Paradise Found (21 page)

“Hmm. How about that.” She twisted her fingers behind her back, watching as he flipped the pages open. Any second now and he'd know.

He looked up, confused. “Sara?”

“Yes?”
Play dumb, until the last possible second, play dumb.

“‘Thank you for coming, laryngitis and all.’ The woman with laryngitis, the one who ran away, that was you?” She nodded. “You didn't really have laryngitis at all, did you?” His silver gaze was on her.

“No.”

“Why did you pretend? And why did you run away?”

“I guess I just didn't want to face you. Not then, not there.”
Not here, either.
“I know it was a stupid thing to do, but it was easier than putting either of us in an awkward situation.” She tried to laugh, but the attempt failed. “Can you imagine us meeting for the first time since…since California?” She shook her head, feeling suddenly light-headed. “It would not have been a good scene. And imagine the gossip. I saved us both a lot of grief by just pretending.”

“Is that what you do when you want to avoid something, Sara? Pretend?”

She ignored his question. Her reasons for doing things were none of his business.

Matt moved toward her, stopped a few feet away. “Aren't you going to answer me?”

“No.” She looked away. “Can I offer you something to drink? Lemonade? Tea? Coffee?”

“You can offer me an answer for starters.”

Her right temple started to throb. “Well, then, I'm really glad you stopped by, especially with your busy schedule…”
And now it's time for you to leave.

“I didn't know that was you at the game yesterday.”

Her gaze swung back to his. “Jeff told you, didn't he? That's what this is all about, isn't it?”

“He said you were upset.” He touched her shoulder. She flinched. “Why would you be upset?”

Maybe because you broke my heart.
“I don't know. I didn't expect to see you again.”

“Oh, I get it. Your morals finally caught up with you, huh?” The left side of his jaw twitched. “You couldn't face me. That's it, isn't it?”

“My morals?
My morals?
” Both temples were pounding now. “That's a joke, right? Well, excuse me if I don't laugh.”

“You're the one who left me,” he said, bitterness coating every word out of his mouth.

“Semantics, that's all it is. You would have dumped me as soon as you regained your vision.”

“Oh really?” He took a step closer. “And how do you know that?”

“I know. Can't we just stop this? What difference does it make now?”

“Is that why you ran home and hopped into bed with another guy?”

“What?”

“I know.” His lips flattened. “I called you about a week after you left. Seven thirty in the morning. Pittsburgh time. Some guy answered, said you were in the shower.”

“Oh my God.” She covered her face with her hands. “It was you.”

“Yeah. Oh my God. So don't play the wounded victim. You left me. You broke the trust.” His voice cracked. “You. Not me.”

She lifted her head, peeked through a tangle of hair. “I haven't been with any man,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Sara—”

“It was Greg.”

“For Christ's sake, I don't want to know the bastard's name.”

“Greg,” she repeated. “My brother.”

“What?” Matt pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared at her. “What did you say?”

“My brother was staying with me. He's the one who answered the phone.”

“Jesus.” He ran both hands over his face. “You mean all this time ... I thought...”

“I was never with another man.”

“So why did you leave?”

“I had to,” she said. “After our last night together, I knew if I didn't go then, I never would. I'd stay as long as you'd have me, desperate and hoping, until there was nothing left and I was sucked dry.” She hesitated a second, then pushed past months of grief and anguish. “Please understand, Matt. I had to go.”

The brackets around his mouth deepened. “Why couldn't you have waited until morning and talked to me about it? Do you know the first thing I thought about when I woke up? I was going to apologize for acting like such a jerk. And then I was going to tell you I loved you, even though I was probably the last one to figure it out.”

Tears stung her eyes. What had she done?

“There's more,” he said. “After I spilled my heart out to you, told you all these wonderful things, I was going to ask you to be my wife.” There was pain in his eyes. “But you were gone.”

Sara buried her face in her hands.

“Look at me, Sara.”

Her head inched up.

He reached out, touched her cheek. “You're so beautiful,” he murmured, trailing his fingers down her face. “So damned beautiful.”

“No.” She let out a sharp laugh, backing away from his touch. “I'm just me. Ordinary. Always ordinary.” She sniffed. “Nothing like what you're used to. You would have tired of me. You know that.”

“You
are
beautiful. But you were beautiful even when I couldn't see you. Do you know why?” He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “Because you care about people and you make them want to care about themselves, want to do better, be better. Live by a code of honor and decency. I'd never tire of that.” He pulled her to him. “You made me want to be better, Sara,” he whispered in her ear. “And I will always love you for that. Did you hear that, Dr. Hamilton?” he asked, letting out a long sigh. “I just told you in a roundabout way that I loved you.” He planted a small kiss near her ear, sending shivers through her. “Now, I'm telling you in a very direct way that I'm making a commitment to you.” He pulled her closer. “And I want one from you.”

“I love you.”

“Then be my wife,” he said, cupping her chin with his fingers. “Love me. Forever.”

She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Forever,” she whispered, “I will love you, Matthew Brandon, forever.”

Much, much later, Sara lay snuggled in Matt's arms, listening to his slow steady breathing. Her fingers rested on his shoulder, skin to skin. He was here. In her bed. In her life. It was so much better than a dream.

“Hello, beautiful.” His voice was soft and warm.

Beautiful.
When he called her that, when he touched her or looked at her with those silver eyes, she felt beautiful. “Hi,” she murmured, turning her head to look at his face. His eyes were closed but he was smiling.

“You wore me out. I'm dead,” he said, sliding his hand down to her hip.

“You're just out of shape.” She rolled over, her breasts rubbing against his chest. “Nothing a little practice won't cure.”

He laughed. “You know, Jack Steele had this same problem.”

Sara smoothed his rumpled hair. “I read all about it. In detail,” she added.

“So you know the cure,” he said.

Her gaze flew to his. He was watching her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Six times a day? Really, Matt,” she
tsk-tsked
him.

“Okay. I'll settle for three,” he said, pulling her on top of him.

She laughed. “I guess I should be thankful to Jack. After all, if it weren't for him, you wouldn't be here.”

“Good old Jack,” Matt said, smiling at her as his hands worked down her back, toward her butt.

“What's going to happen to him now? He's in love. He's getting married. His MO's blown to pieces.” Sara planted little kisses on his chest, her fingers circling his nipples.

“Don't you worry about Jack,” he said, stroking her legs. “He's still investigating. But now he's got a partner.”

“Ah, a partner,” she murmured. “That could be interesting.” His body jumped in response. “Very interesting.” She trailed her tongue down the flat planes of his stomach.

“He'll have more sex,” he groaned. Her tongue darted inside his navel. “Better sex,” he rasped.

She lifted her head and offered him a smile that told him she was just getting started. “Well, you're going to need a research assistant,” she said, her voice husky, low. “I think I'd be the perfect candidate.”

His gaze burned her. “Yes,” he said. “You're the perfect candidate.” His lips turned down. “But did I mention this was a long-term assignment?”

“Oh?” she asked as her hair brushed his stomach.

He sucked in his breath. “It could take…a…lifetime,” he finished with a groan.

“I'm counting on it,” she murmured, moving lower. “I'm counting on forever.”

The End

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The following is an excerpt from THE WAY THEY WERE:

He hasn’t spoken her name in fourteen years. She keeps a journal hidden in the back of her closet and permits herself to write about him once a year—on the anniversary of the first and only time they made love. They promised to love one another forever, but tragedy tore them apart. Now, destiny may just bring them back together.

At eighteen, Rourke Flannigan and Kate Redmond thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together—until a family tragedy tore them apart. Fourteen years have passed and they’ve both carved out separate lives hundreds of miles apart—hers as a wife and mother, his as a successful, driven businessman. But once a year, on the anniversary of her daughter’s birth, Kate pulls out a red velvet journal and writes a letter, which she’ll never send, to the man who still owns her heart. Once a year, on the anniversary of the first and only time they made love, Rourke permits himself to read the annual investigative report detailing an ordinary day in Kate’s life.

When a subcontractor at one of Rourke’s holding companies is killed, Rourke decides to pay the widow a visit and offer condolences, never dreaming the widow will be Kate. As they embark on a cautious journey of rediscovery, one far greater than they could have imagined, secrets and lies threaten to destroy their newfound closeness—forever.

Dedication:

To young love, true love, and the beauty of second chances.

by

Mary Campisi

Chapter 1

“There’s just me and you, and we’re not talking.”—Clay Maden

Kate Maden watched her husband rifle through the dresser drawer in search of his Syracuse T-shirt. He called it his lucky shirt, but Kate knew a tattered orange and blue T-shirt had nothing to do with Clay’s success. Hard work and a will as strong as his twenty-two inch biceps were what made Clay Calhoon Maden ‘lucky’, but there was no use telling him that.

“Aha!” He yanked the T-shirt from the drawer and tossed it on the bed, then pulled open a second drawer.

“Looking for these?” Kate dangled a pair of thermal socks in her right hand.

Her husband’s sunburned face broke into a grin as he snatched them up and said in a voice that held the tiniest hint of a drawl, “Babe, what would I do without you?”

That was Clay’s way of saying
I love you
. Not a sophisticated proclamation or a grand gesture marked by diamonds and roses. Just a look that spoke of commitment as strong as the equipment he used to tear down the sturdiest building. Any woman would be honored to have such a man by her side.

“I’m thinking this job could get us carpeting
and
a new washer,” he said, as he sat on the edge of the flowered comforter and pulled on a sock. “How about a front loader?”

“You don’t mind the drive?” He was a 5:00 a.m rise-and-shiner, but an hour’s drive on top of an early start time was a lot to ask.

“Nah. Every mile is that much closer to getting you that Berber carpeting.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “You just decide whether you want plain or one with those fancy designs.”

“Clay.” She ran a hand over the reddish stubble on his chin. “I have you. And Julia. I don’t need carpeting to make me happy.”

“You deserve more,” he said, “but it’s the best I can offer.”

“Clay—”

“Gotta go.” He gently set her on her feet and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll call you after the interview.”

When he’d gone, Kate straightened the comforter and picked up his work clothes—jeans, flannel shirts, thermal socks. The only suit he’d ever worn had been the J.C. Penney pin-stripe on their wedding day. She thought of her husband’s calloused hands, his weathered skin, his bad back. He was a hard worker who believed in honor and the strength of a man’s word. He’d given her so much more than any other man—including the one who’d broken her heart.

***

Clay pulled up to the job site as the sun inched over the treetops. This was his sixth day and he’d decided to gain an hour on everybody so he could get home early. He pulled the gear from his truck, grabbed his thermos and hopped out, whistling Bon Jovi’s
It’s My Life
as he made his way across the grassy lot. This job would net him the carpeting, the washer and a hefty down payment on the eternity ring on hold at Zales. Wouldn’t Kate just croak? So, it wasn’t Tiffany’s, it was stamped with commitment and not even Tiffany’s sold those.

As he made his way toward the building, a battered Ford pickup barreled down the side road, kicking up gravel and dust. It squealed to a stop beside him and Clay’s foreman jumped out. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

“Hey, Len.” Clay raised a hand at the grizzled man in Carhartt and flannel. “Thought I’d get a head start so I can make it home in time for Julia’s choir recital. She’s doing a solo.”

Len Slewinski scratched his chin and spit on the ground. “You reckon to break union rules by starting here without the rest of the crew?”

Clay grinned. “Pretty much.”

The older man shook his head and spit again. “Stubborn as your daddy. You know they say the owner of this here building is real persnickety about rules and regs.”

“Well he’s not here, is he? There’s just me and you and we’re not talking.” Len had worked with the Madens for twenty-eight years, in spite of a bum hip, a stiff knee, and last year’s double bypass.

“I don’t like it boy. That pretty little wife of yours wouldn’t like it either.”

“That’s why you’re not going to tell her. What are you doing here two hours before starting time?”

Len kicked a clump of dirt and coughed. “Skip asked if I’d post watch for him seein’ as he’s taking Shirley to Niagara Falls this weekend.”

“Let me guess. Another honeymoon?”

Len nodded. “You got it. Most women only get one honeymoon, less they switch husbands. I told him he better not say a peep to Loretta ‘cause I’m not leaving my own bed and I sure as hell ain’t leaving my john for some foolish fanciness.”

“Women like that sort of thing now and again.” Maybe he should take Kate to Niagara Falls. They could ride Maid of the Mist and eat Chinese like they had on their honeymoon.

“Mostly they start squawking if they hear somebody else is doing it. That’s why she can’t find out.”

“She won’t hear it from me. Tell you what, why don’t you go fetch yourself some of those fried eggs over easy at Sophie’s? That way you can say you didn’t see anybody breaking code and it’ll be true.”

Len jawed on the idea for all of three seconds. “You got yourself a deal. Be careful, boy. Just ‘cause you done it your whole life don’t make it safe. Them scaffolds is tricky. Fifty feet is still fifty feet.”

“Got it.” If Len didn’t stop yakking Clay would lose his early start.

“See you in a few.” Len threw the truck into gear and bumped down the dirt road.

Clay headed toward the building, calculating the time he’d already lost. Damn, he’d have to work fast. He could secure the side section before Len got back. He entered the building through a side door and flipped the light switch. A stark expanse of beams, metal, and cement were all that remained of Jennings and Seward Faucet. Len said the new owner planned on putting some of those high-end condos in here.

A spark of anger surged through him as he thought of all the people who used to work in this building, people who had mortgages, tuition, and grocery bills. They’d lost out because China could make faucets cheaper than upstate New York. What kind of jobs could a high-end condo give to a machinist?

The rich kept stuffing their pockets and the poor fell deeper in debt. As a boy, Clay had never thought about which group he belonged to—his parents made sure he and his brother had a new jacket every winter and enough food on the table for seconds. Things changed the summer a rich kid from Chicago moved to Montpelier and taught Clay just how much he didn’t have.

Clay sucked in a breath and pictured the first blow of the wrecking ball as it slammed into the building in a moving, swaying dance of destruction culminating in a rubble of steel and concrete. Len said Clay had the deadliest aim he’d ever seen. Maybe because he pictured the rich kid’s pretty-boy face each time he swung.

Clay tossed his gear next to the scaffold and rummaged through his bag for his safety harness. Damn. He must have left it on the front seat of the truck. He glanced up the scaffolding to the top. In all the years he’d been demolishing, he’d only needed his harness twice. His Syracuse T-shirt and skill would keep him safe. He grasped the first rung of scaffold and heaved himself up.

***

Fifty minutes later, Len returned with a fried egg and bacon sandwich for Clay. “Clay? Where are you?” He scanned the beams and scaffolding in search of his boss. “You in the can?” Len made his way toward the back door and the three port-a-potties lined up like little blue boxes. “Clay?” He pulled open each port-a-potty door. Empty. Well, empty except for the smell of bad business. Dang, where the hell was he? Len stepped back into the building and scanned the area a second time.

It was then he spotted a crane hook swaying thirty feet away, just a slight sway, not enough to make a dent in a tin can. “Clay?” Len forgot his bum knee as he broke into an awkward run. “Clay!” He stopped short when he reached the crane. “Jesus, God Almighty.” The boy lay sprawled on the concrete, arms and legs flung out, neck bent too far to be natural. A small pool of blood circled his head like a red halo.

Len knelt beside his friend, knowing before he touched him, he was dead. “Jesus, God, and all the Saints.” Len crossed himself and felt Clay’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He rocked back on his knees, swiping his eyes as he stared at the red-brown stubble on Clay’s jaw.

How the hell had this happened? In all the years he’d been with the company, they’d never lost a person. And now this. Len’s gaze flitted over Clay’s back. A blue SYRACUSE splashed across it in bold letters. Where was his harness? A sliver of panic inched up his legs and landed in his gut.
Where the hell was his damn harness?

Len pushed himself up and blew out a steadying breath as he made his way to Clay’s truck and yanked out his safety harness. The boy was not going to be remembered as the reckless fool who got himself killed because he hadn’t worn a damn safety harness. That would make him nothing more than a statistic for an insurance company and Clay and his family deserved better than that.

Chapter 2

“Money is all those kind of people want anyway.”—Diana Flannigan

“Mr. Flannigan? Excuse me, sir, but your niece just called again.”

Rourke Flannigan glanced up from the financial reports spread out on his desk. Niece? Oh yes, Abigail. “What did she want this time, Maxine?”

Maxine Simmons cleared her throat. “It seems she’s having a bit of a problem working your remote control.”

“What?” The girl had been living with him for three weeks and was already driving him crazy.

“Your remote control, sir. To your television.”

Rourke shook his head and forced the curse back down his throat. Maxine didn’t appreciate “cuss” words as she called them and since she was the only secretary he’d ever hired who didn’t want to marry him, he tried to honor her request and saved the swear words for when she was out of earshot. And right now, he’d saved up quite a few under the name of Abigail.

“Remind me again, Maxine, why I have not turned this child over to Child Services?”

“She’s your niece, sir.”

“She’s also a tyrant, an abominable tyrant. Abigail the Abominable.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rourke leaned back in his chair and considered his current situation. “What am I supposed to do with her? I haven’t been around a thirteen year old in,” he paused and thought, “damn, oh, sorry, Maxine, in almost twenty years since
I
was thirteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do I know about thirteen year olds? They’re rude, slovenly, and self-centered. Why would anyone want one, can you tell me that, Maxine?”

“I suppose they grow on a person, Mr. Flannigan.”

Spoken as the spinster Maxine was, as though she were referring to moss or lichen. “I suppose, but good Lord, why would a person actually choose to be stuck with a child?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

Rourke laughed. “Which is why we suit so very well.” His laughter shrank to a half sigh. “But here I am, saddled with a niece I haven’t seen in seven years and am now solely responsible for because my free-spirited sister and her idiotic friends decided to fly a prop plane across the Indian Ocean.” Damn them. “How ridiculously irresponsible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not like I can farm her out to Diana,” he said, thinking of his aunt. “Can you picture her face if Abigail dropped the F-bomb?”

“No sir, I cannot picture it.”

“You know, I’d pay Child Services a monthly fee for Abigail’s food and clothing, and I’d rent a nice little apartment over on Crestwood—”

“They don’t do that sort of work, sir.” Maxine adjusted her cat-eye glasses and peered at him. “They handle children who are in danger. Abuse, abandonment and the like, I believe.”

“Well, if my niece continues to call me every five minutes, she will be in danger.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed again as the beginnings of a headache pinched his right temple. “Tell her I can’t talk right now. She should go online and pick out her own television with her own remote, so she doesn’t need to play with mine.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Do you think that will satisfy her?” He had no idea. If she were fifteen years older and not his niece, he’d send her flowers or jewelry— whatever a Centurion Black card could buy—which was anything. He stayed away from those who wanted non-monetary offerings. They were the ones who—

“It will help, sir.”

“What? Oh, right. Tell her to order whatever she wants, make a list and give it to you. DVD’s, an I-Pod, whatever kids are into these days.” Who knew what that was? “Something to keep her occupied.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“And make sure she practices the house code. I do not want the police department calling my office again today. Three times in three days is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“It would appear a bit excessive.”

“Do you think the child is slow?” He hadn’t thought of that before. Perhaps she needed a psychological evaluation, IQ, and the battery of tests, similar to the ones the company gave new employees to test their ability to mesh with the organization and calculate future success. Perhaps Abigail needed a test to measure her ability to mesh with
him
. Or perhaps she’d inherited her idiot father’s genes, whoever that was. That was one thing about his sister; Gwendolyn had liked to keep the family guessing.

“I could contact the company psychologist, if you like.”

Rourke waved the idea away. “No, we’ll wait on that. Give it another week or so, though God knows how I’m going to last.” He snatched his Blackberry and checked his latest text message. Janice. Again. “I’ll be taking a forced vow of celibacy if this continues much longer.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Nothing. On second thought, take a poll of the women in the office who have teenage children. Be very discreet about it. See how they’d handle the situation. Whoever comes up with the winning solution will receive a ten day trip to Hawaii—children not included.”