Giving Thanks

Today, I give thanks for so many things. If I tried to list them all, you wouldn’t get through reading this blog until your grandchildren were old and feeble and ready for the home.

But list a few, I must.

I’m thankful for life. Never again will I wish even a second of it gone. No more thoughts of wanting the day or week or month to be over, even when they are less than perfect. No more “I can’t wait until . . .” Yes, I can. And I will savor every second until that time I’m looking forward to.

I’m thankful for God being more stubborn than I am, and not letting me get my way when it’s not in my best interest, or the best interest of my family. He’s saved me from disaster more than once.

I’m thankful for seatbelts and the infinite wisdom of those who invented them and those who fought to make it a law to wear them when riding and driving in cars.

I’m thankful for doctors and nurses and the decision they made early in their lives to go to school longer than most, suffer through sleepless nights as interns, and the dedication to their work.

I’m thankful for scientists who develop medicine and machines to help those doctors and nurses do their jobs even better.

I’m thankful for my parents who instilled in me the love of God so that I might instill that love in my own children, so that they would make the decisions they’ve made in life and would meet the people they have met.

I’m thankful I became burned out as a math teacher and left that career early. It was a wonderful job, and I’m thankful for the students I encountered, but had I not left, I would not now be on this blog.

I’m thankful for those in Hollywood who love to write screenplays for television, especially those who wrote and developed Sliders. Had they not, I wouldn’t have developed a love of writing. And again, I would not be on this blog.

I am most thankful at this moment for my wonderful blog sisters and my GRW sisters who have so graciously visited, prayed, commented, and encouraged me during the recent tragedy of dealing with my husband’s head-on collision with another vehicle.

This writing community has lifted me up and brightened my day when I didn’t feel like doing anything but crawling in a hole and moaning. If I were to become the most prolific writer in the world, I could not convey in words how much the love and support from my sister writers has meant to me.

This Thanksgiving, I will sit down at the table and give thanks for everything in my life, from the most insignificant dust bunny under the bed to the most important special angel sitting beside me – my husband.

Thank you, one and all, for your love and support. I pray for each one of you to live life and enjoy every moment. May the words of your heart and imagination flow to the page and bring you joy.

CiCi Barnes

“You’re heroine is too old.”

I received that statement on a critique from a contest I entered a year ago. My heroine was 38, college graduate, a lawyer, single.

When did life end at 30? She was tall, slim beautiful, full of life, strong, independent, not looking for love, but certainly wouldn’t be adverse to love finding her. And it did.

My children are in their mid-thirties as are their friends. They would make great heroes and heroines in a romance novel: deputies, fire-fighters, pharmaceutical reps, teachers, motorcycle mamas, hip and intelligent. But, according to one judge out there —— too old.

I’m from the generation that said, “Never trust anyone over thirty.” I might like to reassess my thinking and change that to “Never trust anyone under thirty.” I’m ready to don my rebel-with-a-cause togs, go out and have a sit-in demanding that older heroines get their due.

I don’t even mind if the older heroine has a younger guy in her life. Of course, it can happen in real life and does. I know many women who have married younger men. Okay, probably not twenty years younger — except for Demi — but it could happen.

Logically, a possible, if not probable, problem is with common interests if the gap is too wide, but stranger things have happened. I don’t choose my friends by the year of their birth; I expect a woman might not do that with a love interest. Love comes in all sizes, colors and ages. Love stories abound for the old as well as the young.

If I want my heroine to be thirty-eight or even forty-eight, I’m sure there are readers out there who would enjoy her journey of finding love with the right man.

So come on mature ladies. Burn your bras, protest, sit in, MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR ON THE MATURE HEROINE. Let those twenty-somethings know that they do not have a monopoly on finding love.

Let’s here from the over-thirty crowd. Would you write an older heroine? Would you read about an older heroine?

by CiCi Barnes

Now that “Back to School” is well underway for Southerners, I reflect on my fellow teachers having to return to the classroom so early. Back in the day, we started after Labor Day, and still, in the South, it was too hot. I cranked up the air conditioner in my classroom and told my students who complained about the arctic freeze to bring a sweater or blanket. I would gladly keep it in my storage cabinet since I was obviously the only teacher who worked better in below zero temps.

I now sit by the pool in August sipping margaritas and contemplating what my former colleagues might say to their charges while melting during the first week of classes. My “Welcome Back” speech (with sound bites from the students and please keep in mind they were teenagers) went something like this:

“Welcome back. Isn’t it wonderful to sit in the nice air conditioning instead of slaving out in the hot sun?”

(Groan, mumble, #%*&$*#) (arms crossed; scowls on faces; desks rattling against each other as the students shiver)

“You will need a notebook and pencil. No pens. You can’t erase pens and believe me, you WILL need to erase.”

(Hand goes up) “They make erasable pens now. Can I use an erasable pen?”

“No. It doesn’t erase well enough. Pencils in math class.”

(Math books distributed immediately before they ask another question.)

“Now, open your books to page 1 and let’s begin.”

(Groan, mumble, #%*&$*#)(scowls on faces; desks rattling against each other as the students shiver)

(Hand goes up) “When are we ever going to use this?”

Ah, the one question I knew I would hear.

“Why, just yesterday, I was walking down the street, and lo and behold, there was an equation lying on the sidewalk waiting for me to solve it,” I said without blinking an eye. After 21 years in the biz, you have your answers lined up, because you already know the questions.

(Groan, mumble, #%*&$*#, a few snickers)

Not sure if they truly thought that was funny or if there was a suck-up in the class.

On and on and on . . . you get the picture.

Now, 10 years wiser and embarking on a new career of writing, I would have different answers in the queue.

(Hand goes up) “When are we ever going to use this?”

“You just never know.”

Here I am, a considerably mature woman – which, by the way we will discuss at length next month pertaining to mature heroines, so stay tuned – who has spent most of her life solving equations from simple algebra to complex trig and calculus. Now, I’m in the throes of a new career. I don’t need to know what x equals any longer; I need to know what a gerund is, what a dangling participle is, how to insert conflict into a simple idea, understand how to put hidden meaning into a sentence or even a word. Even how to enliven characters by describing their teeth, etc, as we learned last week.

I must admit I’m guilty of asking the ‘when are we ever going to use this’ question to my English teachers. I saw no need to read Beowulf in Gaelic. Actually, I saw no reason to read Beowulf at all. I didn’t need to know what some long-dead poet meant by his ramblings. It was all Greek to me and the only Greek I was interested in was Pythagoras. Now there was a guy I could get into.

But I have lived and learned that learning takes place all your life. Careers change. Just ask all those people who’ve been laid off from their jobs and are scrounging to learn other skills.

With my children out of the house, I have slightly more leisure time to watch the History Channel on occasion. Wow! The things those programs teach you about dead presidents, the galaxy, Nostrodamus, and ice-road truckers. I’m a proverbial walking encyclopedia. You remember those, don’t you? Books that college students used to hawk door-to-door to make money for tuition. I have two different sets in my study . . . collecting dust.

I now sit at my computer, cursing my days of letting the English lessons travel through my brain to some void in the great beyond, because I was ‘never going to use it’. I consult my thesaurus, my dictionary, my internet explorer and my English major friends for all the ins and outs of the English language and grammar.

I can prove to you that 2 = 1 using algebraic properties, but I can’t, for the life of me, figure out where all the commas go.

So when do we use all that stuff they throw at us in school?

You just never know.

So learn. Learn for the fun of it. Learn to impress your friends and strangers. Learn so you can do a crossword puzzle without using a dictionary. Learn, so when you change jobs, you won’t have to start from scratch. Learn, so your teachers won’t come back to haunt you and say I told you so.

What have you learned and used that you never thought you would?

Soap Operas: The Mother of all conflicts (and father of everyone on the show.)

~by CiCi Barnes

Watched any good soap operas lately? Or should I leave out the ‘good’ in that question?

Now that I work from home . . . Work? Who said writing was work? Just throw words on the screen, send it to a publisher and wah-la, you’re an author. But I digress. Now that I work from home, I get to take an hour and a half for lunch, unlike when I taught school and had maybe twenty minutes.

I make the chicken salad, pull out the carrots and grapes (trying to counteract the consumed chocolate while working) and settle into my lounge chair for a trip through Genoa City. I think that’s in Michigan, or maybe Wisconsin. Not sure, and neither here nor there. It’s a soap opera city, where conflict abounds. A great place to see how throwing your characters to the wolves really works.

I’m conflict-challenged. My first heroine was deemed ‘too nice’ by my critique partner. So was my hero. They needed to mix it up a little bit. Actually, a lot. But I was told to write what I know, and I know peace and harmony. After all, I was a teenager in the ‘60’s. Flower child, extraordinaire, here.

I don’t like conflict in my life. It really gets in the way of a good day, week, month, etc. Hubby knows I don’t like conflict and does his best to waylay it for me. Such a wonderful man.

But my characters need conflict, have to have it to survive the world of publishing. Where to go to see terrific conflict? Books by great authors can do the trick, but if you have a life outside writing, it takes more than an hour or so to read through the entire story to see how the conflict arises, flows and is resolved.

Here’s where the soap opera comes in. A daily trip to Genoa City (for me – you may have another town in Conflict Land) gives me all the conflict I can handle – and some I can’t. Those characters get into more trouble in an hour than I could think up in a lifetime. One character is pregnant. She doesn’t know if the father is Ex 1, Ex 2, or the brother of Ex 2. She’s bounced from Ex 1 to Ex 2 so many times, the kid might be a mix of the two. I mean, two of those little swimmers could have collided inside her and exploded right into her egg. How’s that for conflict? I think I’ve watched one too many episodes.

Another character’s son died, then she found out that her real son was switched at birth, so the dead son wasn’t really her son. The real son found her after 30 years and came home to her. But the mother of the son of the unreal son found out the son that came home wasn’t really the son. The dead son was the real son and he wasn’t even dead. He finally showed up, announced he’d been alive all these years and had faked his death. Are you still with me? Yeah, right.

But I think you get the picture – or not. If you want to see conflict in action, watch a soap opera. Even if you only take a pinch of what you see in an hour show to help you with your WIP, you’ll have more than enough conflict to sustain your book to The End. The two examples I’ve cited are a skip through the meadow compared to all the other things that go on.

Here’s a small sample of some conflict I’ve foisted onto one of my characters, mild compared to what you read above, but I’m working on it. My inner flower child is quite stubborn.

“I think I’ve traveled back in time.”

She watched him smother a grin.

“I mean it, Jaybo.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you do. When did this happen? What time did you go to? How?”

Was that a note of condescension she heard in his voice? It better not be. She wasn’t adverse to slapping him up side the head.

“It’s happening right now.”

His confused look would not deter her. An explanation existed somewhere in the mist of the universe and Jaybo was going to help her find it.

“You’re back in time now?”

She nodded, holding her breath, waiting for him to laugh at her, tell her he’d changed his mind. She was mentally delusional.

“You’re telling me you’ve been in the future and now you’ve traveled back to relive your youth?”

“I don’t know what I’ve traveled back in time to do.”

He stared at her in the midst of a long sigh. She wouldn’t blame him if he got up and walked out of the room. He didn’t, though, just sat back in the chair next to the bed, a plethora of emotions crossing his face in quick flashes.

“I know you think I’m crazy, but it’s true. This town, our friends, you. This is all in my past. Even I’m a past version of present myself.”

He stood, looking ready to dismiss her confession, but said nothing. When he turned and strode to the window, she watched his broad back, waiting for his verbal reaction.

“If your future self is here, then where is your present self?” Jaybo’s voice cut in as he turned toward her. “Is she in that town you left us for? How far in the future have you come from?”

His questions spewed forth in the rapid fire of a repeating rifle. She really hadn’t thought about that possibility. Was there another Tessa Woodward roaming the streets in Kingston?

“I’m from the year 2010.”

He took a step back. Had she suddenly grown horns?

“Tessa. This is 1973.”

“I know. Duh. That’s why it’s called time travel.”

He scraped a hand over his face and returned to the chair.

“I’m trying to understand, but you’re not making any sense.”

“Nothing makes sense. The only thing I’m sure of is this is happening and it’s just as weird to me as it is to you.”

Hold that thought. I have to get back to Genoa City now and see if I can find a man to father Tessa’s child and bring her forward to 2010.

by CiCi Barnes

by CiCi Barnes

It’s June 30th, the end of our wedding blogs. We’ve planned, we’ve laughed over snafus, we’ve made it through walking down the aisle and taking the vows. Our bloggers have shared their ups and downs, compared the whole shebang to writing and our lovely followers have added their spice to the mix and we thank you. I feel it appropriate to talk about the rest of the story.

What comes next?

Of course, after the wedding and reception, comes the honeymoon, whether it take place in a motel 20 miles down the road, a Caribbean cruise, a cabin in Gatlinburg, Tenn, or a condo at the beach. It doesn’t really matter where you are. You’ve started a new life with the man of your dreams. The landscape while you’re honeymooning is inconsequential. The time spent in euphoria for those few days lives with you in your happy place for a lifetime. The love, the perfect bliss, the exploration of two minds and bodies melding to one.

Then you come home.

Mortgages, jobs, insurance, in-laws, toothpaste tubes squeezed from the top, wet towels on the bathroom floor, and dirty, smelly socks by the bed. You’re not in each others arms in wedded bliss every second of the day and evening. You come home from work, tired and numb. There’s dinner to fix, dishes to wash, clutter to put in it’s place. The cute puppy you just had to have to make your little home complete has pooped and peed in five different places around the house while you earned money to buy outrageously-priced dog food to suit his delicate tummy so he could poop and pee some more. We won’t even speak of the pitter-patter of little feet to come.

The honeymoon is over. Life has blossomed and taken control.

So goes the way of entering into the wedded bliss of writing.

You cross the threshold into the world of words, pecking out ideas that have sprouted in your mind. You’ve researched and found a glorious group of other writers working toward the same goal. Some have achieved that goal and are gracious enough to help you do the same. Others have just started out and are desperate to commiserate with those in the same position. It’s still new, exciting, fun, and you love the challenge.

You’re in love with writing. The honeymoon has begun. Maybe you transformed a spare bedroom into an office. Hubby supported your interest and outfitted the room with a brand new desk, a standout computer and all the little essentials. Maybe you scraped by to save money for a small laptop, or even to buy notebooks and pens to write the old-fashioned way. It doesn’t matter. Ideas are blooming, words are flowing. You’ve joined the world of writers and love the camaraderie.

Before you know it, the honeymoon is over. The computer crashes, swallowing up your precious words, digesting them into the great beyond. You’ve sent out your work to a contest only to be told you’ve done nothing right. Your critique partner constantly points out places in your manu where you are telling and not showing, and somehow you can’t seem to grasp the difference.

The daily grind of writing creeps in. Outside life want to take over, but you know you must persevere. The euphoric edge wanes.

Just as in the daily grind of marriage, there are spikes and perks of that wonderful glow of love. Your hubby takes you on a vacation, just the two of you, or a night out on the town. He does little things around the house without you asking, to show how much he cares. He compliments your looks.

Writing sends you to a conference to hobnob with the published, to learn the difference between show and tell, to hear other writers with the same problems you’ve experienced and how they conquered them – or if not conquered, coped. Hopefuls just like you get ‘the call’ and bounce around like Tigger on his coiled tiger tail.

You know the work and valleys are worth the peak that sits there waiting for you to complete the climb. You can deal with the bad days, because you know the good days are heaven on earth.

The honeymoon doesn’t have to be over. You can live it with your hubby and your writing everyday in some small way . . . or big! Just vow to make the honeymoon last. In your marriage and your writing.

I leave you with that thought. Words are whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

Life is a constant fight between good and evil. At the
end of the day if the good guys win, it’s been a good day.

~Sandra Elzie

Tom was at his post in front of the double glass
doors as Van Buren and two of the other branch
managers stepped off the ski bus.

“Good afternoon Mr. Van Buren. Did you have a
good day skiing?”

“Yes, son, it was a mighty fine day with just a
few problems, but I think I worked them out,” he
said, glancing sideways to laugh with the others.

“Weren’t there four in your party this morning?”

Tom knew he was taking a risk in questioning the
man about Jack, but something was wrong. His
partner was out there somewhere alone.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, taking the ski carrier that
the bus driver handed him. “Newlyweds wanted to
give the upper slopes a try together,” he said,
handing the ski carrier to one of the other men.

“Take this for me, would you Ellis? I need to find
Allison and be sure she isn’t spending every penny I
have on clothes.” He slapped the other man on the
back.

“Sure thing. See you at dinner.” As Ellis headed
up the steps toward the front door that Tom held
open for him, Van Buren’s arm shot out to hold the
other man back.

“I need you with me,” he barked before turning
toward Tom. “Have my Rover brought around.”

“Yes sir.” Tom turned to pick up a phone tucked
into an alcove near the front door. After ordering the
vehicle to be brought around, Tom watched as Van
Buren was apparently giving instructions while the
other man nodded.

When the Rover arrived, Van Buren flipped
money to the young car jockey before sliding behind
the wheel, his cell phone already at his ear. As soon
as the passenger door shut, the tires spun and the
vehicle lurched forward, turning right at the
crossroad to head toward the Athletic Center and ski
lifts.

Tom barely had time to register confusion before
his cell phone rang.

“Tom, it’s Jack. Listen. I’ve broken my wrist,
but Van Buren knows something is up and he’s
headed for Rachel. She’s on the beginner slope with
Allison. Get to her.”

Tom flipped the phone shut even as he bolted
from his post, down the steps and around the corner
at a sprint. He only hoped that cutting across lawns
and between buildings would enable him to get to
the ski lifts before Van Buren could cover the same
distance on the streets.

As he neared the parking lot for the ski lift to
the lower slopes, he quickly scanned the area for the
hunter green snowsuit Rachel had worn. His eyes
passed over the group, jerking back as he saw
Rachel being escorted between Van Buren and the
other man toward the Rover. Allison was trailing
behind, her mouth moving, although Tom couldn’t
hear her obviously angry words.

He knew there would be no way to reach them
before the car pulled away, so Tom darted to the
right toward the kiosk where the resort rented out
snowmobiles.

“Charlie, I need one,” he called toward the
manager of the rentals as he jumped on the motor
and turned the key. The engine roared to life
seconds before Tom engaged the gear, and fishtailed
slightly as he twisted the handle. The snowmobile
shot out of the parking lot across the field of snow.

He knew the road took a sharp hairpin turn
about a half-mile down the road, so he cut through
the trees, ducking to avoid several limbs designed to
sweep him from his ride. When he successfully
dodged the last tree, he shot out onto a steep slope,
hoping against hope to keep the machine from
flipping end over end as he raced against time to
reach an intersecting point on the highway below,
before the Rover had covered the distance.

As he neared the two-lane highway, he glanced
off to the right, relieved to see that Van Buren was
still coming, but the distance was closing fast. If
Lady Luck were on his side, he’d get to the road in
time, if not…he refused to think of what would
happen to Rachel if he didn’t get down to the road in
time to deter Van Buren.

He twisted the throttle a little more, risking his
life in the downhill plunge. If he missed his mark, if
he hit an exposed rock, if he miscalculated in any
way during this hell-bent race to the finish, he could
easily be killed, but that was a risk he was willing to
take. Rachel would be helpless against a man like
Van Buren and he wasn’t prepared to give up on
getting his man…or being her hero.

As Tom converged on the road, he knew he
would arrive first by mere seconds. What lay down
the slope once he crossed the highway was an
unknown that he refused to consider. Priorities.

As Tom braced his body for an impact, he shot
down the last few feet of slope, pulling up on the
nose of the heavy machine to cross the snow-filled
ditch, and landed with a bone-jarring thud on the
salted asphalt. The heavy machine careened toward
the trees on the far side of the highway even as Tom
jerked on the handlebars, turning the snowmobile
into a sideways skid.

Tom heard the squeal of brakes, but only his
peripheral vision caught the large black vehicle as it
went into a spin and skidded toward the side of the
road and the snow-covered trees that stood at
attention along the highway.

Tom released his death-grip on the handlebars
as the snowmobile skidded sideways toward the
same grove of trees. Pulling his legs and arms
inward, he landed on the asphalt and executed a
tuck and roll that brought him to an abrupt stop
against the icy snow piled on the side of the road.

Without wasting a moment, he was on his feet
even as it registered in his brain that he could hear
sirens blaring as the cavalry raced up the mountain.
With his gun drawn from his hidden shoulder
holster, Tom aimed at the car as he ran, shouting
that he was FBI and for everyone to step out of the
car with their hands up.

As two other squad cars arrived, sirens died
slowly but flashing lights still swirled as the five
men converged on the Rover that was now sunk
axle-deep in the snow and leaning at an odd angle.

“Get your hands up and get out of the vehicle,”
Tom ordered. Later he would be thankful that
neither of the men in the car had been armed, and
that the Rover had not slammed into the trees.

While the police pulled Van Buren, Allison and
the other man from the Rover and put them in
handcuffs, Tom slid the couple of feet down the
embankment and pulled hard on the door to get to
Rachel.

Unsure what he would see, relief flooded his
system when he leaned over and saw her wide-eyed
stare suddenly focus in recognition. A tiny smile
touched her bloodless lips, slowly reaching her eyes
as she lunged toward the man reaching out to her.

“Are you all right?” His arms folded around her,
pulling her in close as he closed his eyes, sending up
a prayer of thanks that she wasn’t hurt and that he
had gotten to her in time. She was trembling, but as
he ran his hands up and down her back, her fears
gradually subsided, leaving her cuddled in his arms.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I was so…thank you for
coming after me,” she said, pulling back enough for
him to look into her smoldering eyes.

In the distance they could hear Allison
screaming that she hadn’t done anything wrong and
demanding that they release her even as she was
tucked into a waiting car and the door slammed
behind her, effectively silencing her protests.

Tom’s eyes never left Rachel’s face, but his body
craved so much more than holding her. Even as she
put pressure against him to pull away, he leaned
into her to place his lips against hers, capturing her
with a hand at the back of her head to deepen the
kiss.

“Hey,” called out one of the policemen. “Give the
poor girl a break, man. She was just in a car wreck
and you’re putting the moves on her.” He chuckled
as he turned toward his patrol car.

The words slowly penetrated, making Tom feel
guilty for taking what he needed without considering
Rachel. As he pulled back, he gazed down into her
face, shifting his focus to her eyes as they slowly
opened.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the lodge and get
you a good stiff drink,” he muttered, tamping down
the heat this tiny woman had ignited.

“Well, Jack, do we get to sign your cast?” Rachel
and Tom sat in front of the roaring fire in the
Presidential Suite where Jack was now sipping
brandy and grousing over not having been involved
in the takedown of Van Buren.

“Stuff it. You guys had all the fun and I got
stuck with this thing,” he said, holding up his arm,
“for the next six weeks.”

“Hey, cheer up. At least you didn’t get dead.”

Rachel punctuated her snide comment with a quick
jab of her elbow into Tom’s side.

For a moment Jack felt guilty. Here his partner
and a woman he had come to care for very much had
been in danger and all he could think about was
missing out on the kill. “Sorry guys. I didn’t mean to
be selfish. It’s just that I’ve been on this case for two
years and I was so hoping to see Van Buren’s face
and read him his rights. I really am glad you’re both
okay.”

Rachel stood, leaning over to place a light kiss
on his cheek. “We’re glad you just broke your wrist.
It could have been your neck.” She smiled sweetly.
It took just a moment to sink in before both men
started chuckling.

“So, Rachel,” Tom called after her as she walked
to the refrigerator, leaning in to pull a Coke from the
shelf. “Speaking of signing something, have you
decided if you’re going to sign the application to join
the FBI?”

She turned slowly, stopping to pop the tab on
the can as she pondered the question. “Well,
assuming I’d have to work with men like the two of
you…”

She allowed a pregnant pause to hang like a
mist over the conversation. “I’d have to say that it
didn’t take me much time to decide that my life is
too staid and dull. I think a new career is just what
the doctor ordered.” She smiled as she lifted the can
toward the two men in a salute. “To a new life.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ah, so where does this take us now?

Are you ready for the last question? Have you answered
all the others to be eligible for a great prize?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What was Jack’s injury?

A) Broken leg

B) Broken arm

C) Broken wrist

D) Broken Heart

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aspen Exposé, Part Deux

Will Rachel accept Tom’s offer to join the FBI? Or will she want more from the man with the dark smoldering eyes? If she does join the FBI, will the agency ever be the same? What about Jack? Will he be the spy who’s left out in the cold? If two’s company, is three a crowd? Will Rachel turn to Tom now that Jack is incapacitated or will she try to reform her former boss? Will he pay her the $5,000 he promised her? If you need more Hot Summer Sizzle stay tuned to Petit Fours and Hot Tamales for the sequel to Aspen Exposé, coming soon.

We hope you enjoyed reading Aspen Exposé. Check back Sunday, July 5 to find out the winner of our “Group Novel” Contest.

Chapter 8

You don’t know jack.

~Anna Steffl

Rachel clicked the door’s deadbolt and secured
the chain. They didn’t want her out; she didn’t want
them in. It was a dandy arrangement.

Laptop tucked under her arm, she headed to the
bed. Imagine—she hadn’t thought to pack her set of
screwdrivers. If it was an FBI computer, it probably
had remote tracking goodies inside. Oh well, she’d
have to take her chances. What was Tom going to
do? Bust down the door? Shoot the lock?

Rachel kicked off the Manolo Bhalniks, propped
a pillow against the headboard, and nestled in.
“Okay password hacker, do your thing.” A line of
code popped on screen. “Yes. Let’s see Karen do that.
She couldn’t hack her way out of a cardboard box.”

There was a knock on the door, followed by
Tom’s velvet voice. “That was fast. Good job. Go
ahead and finish.”

Rachel sat the laptop on the nightstand, sprang
from the bed, twisted the deadbolt and opened the
door until the chain clinked taut.

Tom held his cell phone in through the gap. It
showed Jack’s computer screen. “Go ahead and
finish. Jack’s not sloppy. He wouldn’t leave his
laptop in there with you by mistake.”

“You know,” Rachel seethed, “I’m more than a
little tired of these games.”

“Can I come in?”

Between the easygoing way he flicked the phone
closed and the disarmingly earnest brown eye that
peeked in, it was hard to distrust him. A woman
could snuggle into his arms like into her favorite
overstuffed chair. He’d smell familiar, like
Thanksgiving dinner. He was the opposite of Jack,
who was sinew, steel and blue arctic sky. It would be
so easy to fall for Tom just because he wasn’t Jack.

Rachel shut the door to take off the chain, and
then opened it halfway. “Okay, you can come in, but
only if you level with me.”

“I’ll tell you what I can.”

Tom dragged a chair into the middle of the room
and positioned it so he could watch the door. Darn. It
was obvious he was going to keep his charm
professionally in place.

“Van Buren is using Mira to launder money
from his overseas shell companies,” he said, all the
laidback drawl gone from his voice. “Overseas drug
trafficking and child prostitution pays for over half
of the Mira hardware you’re sending to foreign
distributors.”

“Child prostitution? For real?”

“For real.”

Rachel’s lips tightened along with her fists.
She’d given a year of her life, working evenings and
Saturdays beyond count, to a company that paid her
with dirty money from child prostitution.

“Tomorrow night,” Tom said, “we think Van
Buren’s going to add another shell to the game. A
Thai national is coming in. Jack’s job is to put the
financials you ran on the table and sell Mira’s
impeccable accounting. We’re hoping Van Buren will
let him stick around as he details how the accounts
work. But if he doesn’t, I have his suite bugged.
We’ll get him.” He nodded to the laptop. “I was
serious that you should finish the job you started.”

Rachel unclenched her fists and shook the anger
over Van Buren’s slimy tactics from them. She sat on
the edge of the bed and balanced the computer on
her thighs. There was only one file on the hard
drive—Livingston. A document with an FBI logo
came up. It was a dossier of her personal
information. She scrolled down to an FBI
employment application with her information
already filled in. At the bottom was a
recommendation signed by an Agent Jack…“Soloski?
Is that his real name?” Soloski was a name you’d see
embroidered on a second-hand bowling shirt at
Goodwill. The Jack she knew wore cufflinks and
Italian suits.

“Code name Han. Born and raised in Kearney,
Nebraska. Accounting degree from the University of
Iowa. Law degree from Tulane. And, the best
marksman in our class.” Tom grinned. “Except for
me. You want me covering your rear.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rachel said, then
returned to reading Jack’s recommendation.
Brilliant. Cooperative. Ethical. Levelheaded. Rachel
twitched her lips. He might reconsider levelheaded
after she’d bolted out of the ladies’ room. Grabbing
his balls probably counted heavily in her favor,
however. And, her kiss had made Agent Jack Soloski
a bit sloppy.

Tom stood. “Think about it, Rachel. Mira is
going down. You’ll need a job and we need your kind
of talent to bring in creeps like Van Buren. We ran a
complete on you before authorizing Jack to bring you
here. It’s twenty hard weeks of training at Quantico,
but…” Tom gave her a head to toe look. “You’re up to
it.”

Any other time Tom’s look would have set her
pulse sprinting, but Rachel was picturing herself
with an FBI badge. That was never in the plan. Her
life operated like a computer program. Nothing could
happen outside the parameters she’d written for
herself. Class valedictorian. A scholarship to one of
the most prestigious computer science schools, the
University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. A
great-paying job in gorgeous Denver once she’d
graduated.

Maybe that was why she jumped at the chance
to come to Aspen with Jack. She wanted outside the
parameters for once. But the FBI was too far out. It
was a boys’ club, complete with goofy nicknames like
Han Solo. Would she always have to be pretending
to be someone different? Use people like Jack used
her? Sure, she was getting five thousand dollars for
this stint of make-believe, but she had to admit she’d
wanted something more than the money from Jack.

What did Jack want from her? To help him
make a bust and recruit her for the FBI, that’s what.
It was part of his professional shtick to tease her
with garbage about wanting to make her glow, and
then walk away.

Rachel frowned. “I don’t know, Tom.”

“Okay, but think about it.” Tom headed to the
door. “Can we count on you to play along, though,
until tomorrow night? We’re so close to busting this
guy.”

Playing along meant skiing the beginner slopes
tomorrow afternoon with Allison while Jack and Van
Buren did macho guy stuff on the harder terrain.
Sure, she could put up with Allison for a few hours
knowing that with her husband in jail, she wouldn’t
have a rich-bitch high heel to stand on. A thousand
bucks an hour was about the right compensation to
put up with Allison. Then, she wouldn’t owe Jack
anything more for the money. “I’ll play along—on
one condition.”

Tom paused in the doorway. “What’s that?”

“Jack needs to sleep somewhere else tonight.”

Tom saluted as he left. “Han is solo tonight.”

At the edge of the hill, Jack buckled onto the
snowboard.

“Let’s make this last run a good one.” Van Buren
pierced his pole through the foot of powder that had
fallen last night. He flashed a daring smile at Jack.
“Take Bell Ridge down to Shoulder of Bell. I want to
hit a few moguls before calling it a day.”

Jack nodded and smiled to himself. It would be
that son-of-a-bitch’s last run for a long, long time. By
tonight, he’d be in federal custody.

Van Buren launched himself down the hill. The
ridge run was steep, but smooth. Jack got in a good
rhythm, shifting his weight and balance to make the
short zigzags. The snow flashed so fast across his
goggles that he couldn’t see the flakes anymore, only
a haze that the goggles tinted orange.

Van Buren angled to the right side of the slope
and stopped at a gap in the trees. A double-black
diamond sign marked the Shoulder of Bell trail.

Joining him, Jack lifted his goggles. Moguls
were hell on a snowboard, and there were trees
everywhere. Still, there was nothing like taking on a
tough hill, having every bit of consciousness focused
on navigating the valleys between the bumps. It was
the ultimate way to live in the now. There were no
distractions…like Rachel. He needed a clear mind
this evening. Maybe it was good she’d locked him out
of the room last night. This thing with her was
getting out of control just at the time he needed his
wits the most. When he had her on the bed by the
wrists, it took everything he had to walk away. If
she’d have let him in the room, there was no
guessing what would have happened. He’d have
been up all night finding new ways of putting
together the puzzle of their bodies.

Ridiculous. When had the FBI penetrated that
part of him? Puzzles? Damn.

“I’ll give you a third of the way head start,” Van
Buren said. “That board is slow on moguls. Last one
down buys the beer.”

“Deal,” Jack said as he pushed his goggles down
and lifted up on his heels.

The moguls were tough—all twists and turns.
He was halfway down when Van Buren, riffling up a
wave of powder, cut into his peripheral vision. What
the hell? Van Buren was cutting in front of him—
way too close in front of him. Jack swung around
backwards to grip the board’s toe edge into the snow
for a good stop, but he kept sliding. The board hit
something, and then went airborne. Jack held his
hands out to brace the fall. He hit, something
cracked and popped, and then he rolled over and
skidded before coming to a sitting stop. He clutched
his left arm to his chest. “Shit. I broke my wrist.”

Van Buren released his bindings, slung his skis
over his shoulder, and began to trudge up the slope.

Jack peeled off his glove. His wrist was bent like
a dinner fork. Not good.

After sticking his skis in the snow in an “X”
behind Jack, Van Buren took out his phone. “I’m
calling the ski patrol.”

“No. Give me a minute. I can make it down.”

Van Buren had the phone to his ear. “Like hell
you can. I don’t want you passing out and crashing
big time. I need you patched up and ready for
tonight.”

“Fine,” Jack admitted. The pain was ricocheting
between his hand and elbow.

In a couple of minutes, two men wearing red and
black jackets with white crosses on them arrived.
“We’re going to get you down to the base and an
ambulance will transport you to Aspen Valley
Hospital,” one of them said as he pulled the rescue
sled alongside Jack.

The ski patrol wrapped Jack’s left arm to his
chest, then bundled him into the sled and secured a
yellow tarp over him.

“Do you want me to call Rachel for you?” Van
Buren asked. “Allison can take her to the hospital.”

Rachel. She was skiing with Allison. “Sure.”

“What’s her number, Jack?”

Hell. He didn’t know her cell number by heart
and his phone was in the jacket pocket underneath
where they’d wrapped his busted wrist to his chest.
Plus, the tarp bound him like a mummy. Think
quickly. “I don’t know. I have it on speed-dial.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call Allison. We’ll take care of
Rachel.”

The ski patrol clicked back into their bindings.
Van Buren knelt beside Jack. “My people tell me
you’ve never seen Rachel Livingston outside of the
office. What else have you lied about, Jack
Davenport?” To the ski patrol, he said, “He’s ready to
go.”

They started down the hill.

“I need to make a call. It’s an emergency,” Jack
roared to the ski patrolmen. He had to contact Tom.

“At the base, dude,” one of the men yelled back.

Jack thought about shouting “FBI,” but Van
Buren could be near. Jack couldn’t see anything.
Snow covered his goggles. A pain, different from the
one pulsing in his arm, shot through him. What did
Van Buren mean when he said they’d take care of
Rachel?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wow! Didn’t see that coming did you? Okay, now for the question.

Question for Chapter Eight

What doesn’t Jack know:

A) How to snowboard

B) Rachel’s middle name

C) Rachel’s cell phone number

D) Who Han Solo is

Chapter 7

Never underestimate a woman who knows her way around a computer.

~Sally Kilpatrick

Rachel gave in to the slow, dreamlike
magnetism that drew her to Jack. Just one second of
those lips, she told herself, and then…

Their lips met, a slight brush, with enough
electricity to supply the entire state of Colorado. She
could almost forget she had a reason for kissing him,
a reason other than the obvious. Still, she needed
answers and she needed them now so she subtly let
her hands wander down Jack’s sinful body as he
deepened their kiss.

Focus, Rachel, focus. Finding her mark, she
grabbed him at his most sensitive spot.

“Want to play rough, huh?” His ragged voice
wound down her ear canal, causing her entire body
to implode in chills.

“No, I want some answers.” She tightened her
grip on his family jewels.

“Okay,” he said, his face a blank slate. “Just let
me know the questions before you tighten your grip.”

“Who are you and how do you know the valet?”

“Jack Davenport. Tom is an old buddy of mine.”

“You mean your FBI partner?”

“Fine, he’s my partner. Can you please let go so
we can have this conversation like civilized adults?”

She knew she wasn’t inflicting pain, rather just
the threat. “I don’t think I’m ready to let go yet,” she
said. “Because you are obviously not who I thought
you were.”

Disappointing, really. She had only agreed to
this trip because she couldn’t refuse those blue eyes.
And because she had hoped to loosen him up a little
while playing out a few fantasies of her own. She
hadn’t come here to get tangled up with his evil
twin, any of the catty women in his social circle, or to
find out she was in the middle of some kind of FBI
case.

“No, I’m exactly who you think I am. I’m just not
what you think I am.” Though desire had left his
blue eyes, it appeared sincerity had taken its place.

“And just what are you, Jack?”

“FBI. We’ve been working a long time to bring
Van Buren down on charges of racketeering and
money laundering. Mira Technologies is really just a
front for him. We’re so close. I couldn’t risk losing it
all now just because he’s got some irrational belief in
marriage as an indication of stability.”

She studied him carefully. She could always
hack his computer later to see if the story checked
out. Hell, she would have already known the
answers if she hadn’t been so caught up in getting
dressed for him and his cronies. After Allison’s
comments in the bathroom, she wasn’t sure why she
had bothered. She was a computer programmer after
all, not a socialite.

Of course, she also wasn’t the kind of girl who
went around grabbing a guy in his most sensitive
area, but it was comforting to know she hadn’t taken
self-defense classes for nothing. She relinquished her
grip, and he visibly relaxed.

“You know, that wasn’t exactly how I was
hoping that kiss would end up,” he said before
tossing her on the bed, one hand clasping her wrists
above her head.

“This is a lot closer to how I had hoped the
weekend would end up,” Rachel answered with a
nervous laugh as she looked up into hard blue eyes.
“At least before I found out you were a crazy FBI
agent. If, indeed, that’s who you are.”

He reached into his back pocket with his free
hand and drew out his FBI badge, holding it just
inches from her eyes. She studied it, but she couldn’t
tell if it was real or just a really good facsimile.
He leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek and
to whisper in her ear. “If you grab my balls again, I’ll
have to resort to drastic measures.”

“Drastic measures?” The combination of arousal
and apprehension mingled, her entire body tingling
with alarm.

He sat up and released her wrists, and she
scooted to a sitting position, bringing her hands in
front of her. She studied her enigmatic faux fiancé.
He stood and started walking to the door.

“Yeah, like having Tom hold you here at
gunpoint.” He straightened his jacket and reached
for the door.

His hand lingered on the knob, and he turned to
look at her—to look through her, really—with a
sizzling gaze. “It’s a shame, really. I was looking
forward to seducing you and sending you to the
slopes tomorrow with a noticeable afterglow.”
It was silly to harbor regrets, but Rachel did.

“Where are you going now?” She winced as the words
came out of her mouth. She sounded too much like a
jilted wife or lover.

“I’m going to the bar to join Van Buren and the
others. You are going to stay here and behave
yourself since I’m afraid you have just come down
with a very unfortunate migraine.”

She bristled at his tone. “And if I don’t?”

“You will,” he said confidently. “Because Tom is
just outside the door.”

She jumped to her feet. Her mouth opened and
closed indignantly. “You can’t keep me here!”

“Normally, I would agree with you—Bill of
Rights and all that, but all you have to do is play
your part for less than twenty-four hours and you
will be free. I’m not going to ruin this whole
operation just because of your snooping.”

“Snooping?” He hadn’t even begun to see her
snooping.

“Yeah, snooping. Play nice and see if you can get
on board. Otherwise, I suppose you’ll have to be
indisposed for the rest of the trip.”

He closed the door behind him, and she heard
him exchange pleasantries with someone who had to
be Tom. She paced the room muttering insults and
threats. Then she spied his laptop. She could always
resort to her original plan and find out if Jack
Davenport was telling the truth.

Ridiculous, really, for him to leave it here with a
computer expert. Something told her he had
supreme confidence in his abilities to keep her from
his secrets, but he had been underestimating her
thus far. She wasn’t the type of girl to sit back and
follow orders. No, Rachel Livingston was going to
find out all of Jack’s dirty little secrets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seven down and two to go. Are you keeping up with all the questions and giving
us the answer in your comment? Here’s the next one.

Question for Chapter Seven

How did Rachel get Jack to tell her who he was?

A. Threaten to call security

B. Threaten his family jewels

C. Pull a gun on him

D. Pull the fire alarm

Chapter 6

When in doubt…punt.

~Ana Aragón

“There you are, sweetheart.” Jack draped his
arm around Rachel’s frozen, bare shoulders and
breathed a sigh of relief. He thought he’d lost her. If
it wasn’t for Tom—

“E-eek!” she squealed, ripping herself from his
embrace and hurtling into Tom’s chest, arms
wrapping snug around his waist. “W-what are you
doing here?”

His partner, Tom, motioned with his chin over
her curly, golden brown locks, and mouthed, “What
the hell?”

If he only knew. Jack shook his head and
whispered, “Later.” He attempted to wrest her hands
from Tom’s waist, but she held on tighter than a tick
on a beagle’s ear. Between the two of them they were
finally able to release her hawkish grip from Tom’s
doorman jacket enough to pull her away. She
turned, her eyes blazing with anger, nostrils flared.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was staring
into the eyes of a bull that had just been speared.

“C’mon, Rachel. I’m sorry—” A swift kick to the
shin and it was his turn to yelp. “Jeez, Rach.” He
hopped on one foot, rubbing his sore leg through the
woefully thin tuxedo pant leg. Damn. She broke
skin. “Stop it, will you?” Now he’d have to get the
darned pants cleaned.

Tom restrained her from behind by locking his
arms through hers, which only served to make her
angrier.

“You…you…damn you!” She aimed a swift kick
toward his groin which, given his advanced FBI
training and experience with other, similarly angry,
women, he was able to deflect, grabbing her ankle
and four-inch spiked heel a split second before she
made contact with the family jewels. She hung
suspended between the two of them, swinging her
free leg back and forth in an attempt to get free, her
dress billowing in the wind.

Jeez. And she seemed so sweet and mellow at
the office. “Listen, Rachel,” he said, in an attempt at
conciliation. “We need to get you up to our suite. I’ll
explain everything once we get there, okay?”

Her green eyes sharpened into pinpoints that
could melt steel. It took a few moments for her to
realize she wasn’t in any position to refuse and the
look of resignation on her face when she finally came
to that conclusion nearly knocked him on his butt. “I
guess I don’t have much choice now, do I?” she
whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Let me go.”

He dropped her foot and she struggled to gain
traction on the cold pavement, eventually shrugging
her arms free of Tom’s grip. She breathed in a
lungful of air, releasing it slowly as she squared her
shoulders and straightened her backbone to all fivefoot-
three inches of raging femininity. Turning from
him, to Tom, and back, her usually plump lips
firmed into a straight line, making him think of
every possible way he might soften them. A nippy
gust blew in from behind her, propelling her scent
toward him. He couldn’t help but breathe her
in…freesia. That was it. He recognized the
scent…but, damn, his former lover had never
smelled this delectable.

She shivered. “This had better be good,” she
whispered, moving quickly toward the glass door.

Tom brought Jack up to speed quickly and went
back to work. Jack followed Rachel in, unable to
keep himself from admiring her firm, round butt
above muscular thighs, sexy calves and curvy ankles
as she strode into the hotel lobby, her loose, brown
curls bouncing rhythmically against the expanse of
creamy, white skin at her back. It took every ounce
of strength he possessed to keep him from tackling
her from behind and taking her right here.

This wasn’t the thought that should be crossing
his mind, dammit. Even if Rachel Livingston was a
dream come true and he’d been lusting after her for
nearly a year. She had a cute, pixyish face,
voluptuous body, sharp wit and an intellect that
gave him a run for his money. From the moment
they crossed horns over the Wilkerson account, he
was a goner. It didn’t matter that he was engaged to
Karen; frankly, he’d given in to the engagement so
Van Buren would keep him on, so he wouldn’t blow
his cover. The sting they’d planned for two years was
nearly over; within a week, Van Buren would be
behind bars and Jack would be back in D.C., pushing
papers and getting ready for his next long-term
assignment.

As they entered the elevator, he popped the
special keycard for the penthouse level and pondered
just how much information he’d need to divulge.
Certainly enough to keep her from blowing his cover,
but not enough to endanger her life. It had taken a
lot of prodding on the part of his superiors to
convince him to put her in harm’s way in the first
place. But after receiving assurances that the
Bureau had their back and she’d be in less danger
than if she walked down H Street by herself at dusk,
he finally relented.

Rachel huffed, crossed one gorgeous ankle over
the other and leaned against the far wall of the
elevator, as far away from him as possible. Her arms
were crossed underneath her breasts, which only
served to push them up and out for his inspection.
His lusting gaze must’ve been obvious, because she
huffed again and turned away, giving him a better
view of her left cheek—both of them, actually. If only
she knew he was much more of an ass man than a
breast aficionado.

Thinking of all the possible scenarios he could
concoct on short notice, given they were now two
floors from their destination, Jack let his mind
wander. If he could somehow distract her, he might
buy himself some more time. He closed his eyes and
thoughts of possible diversions floated as he
mentally walked through the doors of the
Presidential suite. Against the floor-to-ceiling,
mirrored wall in the entry. Curled up on the plush
rug in front of the fireplace. Spread-eagle on the
granite countertop in the kitchen. In the whirlpool
tub, all sixteen jets—oh, yeah, he’d counted—at full
blast. In the two-person shower, her back flat
against the marble wall, hands locked ab—

Briiinnnggg! The bell signaling the penthouse
floor level broke into his thoughts and Jack stifled a
groan. Opening his eyes, he watched as Rachel’s
gaze moved slowly from the front of his bulging
pants, up, up, up to meet his. Her sweet mouth was
open, her cheeks flushed—and the look in her eyes
was all desire.

The doors opened directly into the hallway in
front of their suite. He motioned with his hand,
allowing her to exit first so he could adjust himself.
She let herself in with her own key. Her spiked heels
clicked ominously on the terrazzo tile floor, a
reminder he had but a few seconds to come up with a
plausible story…um…lie. She reached the entry
mirror and twirled to face him. He paced the seven
steps—who was counting?—to land within arms’
reach and stopped.

She was close enough for him to see himself
mirrored in her olive eyes, now smoky with desire,
her mouth set in a determined line. It seemed like a
lifetime before a pink tongue peeked out, moistening
the underside of her upper lip, her fingertips
reaching out to caress the day-old beard at his
cheek.

He pulled her into his arms as her scent
enveloped him.

Well, well, well. This was his lucky day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for dropping by. And now for the question.

Question for Chapter 6

What is Jack Davenport’s real profession?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stay tuned next week for Chapter 7

Chapter 5

There’s a fine line between “ignorance is bliss” and “knowledge is power.” I have to wonder where exactly I fall along that line.

~Tami Brothers

Rachel blew out an irritated sigh as she ducked
into the ladies’ rest room. Who knew acting could be
this draining? She’d originally doubted Jack’s claim
that he wanted his personal life to look stable in
front of the board. After the last hour of being ogled
like a cow at the state fair while he paraded her
around the room, she didn’t doubt that claim any
longer. In fact, she had to marvel at Jack’s
ingenuity.

At first she’d felt honored and a bit dazzled that
he’d asked her. She knew the usual women he dated
were gorgeous model types. Being placed in this
category would do wonders for any woman’s selfesteem.
In fact, she’d almost convinced herself his
intentions couldn’t be all that bad.

Now, after winning the best in show award from
the board, she could see why Jack had chosen her.
She was safe. Not only was she unlike the sexy,
slinky, all-I-can-get-from-a-man kind of woman Jack
normally went for, but she could actually carry on an
intelligent conversation. She knew this business,
and, unlike most of the trophy wives she’d met
tonight, she was able to discuss the ins and outs of
Mira Technologies like a pro. Those qualities had
apparently given the impression that Jack wasn’t in
this relationship just for the physical aspects of it,
exactly what Jack had planned to accomplish.

Hearing a noise at the door, Rachel stepped into
one of the bathroom stalls to keep from having to
jump back into character. As soon as she heard the
voices, she was thankful she had.

“Did you see that dress? Who in their right mind
would pair that fabric with those shoes? Karen
would die if she could see what he’s trying to pass off
as her replacement.”

“I’m not going to be the one to tell her, but I
hope I’m there when she finds out.” The giggles that
followed this comment were like nails on a chalk
board as they clawed up Rachel’s spine. “Hand me
that lipstick.”

“Sure. Can you imagine him bringing his
secretary? You’d think he would have picked better,
though. A plain Jane if I ever saw one. I can’t believe
I’m stuck entertaining her tomorrow.”

“Boring. I’m glad it’s you and not me.”
These last words were barely audible as the two
women left. Rachel let out a breath she hadn’t
realized she’d been holding as she slowly stepped out
of the stall. What the hell had she been thinking?
She did not have to take this kind of crap for
someone who was turning out to be the kind of man
her mother warned her about.

She had to get out of here. Casually glancing up
and down the hallway as she stepped out of the
ladies’ room, she couldn’t stop herself from taking a
quick peek into the dining area. Thankfully, Jack
was engrossed in a conversation with one of the
board members.

Hoping to make a clean escape, she strolled to
the lobby and gritted her teeth when she found the
front desk empty. She needed to contact a taxi to
take her into town.

A familiar giggle far too close for comfort had
her looking for a quick escape. “Where did you get
those?” Allison and her cohort were admiring
another woman’s earrings.

Pushing open the glass front doors, the frigid
cold blasted her as she stepped behind one of the
large wooden pillars that gave this resort its rustic
feel. Hugging her arms around her body in an
attempt to hold in some heat, she peeked inside the
building.

“Ms. Livingston?”

Spinning around, Rachel couldn’t help but curse
her new Manolos as one of the four-inch spikes
skidded on a patch of ice. Squeezing her eyes shut,
she waited for the impact. Instead of cold concrete,
she let out a strangled yelp when a pair of solid arms
stopped her fall. Eyes flying open, she found herself
staring into the warmest pair of chocolate brown
eyes she’d ever seen.

What the heck? Why was her heart racing and
her previously freezing limbs suddenly tingling with
a strange sensation spreading its poison through her
body? If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she
was attracted to this man. But that would just be
plain fruitcake crazy. He could be a serial killer.

“Ms. Livingston, are you okay?”

Okay, so the serial killer knew her name. What
did that mean? “Um. I think…I mean, yes…I am.”

A sexy grin drew her attention away from his
eyes. Oh boy. If she thought his eyes did strange
things to her, then those lips were downright
causing her heart to go into cardiac arrest.

“I‘d better put you down then. Your friends
might come looking for you and I’m sure you don’t
want them seeing you fraternizing with the help.”

Allison! That girl was really starting to tick her
off. The cold suddenly returned with a vengeance as
Rachel’s current dilemma came crashing back to the
forefront. Glancing in through the glass windows,
she saw the empty lobby and breathed a sigh of
relief. “Those women are definitely not my friends.”

“Really?” He asked this as he settled her back on
her feet, his hands remaining on her arms as she
steadied herself.

“Definitely not. Unfortunately, I would be one of
those people they consider the help.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that, especially since
you came in with Mr. Davenport.”

Rachel glanced at him and it was then she
realized this mystery man was the attendant who
had taken Jack’s keys when they first arrived. That
ruled out serial killer. Maybe.

Shaking her head, Rachel took a step back,
immediately missing the warmth from the man’s
hands when they fell away. “Yes, well, looks can be
deceiving.” She shot another look at the lobby and
groaned. Still empty. Turning to the Matthew
McConaughey look-a-like, she attempted a smile.

“You wouldn’t know how I might catch a taxi, would
you?”

“You’re leaving us?” The man frowned as Rachel
nodded. “If you wait a moment, I could get Mr.
Davenport and have him take you—”

“No!” When the man raised his eyebrows, Rachel
realized she’d just shouted the word. “Please don’t
interrupt Mr. Davenport. I’d rather he didn’t know.”

“This is quite sudden.”

Rachel shot another glance into the lobby as she
mumbled under her breath, “You don’t know the half
of it.”

“Listen, Rachel. I need to talk you out of leaving
right now.”

The sound of her first name caught Rachel’s
attention and she turned back to the attendant.

“Excuse me. Do I know you?”

“Tom Gardner. Now you know me, so I think you
and I need to talk.”

The sudden chill that raced up Rachel’s spine
had nothing to do with the cold Aspen night or the
instant attraction she was feeling for this perfect
stranger. What caught her attention was the serious
note in the man’s voice and the gold badge he was
holding up. A sense of dread washed over her as she
wondered what the hell she’d gotten herself into now.

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Question for Chapter 5

For what fashion faux pas, did Karen criticize Rachel?

a) big hair

b) costume jewelry

c) wrong color for evening

d) wrong fabric paired with her shoes

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Thanks for stopping by today. Be sure to answer the question in your comment.