It Started with a House...

“Stop thinking for once. Just for one minute…feel…me.”

His kiss was as tender and coaxing as his words, his lips brushing hers before skimming over to her cheek and chin, then back to her mouth. With slightly more pressure, he parted her lips. Genevieve tried to stop him again by touching her fingers to his mouth, but he only took hold of her hand and kissed each fingertip. All the while his gaze held hers. He could see as well as feel and hear his growing effect on her—the way her eyes dilated and her breath grew shallow, and the way she began to lose herself in what was happening between them.

“
Genevieve.
I could say your name all night. I want to.” She felt unbelievable fitted against him—but she wasn't totally willing to be swept away. Although she let her eyelids drift closed, seduced by his caresses, her fingers sought and gripped at his shirt.

“Kiss me back,” he coaxed. “Let go and wrap your arms around me. Hold me like I'm holding you. Need me like I'm needing you.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Oak Point, Texas, and Lake Starling, not untypical of small northeast Texas towns where the tourism draw is countless lakes, miles of woods and forests, communities that know they need to grow—but not too much—and there's enough new blood arriving to keep life interesting.

As far as I could determine, there is no Oak Point, or Lake Starling, but you'll read about neighboring towns and businesses that do exist. Marshall stays at Oaklea Mansion and Manor House—that's definitely a landmark in Winnsboro, Texas. You can enjoy photos of this celebrity-favorite bed-and-breakfast online at www.oakleamansion.com to help you picture this serene and inspiring area. Mistra's is also an actual restaurant in the Hilton at Rockwall, Texas.

Now, Genevieve and Marshall weren't easy characters to write. Both have lost their spouses. One hasn't really recovered from that blow. The other is honestly relieved that a painful journey is over, and is ready to move on. What a challenge it is when, having found what he wants, she isn't ready for him. But life always has a way of intervening.

I hope you'll enjoy Genevieve and Marshall's journey of the heart. And please look for future releases at my Web site, www.helenrmyers.com.

As always, thank you for being a reader!

With warmest regards,

Helen R. Myers

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

“M
arshall, we don't have to do this today,” Genevieve Gale said the moment the dark-haired, gaunt-faced man exited the hospital and got into her silver Cadillac Escalade. “Under these circumstances, we can postpone for a week, more if necessary. The Carsons are proud to have you and Cynthia buying their house and they're compassionate and understanding people. They feel terrible that you feel obligated to continue with the closing today.”

“These circumstances” were that Marshall Trent Roark's thirty-eight-year-old wife, Cynthia, had been admitted to the hospital here in Oak Point, Texas, two days ago, shortly after their drive up from Dallas. It would possibly be her last time at
any
medical facility, what with her battle with lung cancer almost over. Now her condition was compromised by pneumonia. It was the worst day possible to be holding a closing on a house.

“Cyn insisted.” Adjusting his tan sports jacket that he
wore over a white polo shirt and jeans, Marshall busied himself with fastening his seat belt. “And it's not like I can do anything else. Hell, the doctors can't do anything except try to keep her as comfortable as possible. At least I can get this done. She thinks if I'm settled in at the new house, she can stop worrying about me. Isn't that a joke?” As he dropped his head back against the seat's headrest, he uttered a soul-weary sigh.

To Genevieve, he looked as if he hadn't slept a solid three hours in months, perhaps years. Chances were that he hadn't. Fresh from a shower, his black hair glistened as his determined movements made it fall over a high, but increasingly lined forehead that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with stress. His raw-boned face was freshly shaved, but there were dark shadows under his eyes and the corners of his sensual but compressed mouth seemed permanently turned down, a further sign of how tightly under control he was keeping himself. When they'd first met back in the spring, Genevieve had thought him physically striking, but a bit reticent, even aloof; however, she'd soon learned that wasn't his character at all. She had quickly learned that he was simply a man overwhelmed by life's turn of events, and was trying to cope as best as he could. It might be a beautiful August day at the northwest edge of Lake Starling, one of East Texas's prettiest private lakes, but you couldn't tell it by looking at him. Marshall looked strapped in for his millionth ride through purgatory, instead of what should have been one of the happier and exciting days of his and Cynthia's lives.

“Was it like this for you?” he asked after a prolonged silence.

Genevieve's grip on the steering wheel tightened as she dealt with the deeply personal question. She was often reluctant to discuss the loss of her husband with family or friends, first because it was all she had left of Adam and she protected that meager thing with almost rabid selfishness. Second because she hated what she saw on people's faces the few times she did answer. Sharing such feelings with a client put her in a gray area, and Genevieve tried to steer clear of such terrain and the complications that could result without them meaning to. Yet this was lining up to be one of those exception-to-the-rule moments in a break-all-rules association.

“Adam was a soldier and died overseas,” she said of her late husband. “I didn't have to endure watching him slowly wither away before my eyes like you are with Cynthia.”

That drew Marshall's scrutiny. “At least we've had the chance—maybe too many chances—to say goodbye. You didn't.”

“No.” What she wouldn't share was that Adam hadn't even let her come to the airport to see him off. He'd said that if she was there, he might not have been able to make himself board the plane this time. “Besides,” he'd added, “I want to remember how you look lying here in our bed, naked and dreamy-eyed from me making love to you. Gen, I hope I've made you pregnant. Write me as soon as you know, okay?”

Genevieve shook her head, needing to block that particular memory. It was way too intimate and precious to share even with a friend. And even though it was now almost four years and the raw pain of his loss had healed
to a sensitive scar, the reality was that sometimes the simple act of breathing remained a trial for her.

“I'm sorry,” Marshall said when he saw her swallow two, then three times. “I had no right.”

She uttered a brief, broken sound that was neither laugh nor protest, yet somehow gave her the oxygen to say a little more. “If anyone does, it's you. All I do know is that you're about to join a club that no one wants to belong to. There are no words to change it or make it easier. All you can do is deal with things one click of the clock at a time.”
Until you think you'll go mad,
she continued to herself,
or lose the ability to think altogether, or you wish for your heart to quit beating altogether because of sheer exhaustion.

As Genevieve exited the hospital's property, she joined the heavier morning traffic on Main Street. Oak Point was a six-traffic-light town and it wouldn't take more than five minutes to get to the title company. She'd insisted on picking him up because she'd kept on top of Cynthia's status and anticipated his emotional state and the exhaustion that came with it. He didn't need to be behind the wheel of a car even for a few minutes.

As though reading her mind, Marshall glanced at her again and said, “You do know that we're both eternally grateful to you, don't you? You've been gracious and patient, and too kind. You've made this as easy as anyone could.”

The quietly spoken sentiments, as much as the sadness that underscored them, had Genevieve briefly touching her hand to her heart and made her eyes burn. “Thank you, but stop. Anyone would have been grateful for the opportunity to be your agent and help you. You
and Cynthia are wonderful people and Oak Point needs you.”

“Maybe, but you've become a friend, Genevieve—and you know I've had enough real estate dealings to accept that doesn't often happen.”

“Then I'm doubly glad you think so, too,” she said just as softly. She had intended to say something similar to him and Cynthia jointly after the closing, and to hear Marshall speak the words first filled her with a unique, yet bittersweet joy. Heavens, at this rate, she was going to be openly crying in a minute, and so she attempted to redirect their conversation to practical matters that might have slipped by the wayside due to unmitigated circumstances. “So speaking as a friend, have you confirmed the arrival time of your movers?”

“The truck should be arriving tomorrow morning by 8:30. Heaven knows where I'm supposed to tell them to put everything, let alone deal with the unpacking when I need to be at the hospital.”

Genevieve began to reply, hesitated, and then ventured, “I remember quite a bit of what Cynthia said about how she would like the living room to look. The dining area is a given due to its shape and the shape of your table. We could temporarily guess about the bedroom. Would you like me to come over and give you a hand?”

Marshall's expression reflected a man torn between hope and conscience. “You can't possibly have the time. I know for a fact that you've already devoted way too many hours to us because of—Cyn's deteriorating condition.”

Those hours had cultivated deeper feelings and gained her broader insights into the Roarks' lives, and Genevieve
knew that Marshall had no one else to call on for help. Both he and Cynthia had been only children—or that was what had been eluded—and Cynthia's parents were in California, but estranged from her, while Marshall's were deceased. There might be extended family and undoubtedly friends in Dallas that they could reach out to; however, Marshall never brought up the prospect.

“I have a morning appointment that isn't critical,” Genevieve told him. “If you'd like, I'll reschedule as soon as I get back to the office. If the truck arrives as promised, we should have you in good shape by noon or not long thereafter.”

With sculpted fingers, Marshall raked back his wavy, maestro-long hair. “You keep leaving me speechless, Genevieve. Having been in the restaurant business almost half of my life, I know more than a little about Southern hospitality and the wisdom in stroking customers and pampering clients, but you put me to shame.”

Struggling not to take too much personal pleasure out of his appreciation, she reached for her reliable pragmatism. Granted, the change in plans would delay her catching up on other deals in progress, but she would worry about Marshall coping with trying to be in two places at once anyway. Then there was Cynthia lying in the hospital feeling perhaps afraid or abandoned. Forcing a brighter smile, Genevieve quipped, “We have more churches per capita than you do in Dallas. Our ministers would lay on the fire-and-brimstone sermons really thick if they heard you weren't being treated right as a new resident of Oak Point.”

However, once she parked in front of the title company, Genevieve turned to Marshall. “My conscience
demands I give you another chance to table this. Say the word and we'll reschedule.”

“No.” Although undeniably fatigued, Marshall reached for the door handle. “Cynthia was struggling to stay conscious waiting on the news that the house was ours. Let's get this done.”

His confession had another, harder knot of dread forming in her abdomen. She exited her vehicle, opening the back to retrieve her leather shoulder bag. The honey tint matched her high heels. She discreetly smoothed her long blond hair, then the slim skirt of her camel-colored suit. At least, she thought, slamming the door and joining him on the sidewalk, this was a cash deal and the paperwork would be minimal.

Once inside the white-brick title company, Genevieve warmly greeted the four middle-aged ladies who owned and operated the business. As she introduced Marshall, she wasn't surprised that they became like teenage girls in the presence of a school heartthrob. She couldn't blame them. Like a bird of prey, Marshall Roark's face possessed a fearsome beauty that drew the eye; however, the rest of the man deserved equal admiration. He was tall and sinewy rather than muscular, which gave his movements an elegance, enhanced by long legs and slim hips. The ladies offered him everything but wine, phone numbers and a room key. Genevieve observed their reactions with a mixture of bemusement and sympathy since, like her, one of the women was widowed, two divorced and the other's husband was on the run for legal reasons. Nevertheless, as sad as Genevieve was for the lonely women, she was more concerned for her client's comfort. She'd called ahead to warn the ladies of
Marshall's increasingly grim situation to avoid questions about Cynthia, and she diplomatically guided him into the meeting room where they could get on with things.

It took less than a half hour. The legal issues and paperwork had long been resolved. At Cynthia's insistence, the house was going to be in Marshall's name alone. Marshall was paying cash for the five-thousand-square-foot structure set on three acres. The house was already vacated by the Carsons, who'd retired to Arizona to be closer to their grandchildren. Actually, Genevieve's work was done, except to confirm that the inspector's documentation was all in order, the utilities had been transferred—and to stand by and get Marshall out of there should he suddenly decide he couldn't go through with this, after all. But having also bought and sold several office buildings in the DFW area, along with a chain of restaurants, he was the real veteran in the room and managed the transaction with greater professionalism and dignity than she could have if the tables were turned.

At the end, he shook hands with Marti Quinn and thanked her for her efficiency and kindness. His deep, brushed-velvet voice had Marti blushing anew. Genevieve wasn't immune herself. Not in the least. If it wasn't for her constant consciousness of Cynthia, she would be well on her way toward having a crush herself—and that was saying a great deal for her.

Thanking Marti for the check that the older woman handed her, which represented her commission as agent and broker, Genevieve escorted Marshall out of the building.

They weren't halfway down the sidewalk when Marshall's BlackBerry buzzed. A half-step ahead of him,
Genevieve glanced over and their gazes collided. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting a call—or maybe he had and anticipated the worst?

Taking a step back, she touched his arm. “You have to answer it,” she said gently.

Grim-faced, he drew out the device, took one look at the screen and flexed his strong jaw.

That expression told her all that she needed to know. “Give me those and I'll get the Escalade's doors unlocked.” She took his folder of closing papers from him and left him the modicum of privacy that was available.

Lowering his head, Marshall connected and said, “Roark.” After a moment, he said, “Tell me.”

Genevieve triggered her key and opened the passenger door to the SUV, which had less to do with saving him from the vehicle's interior heat and everything to do with the prospect of more privacy if he realized he needed it. Then she circled toward the back, stealing glimpses of him around corners and through glass on her way to the driver's side. Regardless of her undeniable attraction to the man, she owed him her protection and support. Her intuition told her to get as far away from him as possible, away from what this phone call might set into motion. Her sense of responsibility made that impossible.

Marshall suddenly turned his back to her. She drew in a sharp breath and began preparing herself for the worst in that strange way the mind functioned, even when you consciously were rejecting what was happening. He set his left hand on his hip and tilted his head back to look up at the cloudless sky. A 747 was descending on its approach into DFW airport, some hundred miles west.
Genevieve could have bet what was left of her heart that he didn't see it. As tension in his squared shoulders tested the silk of his tailored jacket, she wished there was something she could do, but she knew from experience that if this was as bad as she feared, for the moment any presence whatsoever was unwelcome.