Читать книгу: «The Accidental Bride»

Dear Reader,

I hope you will join me on a new adventure.

Our travel will take us to fog-swept coves. To the magic of a special town and special people. On Summer Island’s quiet streets friendship runs deep, and the love of a good yarn runs even deeper.

One by one old friends will be pulled back home to the rugged Oregon coast. One by one dreams will be lost—and then found. As the seasons change, each friend will face secrets and betrayals, along with the healing gift of love.

Please join me on this journey home.

With warmest wishes,

Christina

Also available from Christina Skye

Summer Island A HOME BY THE SEA THE KNITTING DIARIES

Code Name CODE NAME: BIKINI CODE NAME: BLONDIE CODE NAME: BABY

Draycott Abbey TO CATCH A THIEF DRAYCOTT ETERNAL DRAYCOTT EVERLASTING BOUND BY DREAMS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thank you for joining Jilly and Walker on their journey. Strong and stubborn, these two have surprised me at every turn. Somewhere along the path of writing, they claimed a spot among my very favorite characters. (Even though they made me tear at my hair!)

And Winslow …

No words needed there.

He carries his own kind of magic and courage.

I hope that Summer Island continues to touch you as it has touched me, beginning with my story in The Knitting Diaries and again in A Home by the Sea. In those fog-swept coves and quiet streets friendship runs deep.

For readers in search of a detailed look at the inspiration for Jilly’s amazing desserts, try Bittersweet, by Alice Medrich (New York: Artisan, 2003). Decadent and delightful, the book is rich with baking secrets and chocolate lore. For a second helping of dessert, enjoy Sherry Yard’s The Secrets of Baking (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2003), a master course for all adventurous cooks.

And if you want up-to-date recipes right from Jilly’s kitchen, visit my website. I’ll be offering new recipes regularly.

To learn more about service dogs in action, track down US Army Field Manual 3-19.17 Military Working Dogs (2005), a basic resource about training, protection and utilization in combat.

If you are intrigued by the gentle movements that Jilly used on Walker, I highly recommend the tissue techniques developed by Tom Bowen. Or email me at my website (www.christinaskye.com) for more information. The Bowen system has a truly impressive record of success. While you’re at my website, have a look around. And drop by frequently for new book updates, free knitting patterns and contest news.

Meanwhile, a new Summer Island book is already heading your way. As summer sunlight fades into winter storms, Olivia will find her world shattered by lies. And when she least expects a gift, she will stumble into a man who holds the healing touch of love.

For her nothing will ever be the same.

I’ll be watching for you down at the cove.

With warmest wishes,

Christina

The Accidental Bride

Christina Skye

www.mirabooks.co.uk

A warm thank-you to all my friends at Tuesday-night knitting for good patterns, good cheer and great inspiration.

Thank you to Celia and Caroline— world-class knitters and friends. Fiber days rule!

Another big round of thanks for Peggy and Victoria. You are the best. I couldn’t have typed The End without you!

A deep and hearty thank-you to Phyllis at Barnes & Noble in Goodyear, Arizona. You rock! As always, you are the queen of booksellers!

And finally, my heartfelt appreciation to Debbie Macomber, wonderful author, wonderful friend. Thank you for all your kindness and laughter. And thanks for that amazingly clever wedding twist!

PROLOGUE

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL wedding.

The groom got sick. The bride overslept. The best man was a dog.

And the day had barely begun.

The anxious bride peeked out the door at the back of the crowded chapel, watching more and more people cram the pews. Everything had happened so fast over the past week. It was still hard to imagine how much had changed.

Right now all she wanted was to have the ceremony over. She wasn’t used to wearing makeup, and she never fiddled with her hair, but the wedding consultant had taken her job seriously.

Jilly O’Hara was stunned to see her image in the mirror, a tall, serene vision of elegance in a long white silk gown. A cream satin sash framed her slim waist, accentuating her height, and a single satin orchid gleamed in her upswept hair.

She could barely recognize herself. None of her friends would have known her, that was for sure.

A few stragglers were being seated, to the backdrop of restless coughing. Standing at the back of the chapel, Jilly’s friend Jonathan made a discreet gesture and smiled as the bridegroom came to stand at the front of the crowd. The groom’s big brown dog sat nearby, alert and perfectly behaved, a vision of canine elegance in his red bandanna.

The organ music swelled. Jilly took a deep breath as the instantly familiar strains of the Wedding March filled the chapel.

She stared down the long aisle, wondering how everything had happened so fast since she came to Wyoming. Marriage was the last thing she had planned for herself. Down the aisle Jilly saw her groom, lean and a little dangerous in a severely cut black suit that looked very expensive.

“Are you ready?” Jonathan stood smiling at the door.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Explain to me again why I agreed to this,” she murmured.

Jonathan took her arm. “You’ll be fine. By the way, you look gorgeous. Seriously, I wouldn’t have recognized you under all that makeup and puffy hair.”

“Gee, thanks. I think.”

As they walked outside, Jilly focused on not falling in the strappy evening sandals that the bridal expert had insisted she wear.

Every face turned. The music swelled. The big room seemed to blur as Jilly’s cool, thoughtful groom smiled at her from the altar.

CHAPTER ONE

Arizona

One month earlier

THE RESTAURANT KITCHEN was a scene right out of World War III. Pots churned, grills smoked and a dozen harried workers danced to avoid each other. It was cramped, hot and noisy—one step away from chaos.

And Jilly O’Hara couldn’t have been happier.

She presided over the hot, noisy room like a choreographer, watching for problems and juggling advice along with her orders. Running a restaurant had always been her dream and her passion, and after years of work, Jilly had her own baby.

Since the first week it had opened, Jilly’s Place had been a stellar success. Sometimes Jilly hated how successful her restaurant had become. The social end of the job gave her a headache, and shmoozing with customers was a nightmare. As soon as she could, she ducked back into the crowded kitchen to create magic.

Only here did she feel fully alive. With her wavy black hair tucked behind a bandanna, the rail-slim chef juggled a smoked asparagus risotto and two orders of grilled potatoes with salsa verde. Beside her on the counter, smoky-rich tortilla soup steamed next to a wedge of wood-grilled salmon. The flavors teased and tantalized, every color snapping with southwestern energy.

Another meal done, Jilly flipped a fresh towel over her shoulder and then attacked the next order. One of the kitchen crew caught her eye. Smiling, he poured a thermal cup of coffee and slid it toward her over the counter.

“Caffeine break. After all, you’ve only had three tonight,” he said, well aware of Jilly’s particular vice.

“Lifesaver.” Jilly took a long drink, savoring the caffeine.

They were crazy crowded tonight, but that was normal. At the kitchen door, her front desk manager signaled his pleasure at the crowd with a big thumbs-up, then vanished back outside to deal with the reservations desk.

The Saturday-night pace was sheer pandemonium, but Jilly was used to that. She thrived on the jagged edge of chaotic energy. Even on her days off, she made it a point to check out new restaurants or help in the kitchen of a friend, working the line with manic energy. And why not? She loved to cook.

She didn’t do vacations, and time off was for wimps.

Jilly finished her coffee and scanned the next set of dinner orders. Tugging on Kevlar mitts, she leaned down to grab an eggplant pizza from the wood-burning oven. She had just removed the mitts when the pain hit her.

Jilly looked up blindly at the ceiling, struggling to breathe.

No one in the busy kitchen noticed her shaking or her short, strangled breaths. No one helped her when she leaned forward to grip the counter.

Blindly, she stared at her white hands. No ring. No husband. No kids. Just a pile of debts from her years in cooking school.

A fresh wave of pain struck. Jilly whimpered, clutching at the long granite counter.

A pot was boiling over on the big 8-burner Wolf stove. The foam seemed to rise in slow motion. Bubbling and hissing, it exploded over the copper rim, down into the steel prongs of the burner.

Burn.

Burning.

Her throat and chest on fire, fear striking her like a mallet, Jilly slowly bent double and whimpered.

Her legs gave way. With a ragged cry she fell forward onto the cold tile floor.

CHAPTER TWO

THE EMERGENCY ROOM doctor was talking to her, but Jilly couldn’t make out what he was saying. His lips moved but no sounds seemed to come out.

She squinted at him and tried to focus.

“More tests. But we think it was your heart.”

Excuse me? Jilly’s mind raced. Her heart? What about her heart?

Lights flashed on the machines that crowded the small white room. She had collapsed in the kitchen. She remembered that part.

Then something about an ambulance …

She closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. A little pain in her chest. Okay, nausea. Lots of nausea.

What was going on? She was only twenty-blipping-seven. She hadn’t smoked more than three times in her life. Once when the town bad boy talked her into sharing a Marlboro behind the old post office. Once after her junior year prom, which she watched dateless and bored from the high school bleachers. And the last time, to celebrate her admission to cooking school in Arizona.

Six bleeping years ago.

So how was anything wrong with her heart?

“Symptoms are consistent … still need detailed results of EKG, angiogram. More tests of your heart enzymes … Hospitalized until then.”

Hospitalized?

Jilly stared at the white walls while the words rained down, sharp and cold.

Rest? More blood tests? No way. She didn’t have time to be sick. She had a restaurant to run and debts to repay.

She looked down at her arm stretched out on the white bed. They were good arms. Good muscles. She could whip a chocolate mousse by hand almost as fast as a mixer could. She could swirl perfect frosted flowers over a white chocolate cake and mince a tomato as finely as any machine.

And Jilly loved that work. Every minute she spent cooking was a joy in her life.

But her hands showed another story, too. Jilly saw a sprinkling of fine silver scars from mishaps in crowded kitchens on busy nights. She had always felt proud of those marks as signs of her experience.

Her nails were short. Always clean and unpolished. She was strictly no frills and always had been. Her no-frills life kept her lean and fast, ready to catch that next wave and race on to meet her dream. Right now that dream was to create a natural-food empire by the time she was thirty-five.

Her scarred hands twisted with a tremor of pain and loss. What would happen to her dreams now? She listened to the machines hiss and whisper a warning.

A heart attack at twenty-seven. Why her?

She closed her eyes. More words bounced past.

“Possible malformation … MRI. Then exploratory catheterization.”

All bad things.

Jilly’s mind stuttered and then shut down, paralyzed by the weight of her fear. Only once had she felt this overwhelmed and vulnerable. That had been years ago, on the day she found out her mother had left her in a cardboard box on the steps outside the local fire station at the grand, strapping age of two months.

But she had survived the news. After the crushing pain had passed, Jilly had wiped away her tears and boxed up her mother along with the rest of her sad childhood memories. With fierce determination she had dug a dark hole and shoved them deep inside, where she would never have to think about them.

Because Jilly O’Hara had no time for tears or weakness or what might have been. She was too busy racing forward, creating her dreams.

“Ms. O’Hara, can you hear me? We’ll need your consent to proceed with the catheterization and other tests. I have the paperwork here.”

Jilly blinked and struggled to focus. “I—I’m tired. Maybe we can talk later. Sorry.” Her fingers clenched, and she thought of Caro and Grace and Olivia. Growing up together in the small coastal town of Summer Island off the Oregon coast, the four girls had been inseparable. For years her best friends had shared her dreams and she had shared theirs.

They had argued and nudged and supported.

Their circle of strength had kept Jilly going during the worst of times.

She desperately needed them now.

Summer Island

The Oregon Coast

“SHE STILL ISN’T ANSWERING her phone. Something’s wrong.”

Caro McNeal frowned at her silver watch. Her husband, a marine currently deployed in Afghanistan, had given her the slim silver design for her last birthday. Caro wondered where Gage was and what he was doing at that moment.

Was he in danger?

She tried to push her usual worries aside and focus on Jilly. “I’ve tried calling her half a dozen times, Grace. Why doesn’t she answer?”

Grace Lindstrom put down the sweater sleeve she had been knitting. “Jilly gets distracted. Produce. Ovens. Spatulas. Anything can take her into that alternate chef universe.”

“Not for this long.” Caro frowned at the phone. The women had been closest friends since they had met as girls. When one of them faced problems, all the others seemed to feel it. First Caro had come home to heal from an accident. Then Grace, a respected food writer, had returned to Summer Island after her grandfather had been hurt. “This is different.”

“Did you try texting Jilly?”

“Four times.” Caro looked out at the ocean. Seagulls cried as they circled a trawler anchored in Summer Island’s small cove. “Something’s wrong, Grace. I’ve been sending Jilly daily updates on the repairs here at Harbor House. Jilly was excited about coming back next week to work on a design for the new front porch. She sent me a gorgeous picture using local fieldstone and a rustic brushed grout. It was gorgeous, but …”

“But what?”

Caro blew out a breath. “I told her to send me more examples so I could work on pricing. Then I didn’t hear a thing. That was two days ago.” Caro shook her head. “Jilly wouldn’t drop out of sight like this. She wants to finish the work here just as much as we do.”

In a moment of insanity the women had decided to buy Summer Island’s oldest landmark and renovate it to its former glory. They had been nearly finished when an earthquake had damaged the roof, half the rooms and part of the foundation. After serious soul-searching, they had decided to start all over, crazy or not.

Grace rolled her knitting up slowly. “Where was she when you two last spoke?”

“Working at her restaurant. Where else?”

“Silly question. Okay, I’ll book a flight. I can be in Arizona before bedtime.” Grace stood up and stretched. “The idiot is probably off in a peach orchard taking soil samples, completely oblivious to the time. You’ll see.”

“But I thought you and Noah were going to spend this weekend together in San Francisco.” Caro studied her friend’s face. “You’ve been planning the trip for ages. Is something wrong?”

Caro watched her friend turn, looking south past the old dock, past the restless sea wall. Grace rolled her shoulders but didn’t answer.

“Grace? Tell me what happened.”

“He was called in to work,” Grace said slowly. “Another day, another emergency.”

“Can’t he get time off?”

“Apparently not. When you’re good, everyone wants a piece of you,” Grace said flatly. Then she forced a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll go on our trip. But it won’t be this week.”

Something was very wrong here, Caro thought. Grace was acting too cool and trying too hard to be convincing. This was more than a simple trip cancellation. “Are you okay about this, Grace? You were so excited when you told me you and Noah were going on this trip.”

Grace shrugged and then slid her knitting bag over her shoulder. “I’m almost used to the last-minute cancellations,” she muttered. “But I’d better go. I’ll call you when I get to Arizona.”

Clearly, she didn’t want to discuss her problems with Noah.

“You have the address for Jilly’s new restaurant, right? She just moved into that new building.”

“Got it.”

Neither woman questioned that Grace would go to Jilly’s restaurant and not her apartment. Chances were slim to nil that their driven friend would be anywhere but working. They would have to do something to correct that, Caro decided. “As soon as you hear something, let me know. I’m just sorry I can’t help more.”

“Let me handle the Barefoot Contessa.” Grace cleared her throat. “You’ve got plenty to do with this renovation. Not to mention the baby to care for.”

Caro was certain she heard a wistful note in her friend’s voice.

So Grace was thinking about a family. That was interesting, since she and Noah had only recently confided that they were engaged. No wedding date was set as far as Caro knew.

Caro hadn’t seen Noah since the spring and he’d only been in town for two days. He was supposed to be moving to a less demanding job, Grace had explained then. Something without constant emergency calls.

Given the cancelled weekend, that didn’t seem to be happening.

Caro still had no idea what Noah did, beyond it being difficult and very secret. But she knew that Grace worried terribly about him.

More problems to sort out.

Caro gave her friend a hug. “Say hello to Noah. Tell him I’m still waiting for the Ukrainian Welcome Bread recipe from his mother.”

“I’ll get it for you.” Grace slid her yarn and her knitting needles into her bag and forced a smile. “And stop worrying. I’ll call you as soon as I have any news.”

CHAPTER THREE

Scottsdale, Arizona

JILLY WATCHED THE PARKING LOT fill with silver Hummers and black Range Rovers. Only sports figures, celebrities and the very rich came to this private clinic in the high desert above the sprawl of Phoenix. Jilly had only gotten in thanks to one of her restaurant regulars. When Jilly hadn’t been at her usual spot, buzzing between the tables and the kitchen, he had learned about her collapse and arranged to have her transported. But she had received the same cold diagnosis here that she had received in the small emergency room near her restaurant.

Jilly closed her eyes.

Her heart.

Why now, when she was on the verge of a huge career leap? Her restaurant was booked out for weeks. She had plans for a cookbook, and she had just received two offers to buy her signature line of organic salsa, Jilly’s Naturals. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, everything had fallen apart on her.

No more sixteen-hour workdays, the cardiologist had warned.

Not even three-hour workdays until her tests were done.

She would need at least half a dozen procedures plus a battery of lab tests before the total picture was clear. Something was wrong with her heart, starting with an arrhythmia that triggered a counter beat when she was under stress.

But when wasn’t she under stress? Maybe during the first few minutes of waking, when her big white Samoyed puppy was curled up at her feet and she had the whole day ahead of her, with all its possibilities. Reality always swept in too soon, carrying in a flood of calls, emails and text messages.

Produce deliveries to inspect.

Employees to placate.

The magic of food had called to Jilly ever since she was twelve. Cooking was the only thing she had ever wanted to do, her first and only dream.

Her fingers opened, massaging her chest above the spot where her problematic heart waited to stammer and skip, sending her back into oblivion.

Did she have a family history of heart disease? Had any relative suffered a heart attack very young? The thoughtful cardiologist had quizzed her for twenty minutes. Were there parents or siblings with heart defects? Any relevant family incidents that she could remember?

Jilly’s fingers closed to a fist above her heart. What parents? What siblings? Her genetic profile was a total blank. She had been found red-faced and howling beneath a cheap blue flannel blanket in a packing box on the steps of the local fire station. Less than three months old, the Summer Island doctor had estimated. Healthy. No problems beyond a little dehydration. Just wrapped up and left behind, discarded like an old newspaper.

Jilly closed her eyes. So what if she was alone? In the end you were always alone. You couldn’t take anything or anyone with you when you died, and you couldn’t trust anyone with your deepest hopes and secrets while you lived.

You did it by yourself or it didn’t get done.

Now the future was in her hands. She had to change, and she would work on that. Yet how could she possibly replace the job she loved? Cooking had given her an anchor when nothing else could.

She didn’t hear the light tap at her door. She was too busy searching the bright corridor of dreams that had been her compass since she was old enough to understand what orphan, foundling and abandoned on the firehouse steps meant.

“You idiot.”

She jumped when she heard the familiar voice, rough with concern. Then her oldest friend’s strong hands slid around her and gripped tight.

“Why do you always have to do everything alone, stubborn as a rabid mule?”

It was a timeworn joke between the four friends. When I need help I’ll ask for it. It was Jilly’s oldest answer to any question. And of course she never asked.

She whispered the familiar words now, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“You should have called us! I could strangle you.” But Grace’s hoarse words were full of love and support, despite their anger. “What happened? Were you burned?”

Jilly took a raw breath. No way to lie. Not to your oldest friend. Not to Grace, whose face held worry and irritation and complete, unqualified love.

“It happened at dinner. It was right after the tortilla soup and the wood-grilled salmon. I had a beef tartare entrée coming up. The Wagyu beef was perfect, with little marblings that—”

“Forget the food. What happened, Jilly?”

“It was—like a fist at my chest. Nausea. Straining to breathe and dizziness. I lost it. Just plain lost it. The doctors say that … it’s my heart. There’s some kind of atrial valve malformation. And when you factor in the stress of my work, plus the physical demands and the long hours …”

“What’s the diagnosis?”

“They think—well, that it was a heart attack,” Jilly whispered.

“No way.” Grace sank down on the bed. “You’re too young for that.”

“Apparently I’m not.” Jilly took a deep breath. “No more busy Saturday nights at my restaurant. No more Jilly’s Naturals. No more mango tomatillo tamales with espresso chipotle sauce. What am I going to do now, Grace?”

“We’ll be here. All of us. Caro and Olivia and I. It’s going to be fine.”

“How can it be fine? All I’m good at is cooking.”

“Be quiet and listen to me.” Grace gripped Jilly’s shoulders. “You’ve got us and you’ve got the Harbor House. Just remember that. If there’s a way to make this work for you, we’ll think of it together. And if not … then we’ll find a new dream for you to catch and hold. It will be even better than the old ones.”

“But how will I—”

“Just trust someone for once, will you? I learned how to trust again, and so can you. Now tell me everything. Start with what happened in the restaurant and all your symptoms. I’m going to do some research. Then you can get another opinion.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Jilly said softly. Her shoulders slumped as she leaned against Grace. “I saw the X-ray with the shadow. I saw the first lab results. There’s no point in hoping—”

“There’s always a reason to hope. If you say that again, I’m going to deck you, Jilly O’Hara.”

Jilly forced a smile. “If you pull out my EKG monitor, I could expire right here. ‘Death by best friend!’ I can see the headlines in the Summer Island Herald now.” Jilly gave a shaky laugh as Grace handed her a tissue and an expensive chocolate bar. “I’m only supposed to eat what they bring me. Nothing else. Tomorrow there are more tests.”

“I checked with the nurse. One piece is okay. Now dry your eyes and eat. Then we’re going to make a plan of attack.”

“SHE LOOKED SO SAD, almost as if she was broken. I’ve never seen our Jilly look like that.” Grace sat stiffly in the hospital’s big lounge. Outside, purple clouds swept across the distant foothills. Lightning flashed and shimmered, as restless as Grace’s mood.

“I’ve never seen Jilly give up. She’s totally single-minded. Nothing stops her,” Caro said worriedly. Her voice came closer to the phone.

“This thing has. Her doctor says that she’s going to have to change her life 180 degrees or else. No more stress. No more crazy work schedule. Good food, rest and exercise along with medication. Maybe surgery.”

“Jilly doesn’t know how to relax.” Caro sighed, sounding tired. “She never has. This is all so terrible, Grace. I just wish I could be there with you. When can she leave?”

“Probably a week. But I’m staying here, so don’t worry. Meanwhile, we’re making a plan. Tomorrow I’ll talk to her cardiologist and then I’m going to get another opinion. But you need to rest, too, Caro. You sound exhausted.” Since Grace’s departure, all the Harbor House repair work had fallen on Caro. Grace hated leaving her friend in the lurch this way. “I’m fine. Things have been intense here, that’s all.”

“It’s that new contractor, isn’t it? Fire him, will you? You’re too kindhearted by a mile.”

“But he has three kids and a new baby on the way. And his mother used to work at the animal shelter. I can’t just—”

“You can and you damned well better, Caro. If you don’t, then I will. Now go get some sleep. The Harbor House will survive. I’ll text you as soon as I know more about Jilly. We’ll make this work out right. We always do, remember?”

“I remember.” Caro gave a sleepy yawn. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Count on it.” Grace frowned. As soon as she broke the connection, her optimism faded.

She wanted to be positive for Jilly. She wanted to believe in a sunny world full of possibilities. But how did you argue with X-rays and heart enzyme tests?

“STOP FIDGETING. READ one of those magazines.”

Jilly punched at her pillow. “I tried. They’re boring.”

“Then read that thriller I left you.”

“It’s stupid. Nobody does ridiculous things like that.” Jilly scowled. “I was rooting for the villain by page ten.”

“Jilly, I give up. You have to rest. The doctor told you that, remember?”

“I’m trying. It’s just not easy.” Jilly shifted restlessly. “Can’t you find me a good magazine? Cook’s Illustrated would be perfect. Or maybe Gourmet—”

“The doctor said no cooking. No more work obsession. You are supposed to relax.”

Jilly blew out an irritated breath. “How can I relax? My salsa line will be dead if I don’t get back to work. And my wholesale produce contact said—”

“Talk to the hand.” Glaring, Grace waved her hand in front of Jilly.

“But—”

“Rest. Otherwise I’ll bang you with that meat mallet I found in your purse.”

“Don’t knock the mallet, pal. I lock up really late at night and the parking lot is empty. That thing makes a great defensive weapon.”

Grace jumped as her cell phone chimed, forgotten in her pocket. It took her a moment to clear her tangled thoughts. “I’ll take this outside.”

“Sure. Go right ahead. I’ll just sit here and let my brain rot slowly.”

Grace shook her head as she walked outside. But when she glanced at her phone, she felt the instant wave of joy … and then the crushing worry.

It was Noah.

She scanned his text quickly.

Called Caro. Got an update. How’s the Salsa Diva doing?

Grace cradled the phone. Noah still caused a flutter at her chest, even after all these months. She hoped that would never go away.

Not so good. Waiting for more tests. It looks like her heart. She’s upset and so am I. I only wish that …

Grace left the sentence hanging and hit the send button. What was there to add? There were still too many questions to predict what would happen next.

Noah would understand. He had read her feelings almost from the first moment they had met. He was smart and decent and also the sexiest man she knew.

But sexy and decent didn’t help when his job kept him tied up 24/7. Lately Grace woke up at night in a cold sweat, seeing dark images of explosive death and shattered limbs. Though few people could be told, Noah was a bomb disposal expert and he was the very best. Because of his experience and thoroughness he had cheated death again and again.

Given how important his job was, Noah couldn’t turn and walk away. No matter the risk.

And because Grace knew how much the job meant to him, she wouldn’t ask him to. While they were perfect together, perfect equals and amazing lovers, a distance had begun to creep between them.