Dear Cupid (35 page)

“And?”

“And I’ve decided you were right.” She took another deep breath. “I had lost faith in myself. Until I got that back, until I believed I was worth loving, I’d never be able to give my love to someone else.”

“Kate, you are very worth loving.” He moved closer, but still didn’t touch her. The golden lights from the playground showed the anxiety that lined his face.

“I know.” She smiled at him, trying to tell him with her eyes that he had helped her remember that. “But first I had to prove it to myself.”

“Oh?”

“So,” she said, taking a breath, “last Monday, after you left, I sent out queries to every daily paper in Texas.”

Panic flashed across his eyes. “You’re not going to hang your self-worth on what other people think, are you? Because selling your column could take a while, even though I believe wholeheartedly that you will sell it.”

“Would you wait?’ She laughed at him. “And, no, I would have come to the same decision about myself, and about us, no matter what response I got from my queries.”

“So?” He visibly braced himself.

“The
American Statesman
is picking up my column!” The words bubbled out of her on a burst of enthusiasm.

“What?” His face lit with excitement.

“I met with the Lifestyle editor this afternoon,” she explained in a rush. “That’s why I was so late getting here. He said that if my column goes over well in this market, the newspaper chain that owns them will probably run it in their other markets as well. By this time next year, Dear Cupid could be running in papers all over the country.”

“That’s fabulous!” He swept her up and swung her around. “I knew you could do it.”

“I know.” She laughed in sheer joy as he set her back on her feet. “But I had to believe it myself. Believe in myself. Before I could believe you really love me.”

“You do believe that, though.” He cupped her face as his eyes searched hers. “Don’t you?”

Rather than answer, she rose up and pressed her lips to his. A week’s worth of missing him, of wanting to tell him how she felt, washed over her as she poured herself into the kiss. His lips answered in the same language of eager longing. All barriers crumbled beneath the honesty and strength of the love she felt inside. Still glowing, she sighed when he ended the kiss.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he breathed. “Ah, Kate, I was a goner the moment we met.”

“Me too. It just took me a little longer to realize it. But no more hiding.” She met his gaze evenly. “I love you, Mike. And I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how much. If you’re still interested.”

“If I’m still interested?” He kissed her again, long and hard, until the ground tilted beneath her feet, and the stars whirled overhead. When at last he lifted his head, she had to blink to bring him into focus.

“So.” He smiled broadly. “What would Dear Cupid advise two people who happen to be nuts about each other?”

“That they not waste any time tying the knot,” she answered without hesitation. “And that from here on out, they make every second they have together count.”

“I think that’s one bit of advice I can easily follow.” His head dipped toward hers. “Starting right now.”

Me too
, she thought as he kissed her senseless. Most definitely, me too!

Dear Cupid,

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Mike, Your Biggest Fan

Dear Fan,

Absolutely!

Your Loving Wife, Kate

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Read on for excerpts from
Falling For You
, book one in the Pearl Island trilogy, and
Almost Perfect
, book one in the Perfect trilogy.

Excerpt from book one of the
Pearl Island
trilogy

The sun was shining off Galveston Bay, the wind held the warmth of spring, and Rory was happy. But then Rory was always happy when she was headed for Pearl Island.

She grabbed the awning support as the pontoon tour boat hit another wave. The white shirt of her uniform fluttered against her chest as she brought the microphone to her mouth. “In a moment, folks, we’ll come to the most exciting part of your Galveston Bay boat tour, the haunted house on Pearl Island.”

Interest showed on the passengers’ faces as they glanced toward shore. In truth, a mere hundred yards separated Pearl Island from the main island of Galveston and a private causeway spanned even that small gap. But, in other ways, the island was a world unto itself, filled with intrigue, romance, and rumors of ghosts.

As the boat pounded through the waves toward the cove, Rory loosened her knees to keep her balance. A long corkscrew curl of golden-red hair whipped across her face. She released her hold on the awning to fight the waist-length mass and pitched sideways into the boat’s owner.

“Hang on there, darling,” Captain Bob said as she braced herself against his muscular shoulder. His shirt matched hers in style, with navy blue epaulets and gold buttons, but the rolled-up sleeves stretched taut around his massive biceps. “I know I’m irresistible, but not in front of the passengers, please.” He nodded toward the rows of cushioned seats that held a mishmash of tourists with the usual cameras, souvenir T-shirts, and sunburns.

“I’ll try to contain myself,” Rory teased back.

“Just don’t try too hard, beautiful.” His teeth flashed white against stubble-darkened cheeks as he tugged on the bill of his captain’s cap.

Outboard motor exhaust rolled over them as they swung into the protective cove and Captain Bob pulled back on the throttle. Shielded from the wind by the island, the boat settled into a gentle rocking motion as they began a slow circle.

Rory glanced toward the mansion. Pink granite walls rose above a stand of palm trees in majestic defiance to the acts of God and man and even time that had battered it for a hundred and fifty years. Along the edge of the steep, gabled roof—barely visible from such a distance—winged gargoyles snarled down at all who dared to approach.

Bringing the mike back to her mouth, Rory began the story that gave her goose bumps even though she’d told it a hundred times. “Of the historic sights in Galveston, this house has one of the more colorful pasts. It was built by the notorious Henri LeRoche, a ‘businessman’ from New Orleans who moved to Galveston in the mid-1800s—some say to escape prosecution for his questionable shipping activities. The house was a wedding present for his bride, Marguerite, an opera singer known as ‘the Pearl of New Orleans.’ ”

With the microphone in hand, Rory walked down the center of the aisle toward the bow. “Because of her scandalous past, Marguerite was never quite accepted by Galveston’s budding society. And the fairy-tale marriage she expected turned into a nightmare when Henri became brutally possessive. After years of being a virtual prisoner in her own house, Marguerite met and fell in love with one of Henri’s sea captains, the dashing young Jack Kingsley, who was a blockade runner during the Civil War.”

Rory turned to face her audience, enjoying her role as storyteller. “Henri found out she had a lover and went insane with jealousy. He locked Marguerite and their daughter upstairs, swearing she’d never leave the house alive.

“Afraid for her life, Marguerite sent a message to Captain Kingsley, begging him to rescue her.” Rory lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “On the night he came for her on the pretext of delivering a shipment of arms to Henri, he sailed his ship into this very cove. Marguerite and her daughter escaped from her room with the aid of a servant. But Henri stopped her on the grand staircase. The two fought, and she fell down the stairs to her death.

“Enraged with grief, Henri rushed to the balcony, there, off the third floor, and fired a cannon.” Rory shielded her eyes against the sun as she pictured the scene. In her mind, she conjured a stormy night filled with violence, passion, and death. She could see Henri LeRoche on the balcony, hurling curses at his rival as he lit the fuse.

“The cannonball struck the wooden vessel broadside, igniting the cargo of gunpowder. The 
Freedom
 sank quickly, taking Captain Kingsley and most of his crew down with her to a watery grave. Only a few were able to swim to shore and tell the story that has become a favorite Galveston legend.

“In fact”—Rory turned back to her audience—“we’re passing over the wreckage of the ship now. If you look straight down, you might be able to make out the main mast and crow’s nest.”

The pontoon boat rocked as the passengers bent over the rail.

“Where’s the ship, Mommy?” A little girl leaned way out to peer into the water. “I don’t see it.”

“Careful, sweetheart,” the mother said, holding the girl’s waist.

Rory made her way back down the aisle. “Another intriguing aspect of the tale is that Captain Kingsley’s grandfather sailed with Galveston’s most famous pirate, Jean Laffite. Some believe Jack Kingsley had Laffite’s legendary ‘missing treasure’ on the ship when it went down. As you can imagine, this has made it difficult for the owners of the island to keep scuba divers out of the cove, even though no one has ever found any evidence of a sunken treasure.”

“You said the house is haunted?” asked a burly man wearing a hot pink T-shirt and black dress socks.

Rory nodded. “Many believe the ghost of Marguerite remains in the house waiting for her lover, and that Captain Kingsley haunts these very waters, searching for a way for them to reunite.”

“Is the house occupied?” another man asked.

“No, it’s been empty for about fifty years. Although it is still owned by descendants of Henri LeRoche, through his nephew,” Rory explained with a slight edge to her voice, “not his daughter by Marguerite—the 
rightful
 heirs.”

“Careful, Rory, your jealousy is showing,” Captain Bob teased her, for he knew her family descended directly from Marguerite Bouchard’s daughter and had an ongoing grudge against the LeRoches.

“Not my jealousy,” she told him. “My sense of injustice.”

“Is that one of them there?” the young mother asked.

“Hmm?” Rory looked toward shore. As the pontoon moved past a line of palm trees, she saw a man standing on the overgrown lawn, just outside the chain-link fence that protected the house from vandals. He appeared to be hammering a sign into the ground. Surprised to see anyone on the island, she grabbed the binoculars from the wheel pulpit and held them to her eyes. The man had his back to her, but he was too blond and slender to be John LeRoche, the current owner of Pearl Island. Her gaze moved to the words on the sign, and the air left her lungs: Bank Foreclosure—Property for Sale.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed and felt the hair on her arms stand on end. “Bobby, pull closer to the pier.”

“What for?” he asked.

“Just pull closer, will ya?”

“You’re not going to get out or anything, are you?”

She lowered the binoculars as conviction swelled within her. “Yes, actually I believe I am.”

“No way, Rory. That’s private property. And we’re on a schedule.”

“Fine. I’ll swim.” She kicked off her deck shoes and prepared to strip down to the swimming suit she always wore beneath her tour guide uniform.

“You would, too, wouldn’t you?” He shook his head as she tugged the shirt from the waist of her shorts. “All right, all right, I’ll let you get out. But what are we supposed to tell them?” He nodded toward the tourists.

Putting her shoes back on, she raised the mike to her mouth. “If you folks will sit tight for just one minute, we’re going to pull up to the pier so you can get a good look at the house.”