Prologue
He barely escaped with his shirt.
"I am never signing another book as long as I live."
Reese Clark's voice echoed like a gunshot through the
five-story Mall of America parking garage. He swept off
his black Stetson and dragged a hand through his unruly,
shoulder-scraping brown hair. He grimaced at the layer
of sweat that came off in his hand.
The book signing had disintegrated into chaos, just
as he'd expected. After two hours of orderly lines, with
women breathing in his face and fawning over him as
if he were a teenage movie idol, the peace had evaporated.
Normal, law-abiding women began to push and
argue.
He'd climbed on his chair, waved to the back, and
assured the crowd he would sign every copy of Siberian
Runaway. Yet they still fought for space in the line that
curved past Macy's, snaked down West Market, and
probably ended around the far corner of Nordstrom,
another block farther. Despite ample bookstore security
and two well-muscled mall uniforms barking orders, the
crowd erupted. The noise and confusion resurrected
enough ugly memories to send him looking for escape in
the concrete parking labyrinth.
"Reese, come back here!" Jacqueline Saint marched
up behind him, her spike heels echoing in monstrous
volumes against the cement floor. "If you want to sell
books, you'll wipe that pout off your face and march
back inside."
He scowled at his publicist. "Back off, Jacqueline.
You saw them in there." He made a show of shuddering.
"I'm done. I'm not doing this anymore. One more
fanatic reader and I'm going over the edge." Reese drew
a deep breath. The smell of motor oil, cement, and dusty
ceilings twisted his empty stomach. "I need some air."
Jacqueline dug her ruby red manicured fingernails
into his arm. "You've got to loosen up, Reese. This isn't
Chicago. No one is lurking in the men's room. I've made
sure security is on you like glue. You're fine."
He stiffened. "Maybe I just have a better memory
than you do."
He heard her clucking, a habit that could shred his
nerves to rags. "The price one pays for fame," she said,
not gently.
He tried not to rise to that. She was the closest thing
he had to a real friend right now, and that thought
turned like a knife.
"Listen, you're almost done," she soothed in false
tones. "One more week on the morning-news circuit,
then you can disappear and cultivate that 'mystery man
of the mountains' image you love." Her voice hardened.
"Until then, baby, you sign books."
Reese jerked out of her grip. "Give me five minutes
. at least."
Jacqueline raised a thin eyebrow and ran her cool
gray eyes over him as if evaluating prey. Checking the
time on her gold watch, she nodded crisply. "Five
minutes. Clock starts now."
Reese tightened his jaw and stalked away. Jacqueline
might be the best publicist his editor had to offer, but
after three months of her nonstop company, he was
ready to topple her off those lizard-skin spikes.
He exhaled a hot, uneven breath. One week left.
Then he would have nine peaceful months before the
release of his next book. Soon he'd be off to the mountains
-good riddance civilization. Not that he itched to
shoulder a pack or climb inside his worn, polar sleeping
bag again, but a multihued mountain sky, the
threat of a storm, and even mosquitoes the size of his
fist seemed a more welcoming atmosphere than a
crowded mall bookstore. More welcoming-and safer.
He'd take a face-to-face encounter with a grizzly over
a lovesick fan any day, month, or year. He'd seen
enough of crazed women up close and personal to
make his blood turn cold.
The book tour served its purpose, however-funds to
explore the planet. His books sold millions. Why, he still
didn't understand. He wrote them because they called to
be written, but women hungered after them, buying
them in hardback, hot off the presses. Jacqueline
reasoned it was because his hero never found the
woman he sought, and his readers all fantasized they
could be the one.
Reese wandered between a Lexus and a grimy blue
Chevette and leaned on the edge of the railing to peer
down onto the highway, a spiraling mess of noise and
exhaust. Beyond the concrete, the red-and-orange
autumn foliage shimmered in the trees lining the Mississippi
River. An errant breeze drifted toward him, carrying
the tinge of drying leaves and the crisp anticipation
of fall. They beckoned to him, and he never felt more
trapped. Yes, he loved the writing, the traveling . it
was the invasion of his privacy that pushed him to his
last nerve. He was already plotting his escape. As traffic
hummed below, Reese sunk his head in his arms.
The car behind him coughed and sputtered. It wasn't
the Lexus. Reese whirled, intending to scuttle between
the two vehicles. He made it as far as the front driver's
door. It swung open, crashed into his knees, and swiped
dirt across his tailored suit pants. As the driver barreled
out of the Chevette, he jumped back, frowning, and
dusted off his knees. "Watch it!" he growled.
He heard an offended gasp and immediately regretted
his tone. Rudeness wasn't his standard.
"You watch it. My car can't move; you can!" The
spitfire comeback didn't match the petite blonde steaming
before him. Shoulder height and dressed in a black
skirt and a white cashmere sweater, she didn't look the
type to drive such a clunker or to meet her problems
head-on. He blinked at her.
She clamped her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing.
"What are you doing next to my car, anyway?"
He raised his brows. "Well, I certainly wasn't going
to steal it."
Her mouth flew open a second before she harrumphed
and shook her head. With one swift move she reached
down beside the seat and popped the hood. When she
stepped back and slammed the door, the sound clamored
along the low-hanging ceiling.
Silence passed between them as she stared at him.
"Well, are you going to move, or are you paid to block
traffic?"
"Sorry," he mumbled as he raised his hands in surrender.
He scooted back to the railing.
The woman brushed past him, widely avoiding the
scum on her car. She slid two fingers under the hood
and heaved it open. As she propped it up, she shot Reese
a sidelong look. Her eyes seemed to soften. "Sorry," she
muttered. "I'm having a rotten day. First I lock myself
out of the house, then I rip my skirt climbing through
the window, then Macy's computer eats my layaway.
And now, old Noah here won't start."
He bit his lip to stifle an unexpected grin. "Noah?"
She tucked a chunk of golden hair behind her ear.
"Don't ask."
Still warring with a smirk, he stuck his hands into
his pockets and leaned back against the cement wall,
intrigued by a woman in fancy duds jiggling cables,
adjusting the oil cap, and fingering the connections to
her car battery. Remarkably, she had only a light coating
of grease on her fingers when she turned back to him.
She chewed her delicate lip for a moment. Her forlorn
gaze shifted past him, as if the answer lay in the bronzed
hills. Then abruptly, she pinned him with a tentative
look. "Know anything about cars?"
Reese rubbed his chin. He wasn't interested in getting
dirty. Especially since he had to return to a crowd of
cheering women in the bookstore "Yep, I know a
few things." He stepped up to the car and leaned over
the engine compartment.
Beside him, she peered into the blackness. "What do
you see?" Her hair fell over her face, and she flipped it
back.
Reese glanced at her and stifled another snigger. She
had wiped a dash of oil across her cheek, like a football
player. She was having a bad day.
Pinching his lips together, Reese examined the black hole
of her car. Rusty wires merged with fraying cables, and
sticky muck layered the corroded battery. After a moment
of perusal, during which the odor of oil seeped over him
like a fog, he reached in and tweaked the spark-plug wires.
"Give her a try," he said, slapping his hands together.
"Really? That's all?" Her mouth opened in amazement
when he nodded.
"Loose spark-plug wires will stop you cold every time."
Her green eyes glowed with sudden delight, and for
the first time he noticed they were the color of finely cut
emeralds, with magical golden flecks. They reached out
and held him until he blew out a breath and broke away.
"Give her a try," he repeated hoarsely and looked for a
place to wipe his blackened fingers.
"Righto!" She sprang toward the driver's door.
Reese fished around in his back pocket and found a
handkerchief. So much for his starched appearance. He
worked the grease off his fingers.
The motor roared to life, and with it, inner snapshots
of Reese's high school days. The hum of a Chevy could
never be forgotten, especially the sweet melody of his
Corvette, shined and stored on blocks in a place he was
trying to forget.
With a sheepish grin, the blonde climbed out of her
car. "It looks like you saved me." Her face brightened
into a genuine smile. "Thank you so much." She
reached over the open door. "Mona Reynolds."
Reese took her grip. "Clark."
Her eyes shone, and didn't she have the most beautiful
smattering of freckles dotting her high cheekbones
when she grinned?
"I suppose I should buy you a cup of coffee, huh?"
He handed her the handkerchief. "Nah, I happened to
be in the right place at the right time." She frowned at
the handkerchief, confused. He pointed to her face.
"You've got a dab of war paint there."
She wrinkled her nose and ducked into the car,
adjusting her rearview mirror.
Reese snared the moment to gather his senses. Coffee
suddenly sounded nice. An escape with a pretty, sincere
woman who didn't fawn over him might be just the
breath of air he needed.
She turned around, a line of red where the oil had been.
"Thanks." She handed the handkerchief back to him.
"About coffee .," he began.
"Oh, I would really love to treat you. Give me your
card, and I'll call you."
His hope deflated. "Uh, well, I don't have one on me."
"Oh." She appeared stymied, her lips puckering into
an intriguing pout. "Well, maybe you could give me
your number or your e-mail address?"
Reese pulled off his hat and rubbed a hand along
the brim. His vision of a quiet coffee date with him
safely disguised as an out-of-town business executive
named Clark disintegrated under the glare of reality.
This was getting too complicated, especially with
a crowd of fans waiting inside. It would only take
running into the media and things would turn ugly.
He shook his head. "Actually, I'm just passing
through town."
She looked crestfallen, and he nearly changed his
mind. After a silent moment, she sighed. "Well, thanks
again. You were my hero today."
He smiled at that. Playing the part, he snuggled the
Stetson back on his head and pulled the brim like a
courteous cowboy.
She shut the car door, waved once as she backed out,
then disappeared in a fog of exhaust.
Reese scowled against the acrid smell, and disapointment
pinched his heart. For a second there, he
thought Mona might have turned out to be more than
just a fan. He'd never find a woman who would be
able to see beneath the Reese Clark veneer. It was
painfully clear he and women just weren't meant
to be.
"Reese!"
He and Jacqueline weren't meant to be either. Reese
trudged back to the skyway and his book tour.
* * *
Applebee's parking lot seemed fairly crowded for the
predinner hour. Enormously late, Mona found a spot in
the back and hustled to the entrance.
Stopping at the hostess booth, she craned her neck
and spotted Liza Beaumont waving crazily at a high
table in the middle section. "Excuse me, my party is
here," she said to the annoyed hostess and hurried
toward Liza before her roommate made a scene and
started hollering her name.
"Well, look how she's grown!"
Mona skidded to a stop, cringing as Edith Draper
rose from her seat at Liza's table. The older woman
headed toward Mona, her wide manicured hands reaching
for Mona's face. Her mother's best friend thought
she was still twelve years old.
"Hello, Mrs. Draper," Mona said weakly.
"I just wish your mother was here to see you take this
big step. Imagine, owning your own business. I couldn't
be prouder of you if you were my own child!" Edith's
eyes glistened.
Mona surrendered to a hug. "Thanks, Mrs. Draper."
She drew back and waggled a finger in Mona's face.
"Oh no. I'm Edith now. I'm going to be your neighbor."
Mona smiled warmly. She couldn't help but be drawn
in by Edith's enthusiasm. "Okay . Edith."
"I ordered you a coffee," Liza announced as Mona
slid onto a high stool and hooked her heels on the
bottom bar.
"You look harried, dear." Edith put a wrinkled hand
onto Mona's arm.
"I've had a horrible day," Mona replied. "I don't
want to talk about it." She scanned the restaurant
before returning her gaze to Edith. "Where's Chuck?"
The older woman waved her hand and shrugged.
"You know how men are-have to use the bathroom
wherever they go."
Mona smirked and spied Chuck Parson emerging
from the men's room. Hitching his black jeans around
his basketball stomach, he looked uncomfortable in his
own skin. Poor guy. He was out of his element.
"Mona!" he called out from halfway across the room.
Mona saw a waitress glare at him. Sliding off her stool,
Mona met him two steps from the table. He wrapped
her in a bear hug. "You're looking better than ever."
She sighed. She had them all fooled. Her insides were
in knots, and her knees wanted to give out. If this thing
really happened, her dreams were just a skip away. She
kept pinching herself, waiting to wake up. God was so
good to her to give her this miracle. She planned to grab
on tightly to this chance and never let go. Now-to
remain calm and focused. She had her heavenly favor,
and God expected her best effort to make it happen.
One shouldn't look lightly on the Lord's grace. Besides,
God helped those who helped themselves.
She untangled herself from Chuck's embrace, and
they climbed onto the stools. A waitress approached,
balancing sodas and a steamy coffee. Mona didn't
bother to look at the menu. "Chinese chicken salad and
a side of plain toast."
Liza also ordered her regular-double-bacon cheeseburger
and curly fries. Mona shook her head. It wasn't
fair. Liza had legs that reached to her chin. The woman
didn't know what it was like to just look at a Twinkie
and see it appear on your thighs. Mona monitored her
every bite with precision. She couldn't afford to buy new
clothes. But she and Liza had been roommates for nearly
a decade, and Mona had learned to live with the envy.
"I brought the layout and some pictures." Chuck
hauled up a vinyl briefcase dated from the seventies.
"Now don't get discouraged. It has potential. You just
need eyes to see it."
Continues.
