Change of Life

Mr. and Mrs. William Baker

Request the honour of your presence

At the marriage of their daughter

Heather

to

Wilson Pride

The creamy vellum sheet was decidedly stubborn, if an inanimate object had any such quality, or it would have disappeared by now, zapped by Nora’s fervent wish that she hadn’t been included in the guest list. Attend her ex-husband’s wedding? Nora shuddered, but the words on the invitation hadn’t altered, either. She wished she could simply ignore them and the troublesome date that she had tried, only a few months ago, to make sure would never happen.

She wasn’t proud of herself for attempting to sabotage Wilson’s newest “love of my life,” and now it seemed she had definitely failed.

Nora leaned around her desk to catch Daisy’s eye. The golden retriever was lying in her usual spot between her and the door to her office. Several months ago, taking into account her lost clients, Nora had been forced to lay off her receptionist, and Daisy had kindly offered to work for free. Three times a week she kept Nora company at work, while supposedly discouraging intruders; in return, Nora dispensed extra doggie treats and kept a Chinese porcelain bowl of cold water on hand in lieu of a salary.

“Well, Daisy,” she said, “what do you think of Wilson and his bride? It’s a good thing he didn’t ask you to be in the wedding. I would never have forgiven him for that. But does he really think I want to—”

Nora heard the outer door open.

Apparently her ears were better than Daisy’s. The dog hadn’t gazed at Nora for more than a second before dropping her head again onto her paws, letting her floppy ears fall over her eyes, and going back to sleep. Now she didn’t move—until Nora’s visitor appeared in her office doorway. Detective Caine, apparently. The policeman had called to say he was dropping by.

The Walking Wounded, was Nora’s first surprised thought.

And, for some unknown reason she might never understand, all of the blood drained from her head straight down to her Jimmy Choo pumps. For a second, she swayed in her ergonomic desk chair.

Quickly, even in her distress, she took inventory of the detective. His rumpled black Dockers, his herringbone jacket, his shirt and tie were good quality and well-tailored but looked uncared for, like the man himself, it seemed. His craggy, hard-jawed face, shadowed by a late afternoon stubble, had seen too much living, Nora felt sure, with a sharp, masculine nose and shrewd yet puppy dog-sad dark eyes. His head of thick, dark hair, with just a hint of distinguished gray at the temples, clearly needed a stylist.

Yet he drew her gaze again. He reminded Nora of herself right after she had left Wilson and unwillingly struck out on her own, feeling ironically abandoned. She was feeling that now after getting the invitation to his wedding while she was still single and likely to stay that way.

Nora, the saver of other lost souls ever since her divorce, felt almost sorry for Caine. So did Daisy, apparently.

The retriever’s eyes opened, then brightened, and her plumy tail began to flap in greeting against the carpet. So much for Daisy’s new career as Nora’s quasi-secretary and protector. The detective smiled a little, then bent down to give Daisy a good scratch behind the ears.

“Ms. Pride?” he prompted.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Nora Pride.”

“Nice dog.”

Daisy rolled over for an expert tummy rub, gazing at Calvin Caine like an adoring strumpet. “She certainly seems to like you.”

Nora smoothed her limp skirt, wishing she’d had time to powder the shine from her nose. She reminded herself that he was a cop and not to underestimate him, though it was clear he liked animals, usually a plus in Nora’s book. Why did he want to talk to her? He hadn’t said, but Nora’s heart did a three-sixty roll. She had a stack of unpaid parking tickets stashed in the glove compartment of her car. Had the department finally tracked her down? Why send a detective?

He gave the surroundings a cursory yet professional assessment: Nora’s glass-topped desk, the wall of shelves behind it neatly sprinkled with books, a tidy stack of interior design journals and the latest issue of Architectural Digest. Then his gaze returned to Nora. He looked her up, then down.

“I have a few questions,” he said.

When he stood, Nora inspected his badge, tucked his card away without looking at it and then gave him another careful scrutiny like the one he’d given her. He had a decent build, good shoulders and a straight spine, if not of the same height and breadth as Heath Moran, who still hadn’t bothered to answer her numerous telephone calls.

Hugh Jackman, she decided of Caine. A more mature Hugh Jackman.

Then he murmured, “Geneva Whitehouse.”

Geneva? Almost before Nora could take in the name, the questions came at her like bullets. This wasn’t about parking tickets. When had Nora left Geneva’s house yesterday? Who could vouch for her whereabouts last night?

“I was home, alone.” Perversely, considering the situation, Nora wished he would smile. She’d like to see what he looked like then, because she suspected he didn’t smile often. Or maybe she was trying to divert herself from her obsessive study of the wedding invitation a few minutes ago—that is, until he brought up Starr. And the apparently missing vase.

“Yes,” Nora admitted, “I did see Starr yesterday.”

He had picked up on her cool tone. “You’re not friends.”

“I didn’t say that. We’re, well, more than acquaintances. We’re competitors in interior design.” Oh, you bet. Nora had barely been out the door yesterday before Geneva Whitehouse called to inform her that she’d chosen Starr to do the work on her home. The sudden decision had wounded Nora, but she tried not to show it. “Ours is a small world, Detective Caine. One can’t afford to make enemies.”

“Would you call Ms. Mulligan an enemy?”

Nora felt her cheeks heat. Before she knew it, they were as hot as a pancake griddle, and she could sense the blood rushing through her veins, centering in her chest and making her feel breathless. Nora fought the strong urge to fan herself with Wilson’s invitation. Her skin must look as red as fire. Dear God, she was having another of those flushes, worse than before. Caine’s fault. That alone was enough to make her dislike him.

“Starr and I may have had words a time or two, bless her heart. She doesn’t have the best…disposition. But we both know where our bread is buttered.” She had formed a small lie, hoping to tamp down the fiery blush spreading across her skin, hoping to defuse his keen attention. “If you must know, yes, we sometimes quarrel.” A new insight struck her. “I suppose it’s almost a hobby for us.”

Her heart thundered like a cannon during a twenty-one-gun salute at Arlington Cemetery. Nora looked from him to Daisy, who was now curled at Caine’s feet as if she belonged to him rather than Nora. Surely he didn’t think…

“Do I look like a common thief to you?” she asked.

Nora drove home in a blue funk, her fingers trembling on the steering wheel of her convertible. She knew she hadn’t conducted herself well in the interview with Detective Caine. Still, she wasn’t behind bars tonight for something she hadn’t done. Look on the bright side.

Daisy certainly did. She hadn’t stopped smiling since Caine walked into the office, not even when Nora worked late then dropped her off at the vet’s on the way home. Daisy didn’t know it, but she was staying overnight at the clinic to get her teeth cleaned.

Alone in the car for the rest of the ride, Nora put down the top and let the warm, sultry Gulf breeze blow through her hair. Overhead the sky had darkened to a velvety blue, and she glimpsed a few stars trying to come out.

She was putting her key into the door of the home she’d worked so hard to pay for as a single woman—an honest woman—when a hard hand covered her softer one. Her pulse jerked in alarm. She hadn’t recovered from Caine’s interrogation, and Nora half expected another attack right at her door.

Then she smelled him, that recently familiar scent of man and the pricey cologne she had given him for his birthday. Instead of a real assault, to her relief this was some fantasy come to life in her doorway.

A hoarse masculine growl threatened to melt the skin at the nape of her neck. There was no “Your money or your life” forthcoming, but every square inch of Nora’s flesh quivered.

He didn’t bother with talk. He didn’t have to.

Heath Moran seemed fully involved in a replay of that scene from the 1969 film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The young Robert Redford. Katharine Ross. A classic now. Like Nora.

Before she could breathe again, he gently nudged her inside and shut them both into the cool darkness of her entryway. He pushed her up against the closed panel of the door and set his delicious, wicked mouth on hers, and she went limp.

“Why the hell do you keep torturing me like this?” Heath mumbled, his mouth pressed to the cleavage above the top button of her silk blouse. “Three flipping weeks without a word from you. Then I get that desperate-sounding tone on my answering machine. The Steel Magnolia in full meltdown mode. You’re enough to drive a man out of his freaking, already-insane mind.”

“Heath—”

Nora didn’t get the chance to continue. Or explain, as if she could. Clearly, he was a man bent upon a mission of the utmost importance. Critical. Now.