Review”Smart, sexy entertainment.” — Christina Dodd
About the AuthorSusan Mallery is the New York Times bestselling author of more than 100 romance novels, including her acclaimed Marcelli series, her Buchanan family series, and most recently, her introductory foray into women’s fiction, Sunset Bay. The winner of the National Readers Choice Award, she has a Masters degree in Writing Popular Fiction. Susan makes her home in Washington with her husband and an potpourri of pets. Visit her internetsite at www.SusanMallery.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Chapter 1
Francesca Marcelli had only been pregnant for twenty minutes and already her back hurt.
“Talk in regards to realistic,” she muttered, adjusting the straps that held her phony eight-months-pregnant belly in place. The size was daunting sufficient — she couldn’t see her feet or find a comfortable sitting position — but the weight was the real killer. Someone with a twisted sense of humor had decisive to simulate what felt like the pressure of a baby elephant. The little of her back screamed out in protest, while unexpected pressure on her bladder made her want to duck into the nearest ladies’ room.
“All for a good cause,” she reminded herself.
Francesca shifted to ease the throbbing in her back and leaned versus the heavy cart she’d maneuvered into the service elevator of the six-story bank building. When the doors opened, she shoved her overloaded cart into the main hallway. Stacks of boxes wobbled precariously and threatened to tumble onto the carpeted floor.
It was just after five on a Friday afternoon. All around her dozens of businesspeople headed for the main elevators to commence their weekend. Francesca pushed up her glasses and paused to smooth down the front of the ugliest maternity dress she’d been capable to find. The oversize collar dwarfed her shoulders and made her head look too small. The pinks and roses of the busy floral print sucked all the color from her pale olive skin. She’d brushed powder into her hair to lighten it to a mousy brown. The little makeup she’d put on had been applied to make her look tired, drawn, and unattractive.
She glanced at her watch, then squared her shoulders as she prepared to begin work.
“Show time,” she said softly, not that any individual was listening.
Three men from the insurance office at the end of the hall walked past her without even giving her a nod. Francesca continued to push her pile of packages tardily versus the flow of foot traffic. Two women in suits gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. A man and a woman, both carrying expensive-looking briefcases, followed. The woman looked, the man didn’t.
Another corridor branched to the left. Francesca shifted her cart to make the turn. Several boxes went tumbling. A single man walked by without breaking his stride. A college-age girl stopped long sufficient to aid Francesca pick up the boxes, then hurried toward the elevator with a call to “Wait for me!”
Five minutes later Francesca reached her destination — an office she’d scouted out the former week, chosen because the company had lately shut down. There she was, pregnant, lost, overloaded with more than a dozen boxes to be delivered, and no one to receive them. Had she been any sort of an actress, she might have been competent to strength out a tear or two.
The rules stipulated she was not permitted to directly ask for help. It had to be offered. She would wait for the required thirty minutes, mentally tallying who ignored her, who smiled, and who, if anyone, stopped to in truth offer assistance.
This was a high-powered crowd with pricey tastes and busy lives. She didn’t hold out much hope for rescue. In her experience —
“You look lost.”
Francesca whirled around to see a tall man standing besides her cart. A tall, good-looking man in a dark blue power suit.
“Hi,” she said before preparing to launch into her canned speech with regards to calling for to deliver packages to a nonexistent firm. Except she couldn’t do not forget anything she was supposed to say.
The man waited patiently. He had dark blond hair and sort of tawny-colored eyes. There was an intensity to his expression that reminded her of predators watching prey. A shiver rippled through her as she thought of gazelles being brought down for the kill. Unfortunately in her current condition she was more water buffalo than gazelle.
He looked confident, important, and powerful. Not the sort of person who ought to be stopping to aid an unattractive pregnant woman in trouble. Men like him sent assistants to take care of life’s unpleasing details.
“Do you speak English?” he asked, enunciating each word clearly.
“What? Oh. Of course.” She sucked in a breath, not sure what could be faulty with her. She would blame her sudden mental hiccup on feed poisoning, only she hadn’t eaten anything that day. “I’m, ah — ” Francesca cleared her throat. Brain function returned and she launched into her spiel.
“Hi. I’m Francesca. I’m supposed to be delivering these packages here — ” She motioned to the closed and locked office door. “But there seems to be a problem.”
The man glanced basi at the boxes, all cautiously addressed to the defunct company, then to the door where a hand-lettered sign said that Malcolm and White Data Tech was no more.
“Bringing these here was the last thing my boss told me to do before he left town,” she went on. “If I don’t get them delivered, he’s going to kill me.”
In an effort to look terrified, Francesca thought when it comes to how little she had in her checking account and how that pesky electric bill was going to come due soon. Eventually she would reap the rewards of her postgraduate education, but until she could actually slap the letters Ph.D. after her name, she seemed destined to a life of poverty.
“You’ll have to danger his fury,” the man said calmly. “These boxes aren’t going anyplace today. That company closed the door with regards to ten days ago. From what I’ve heard, the main players skipped town with the last few dollars left, leaving various workers with a large total of angry clients and no paychecks. What’s your name again?”
“Francesca Marcelli.”
He smiled at her. A genuine, happy-to-meet-you smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and caused her palms to abruptly begin to sweat. This was the most fun she’d had in days.
Her rescuer introduced himself as Sam Reese.
“Let’s get you out of this hallway, and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do next.”
We? They were a we?
Sam took charge of the cart, wheeling it down the hallway with an ease that made her envious. Of course, he didn’t have to worry regarding a pregnant belly getting in the way of his actions. She trailed after him, marveling what the next step would be. How far was Sam more than willing to take things? In situations like this — a nonemergency — people in general stopped at the point of inconvenience.
“Just through there,” he said, pointing to a set of double glass doors.
Before Francesca could read the name of the company, one of the doors opened and a big man stepped into the hallway. She involuntarily came to a stop to stare.
The man had to be at least six feet seven. He was built like a mountain with a massive neck and shoulders wide sufficient to aid a couple of trailer homes. Dark-skinned, with penetrating eyes and a firm, unsmiling mouth, he looked both dangerous and more than a little scary.
“Sam,” the man said, glancing among her rescuer and herself. “Is there a problem?”
“I think there might be.” Sam looked back at her. “Ms. Marcelli was attempting to make a deliverance to Malcolm and White.”
“They split last week.”
“As I explained to Ms. Marcelli.” He motioned to the cart. “Take this inside, Jason. Store it in one of the group discussion rooms.” He turned his attention back to her. “If your employer’s expecting payment for a delivery, that isn’t going to happen. At least not right now. Come on inside and we’ll get this circumstance straightened out.”
Francesca found herself being ushered into a plush office with a gray and burgundy waiting area. An beautiful woman in her early forties manned the front desk. She spoke over a headset as they walked by, pausing only to nod at Sam.
“I may search out Malcolm and White,” Sam said as they moved down a long corridor beautified with graceful prints and the occasional slim table pushed up versus a wall. “I’ve been looking for an pardon to track them down.”
He sounded fierce as he spoke, as if he had a personal beef with the missing businessmen. Francesca trailed after him, torn amongst marveling why Sam Reese would care if a company in his building closed and attempting to figure out what she’d gotten herself into. They passed assorted huge group discussion rooms, what looked like classrooms, and a few offices containing huge desks, computers, and file cabinets. All generic stuff that didn’t hint at the kind of business done here.
At the end of the hall they made a left, then a quick right before stopping in front of an open foyer containing a big desk and computer setup manned by a well-dressed young man wearing a sport coat.
“Jack, this is Ms. Marcelli.”
The young man, in all likelihood around twenty-five and built like a football player, rose to his feet. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Francesca walked to the desk to shake hands. As she did so, her purse slipped down her arm and plopped onto the ground before she could catch it.
“Oops,” she said, bending down to pick it up.
As she straightened, all the blood rushed from her head, causing the room to spun and her body to sway. For a split second she thought she was going down.
Less than a heartbeat later a strong arm encircled her, keeping her in place. “Ms. Marcelli? Are you all right? Is it the baby?”
Baby? What…oh, the baby.
Francesca shook her head slightly. Her sense of equilibrium returned sufficient for her to realize she was standing amazingly close to Sam. Close sufficient to see the astoundingly dark lashes framing his eyes. Speaking of which — she stared more intently — seen from such a close range, his eyes were the most strange color. Light brown, shot with gold. Otherworldly eyes. Cat eyes.
Cat eyes on a powerful man. She felt both the heat of him and the strength. Somehow she’d always assumed that executives in highpriced suits were sort of wimpy beneath all that architect wool. She had been badly wrong.
“Ms. Marcelli?”
Tension filled his voice. She shook her head again and tried to shrug free of his hold. When he didn’t release her, she gave him a quick smile.
“I’m fine.”
“You closely fainted.”
“I know. I haven’t eaten today. I do that sometimes. Work distracts me. Then I …
Sstory line is fun
2nd book of the Series
Plot overshadows characters