Finding Mr. Perfect. Nikki Rivers
was adamant. “Nightwine’ll keep you around a couple of days at most, it’s for the best. Another thing—I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve put off saying it long enough. I don’t think you should keep taking these extreme assignments. You get in these dangerous environments and—”
“It’s what I do,” Sloan said, cutting him off. “Changing is not an option. Don’t even mention it.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Tom cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking—exactly what made you take off for Austin like a bat out of hell?” He laughed. “A woman?”
Sloan looked at the vivid wildflowers in their odd yet perfect vase. A woman, he thought. He said only, “Family matters. That’s all.”
He said goodbye; he hung up. But in his mind hovered the image of Darcy Parker, her pert face and her cloud of dark hair.
What, in the name of all that was holy, was he going to say to her?
SUBJECT: Notes on a Prodigal Son
From: [email protected]
Olivia, Beloved—
It was so good to hear your dear voice.
But you must stop apologizing about your housekeeper. If a strange man invaded my premises, I might brandish a golf club myself. It is altogether understandable behavior.
As for my son’s actions, I can only repeat, my sister has always tried to manipulate him, and this time she obviously caught him with his resistance down—both physical and mental.
I’ve talked to him just now for a second time. He still regrets the whole, embarrassing incident (and he damn well should).
Physically, he’s on the upswing, thank God. He’s seen a specialist, a Dr. Nightwine. With luck, he’ll be out of the hospital tomorrow, but he’s not to travel for a few days. Dr. Nightwine wants to do some blood work and to monitor a new medication.
I offered to go and keep him company, but he’ll have none of it. He says he’ll be fine, and the situation’s embarrassing enough without having his old man flying in to hold his hand.
Ah, would that I were closer to you to hold yours, my love, to take you in my arms, to kiss your deliciously kissable lips (and every other part of you, for you are infinitely kissable and delicious). I recall the sweet taste of you and feel as if I have savored the wine of the gods.
My dear, my own incomparable Olivia, I love you endlessly.
Devotedly,
John
P.S.—You were really only joking about your housekeeper once shooting a man—right?
SUBJECT: Arrangements, Winchesters, Etcetera
From: [email protected]
To the darling bandit of my heart—
So glad to hear your son is better. And don’t apologize for him—it’s not his fault. That wretched mosquito made him do it.
Hope he’s out of the hospital as soon as possible. I’ve been in that very one. There used to be the tiniest little nun there with the coldest hands—even the memory chills me—brrr. Wish you were here to warm me, my sweetheart. You do light my fires, you know. (Yes, you know, you sexy devil.)
Oh, dear, I must watch what I say. This is how I got us in trouble in the first place.
So—explain to me about Sloan. If he’s released but has to stay in Austin, where will he stay? Does he have friends there?
Kisses and Caresses from
Your Own Olivia
P.S. No, I was not joking about Rose Alice. She shot off a man’s ear with a Winchester rifle. She’s never told me why, exactly, but apparently he irritated the very hell out of her.
SUBJECT: Hotel Rooms are Wonderful Places
From: [email protected]
Darling Girl—
Just a note before I’m off for the evening’s work.
Your housekeeper is beginning to sound rather fearsome. Don’t you think your household might be more peaceful if you hired someone a little more, well, mellow? And without a felony conviction? Just a thought, sweet girl. I don’t mean to interfere.
Sloan says he’ll check into a hotel near the university. Don’t worry about him. Hotel rooms can be wonderful places—as you have proved to me beyond the shadow of a doubt.
I can’t wait until we can be together again. I will gladly come to Maine. Shall I tell you in minutest detail, the tender and pleasurable things I want to do with you?
Missing you body and soul—
John
SUBJECT: The Most Marvelous Idea!
From: [email protected]
Dearest, most marvelous man—
You in Maine—how wonderful! I’ve got a new four-poster bed with a mattress soft as clouds. Would you like to play in a cloud?
As for Rose Alice, she’s mellowed considerably since her gun-slinging days. I’m sorry that when she backslid, your son was the target. I’ve already spoken to her about that.
And darling, about your Sloan—I have the most marvelous idea. I’ll call Darcy right away…
DARCY CLUTCHED THE PHONE so tightly that her fingernails paled. “What?” she asked in alarm and dismay. “What did you say?”
“I don’t want Sloan stuck in some impersonal hotel room,” Olivia said firmly. “I want him to stay at the lake house.”
Darcy was appalled. “But I live here,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” Olivia corrected. “You live in the guest house. Nobody’s in the big house. It’s just sitting there, going to waste. He’d be so much more comfortable there—he could spread out, read, listen to music, use the hot tub, the pool.”
Darcy pictured Sloan English’s nearly bare body sweating in the hot tub, glistening in the pool. Her nerves skittered to a higher level of anxiety.
“He’ll have a nice view,” Olivia went on. “He can take the boat on the lake if he wants, walk in the garden, get some nice, fresh, healthy air…”
Emerald came into the room from the kitchen. She had taken off her chain mail and sword and boots. She had a peanut butter sandwich in her hand and a curious look on her face. “Who’s on the phone?”
Darcy didn’t answer her. “You can’t just give a stranger the run of your house,” she told Olivia.
“He might not be a stranger long,” Olivia said. “He might be your stepbrother.”
“Stepbrother?” Darcy asked, stunned. “Mother, surely you’re not thinking of getting married—you hardly know this man.”
Emerald’s face went white and her mouth dropped open, forming an O. The peanut butter sandwich fell to the floor. She clutched the edge of Darcy’s worktable as if she needed support.
“I know John intimately,” Olivia said. “I know him better than I’ve ever known any other human being. And yes, we’ve talked about getting married. It’s like that ‘September Song.’ Our days are dwindling down to a precious few, and we want to spend them together.”
“Mother,” Darcy said desperately, “don’t do anything rash—please. If you’re going to get engaged, at least make it a long engagement. Be sure that he’s right for you—”