

Moving to the door, he waited for the bell and wished he could breathe.

“Are you ready for your surprise?” Jillian asked.

“What is it? Tell me, tell me, tell me, please—”

“Ring the doorbell and find out,” Jillian told her.

Allegra rang the bell, one of those twenty-second rings just to make sure anyone up in the attic or down in the basement could hear. Even though his heart was in his throat and there was no air anywhere close to his lungs, he laughed and was still laughing when he swung the door open and saw the astonished delight on his daughter’s face.

They stared at each other for one breathless second during which even her curls seemed to quiver with anticipation. A smile began at one corner of her pouty mouth and spread so wide so quickly that he could almost believe he was—or could one day be—a worthwhile human being who deserved this angel’s absolute adoration.





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