Anywhere You Are

Anywhere You Are
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Loveswept Ebook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Elisabeth Barrett

Excerpt from
My Song for You
by Stina Lindenblatt copyright © 2016 by Stina Lindenblatt

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

L
OVESWEPT
is a registered trademark and the
LOVESWEPT
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

ebook ISBN 9781101883259

Cover design: Diane Luger

Cover photograph: kak2s/Shutterstock

randomhousebooks.com

v4.1

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Without stopping on the nature preserve's dirt hiking trail, Marcus Colby removed his glasses and wiped them with a monogrammed cloth designed specifically for that purpose. When the lenses were spotless, he carefully placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and peered through the trees.

His eyes hadn't deceived him. Just across the way, a lone woman sat in the middle of a wooden boardwalk that stretched across the marsh.

Marc took in her slim shoulders, the mass of dark, wavy hair that spilled down her back almost to her waist, and her colorful, voluminous skirt, which trailed over the sides of the boards. Moving closer, he spied a thermos and notepad by her feet and a pair of sunglasses perched atop her head.

But when he got to the edge of the boardwalk, he stopped. She was muttering to herself, something about trees and color and light and screwing up.

Mmm
…not good.

He didn't do quirky. He didn't do cute. And he
definitely
didn't do crazy, especially not today, when his sole reason in coming to these woods directly from the airport was to honor his late aunt Sarah.

His aunt had been so vibrant and full of vigor…until three weeks ago on a Tuesday, when just prior to lunch, she'd taken her Great Dane for his late-morning walk in the meadow near her Eastbridge home. An hour later, the dog had come back.

Aunt Sarah had not.

Her doctors had informed him that a massive stroke had taken her almost instantly, which meant she hadn't been in much pain, a small mercy.

But it was wrong—all wrong.

Aunt Sarah was supposed to live to be a hundred, not seventy-four, which, in his opinion, was way too young to die.

There also was the not-so-insignificant fact that he'd loved her. Deeply.

The woman was still there, so the way Marc saw it, he had two choices: either turn around before the crazy lady saw him or go forward. He had plenty of time before the start of his afternoon meeting to take a different route, but this was Aunt Sarah's favorite trail, and a kooky hiker blocking the way was not enough reason to deter him.

Marc stepped onto the boardwalk, the woman's words now distinct in the damp air.

“I missed the nuthatch
and
the finch,” she was saying. “Next time I go on a hike, I'm going to make sure my shoes are tied and I'll stop walking before I start sketching and I'm going to bring water, not alcohol. I swear. No mimosas. But wine, maybe, for after. No, scratch that. No wine. I'm going to give up wine, at least for…for a month.” A pause. “Or maybe a week.”

Crazy, all right.
Though her slight British accent was damned sexy.

Deliberately, he stepped hard and the board under his foot creaked. The woman twisted around fast, and he found that although he'd had the advantage in seeing her first, he wasn't prepared.

Because the crazy woman was utterly beautiful.

She had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a lush mouth, punctuated by a small pointed chin. And those eyes—God, those eyes.

Huge. Almond-shaped and emerald green, with long eyelashes.

She raked her gaze over his form, undoubtedly taking in his staid glasses, his tailored suit, and his oxfords.

“Whoa,” she finally breathed.

His thoughts exactly.

Long, silvery earrings dangled from her earlobes, tinkling a little as she tilted her head to stare at him some more. Tiny metal bracelets clinked on her wrists—artsy. Bohemian. A little wild. The kind of woman who'd eat too much, drink too much,
live
too much.

Absolutely not his type. And yet, there was something about her. Something warm and inviting and…
no.

Remember what happened with Kiera?

Trouble.

And like a fool, he'd walked right into it again.

It was too late to retreat now, so he gave her a short nod. “Hello,” he said, a bit curtly.

All at once, she blinked, snatched her sunglasses off her head, and jammed them onto her face, covering up those stunning eyes. Quickly, she glanced around, as if confirming he was there alone.

After a moment, she looked back up at him. “Hullo,” she responded, a bit warily.

“Are you lost?”

“Are you?” she immediately retorted.

“No,” he said. “And you didn't answer my question.”

“I'm not,” she told him. “But I thought
you
might be.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you're hiking in a suit.”

Biting back the urge to say something about
her
choice of hiking attire, he simply gave her a shrug and a tight smile. “We've established that neither of us is lost, so I'll just be on my way. Mind if I pass?”

“Oh, sure.” She waved her hand in a circular motion, a mockery of a royal wave. “Carry on.”

“I can't,” he said, giving her a pointed look. “You're blocking the path.” At its widest, the boardwalk was about two and a half feet across, but he risked stepping on her skirt or falling into the marsh if he tried to edge past her and her gear.

“Right.” But when she swept her skirt back and shifted to make room, a wince crossed her expressive face.

Self-preservation warred with duty.

Do not engage do not engage do not engage.

“Are you hurt?” he found himself saying.
Damn it.

“No,” she immediately replied. Then gave a deep sigh. “Yes.”

Crazy
and
indecisive. Just what he needed today, but he'd already made his bed. Time to lie in it.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you a doctor?” she shot back.

“Do you always answer questions with questions?” he asked, his patience fraying.

That elicited a little smile. “Most of the time.”

Marc sighed. “Fine,” he replied. “I'm not a doctor. But I do know basic first aid.”

She pushed her sunglasses down her nose and regarded him carefully, as if weighing his worth. And then she reached down an elegant hand to her bare foot. Her gaze intent upon his, she slowly, deliberately slid her skirt up her leg, like she was letting him in on a dirty little secret.

He found himself holding his breath, waiting…wanting…forcing himself to keep his eyes on her face.

Only when her gaze dropped did he let his follow suit.

Jesus, it's bad.

“You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?” he said, stepping forward and kneeling down next to her to get a better look at the damage.

There was no blood, thank God, but her knee was red, angry, and swollen to the size of a softball. Her ankle looked even worse.

“May I?” he asked, reaching out his hand.

She nodded for him to go ahead, and he felt a surge of relief. And strangely, of satisfaction. Ignoring that, he focused on the task at hand.

The woman took a swift intake of breath when his fingers touched the soft skin of her foot, then relaxed under his touch as he probed the unhurt flesh. He moved to her ankle and she let out a little gasp, but she was silent until his hands felt all the way up to her knee, when she winced again.

“How did it happen?”

“I tripped,” she said, her voice rueful. “New shoes. I'm not usually this clumsy.”

Now
that
he could believe. The way she moved, the way she breathed—hell, even the way she talked—was all liquid fluidity and smooth sensuality. And everything, from the way she gazed up at him through those long lashes to the way she tilted her head, indicated she knew
exactly
what she was doing and the effect she had on him. Calculated typically meant intelligent. Marc liked intelligence.

What he didn't like was crazy. Or losing control.

He pulled her skirt back down and cleared his throat, all business. “I don't think you've broken anything, because in my experience, a break usually elicits near-immediate purplish-bluish bruising, but an X-ray can rule that out. My best guess is that you're torn and bruised, but you'll need to get checked out by a doctor. Have you tried putting any pressure on the leg?”

“Yes,” she told him. “It was a no-go.”

He scanned the marsh area for sticks, wood, anything that he could use as a splint on the off chance that something was broken. The pickings were slim, so he sat back on his heels and eyed her. It was hard to tell how big she was underneath the fabric of her skirt and blouse, but she seemed pretty small. And he was in decent shape from his thrice-weekly squash games at the Yale Club.

“I think the best option is for me to carry you out.”

Her eyes went wide, but she quickly composed herself. “No, thanks,” she said. “I'm here with friends.”

“Really?” he said, making a deliberate show of looking around the silent woods. “Where are they?”

“They went on ahead, but they'll be back and—”

“Let me get this straight,” he interrupted. “You were hiking with friends, but they purposefully left you here hurt and immobile?” He couldn't hide the disbelief in his voice.

“Of course not,” she said swiftly. “I insisted that they go. Anyway, I'm okay.”

“Uh-huh. And are these friends of yours going to be able to get you back to civilization?”

She pressed her lips together tightly, giving him all the answer he needed.
No.

That settled things. “I'm taking you to the hospital,” he said crisply.

“No way,” she said. “For all I know, you could be a serial killer or a sociopath.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “All this boy scout stuff could be an act.”

“Eagle Scout.”

She blinked. “I'm sorry, what?”

“I'm an Eagle Scout,” he informed her. “I took the oath right before my seventeenth birthday.”

“Sure,”
she said, arching her eyebrows. “A likely story.”

God, she was making him nuts. Here he was, trying to effect a rescue, and she was having none of it. He was used to people doing what he asked without question, not fighting him every step of the way.

Except he couldn't just leave her here. That would be against his moral code, not to mention ungentlemanly, no matter the challenging circumstances.

Deliberately, he softened his stance and unclenched his jaw.

“I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Marcus Colby,” he said. “Marc, to my friends.” He removed a silver case from his trouser pocket, pulled out a small piece of paper, and handed it to her. “My card.”

He paused while she scanned the thick card stock with the engraved lettering and the Park Avenue address.

“I'm in real estate,” he continued. “In fact, I'm investing in a local property—the Briarwood Golf and Yacht Club in Eastbridge. Have you heard of it?” Her face was blank, so he went on. “It doesn't matter,” he said. “As you might guess, I'm safe. In fact, I'm quite boring.”

Her gaze flicked up to his. “No way.”

“No way what?”

“No way are you boring.”

Marc frowned. No one had ever objected to that descriptor before. In fact, his last girlfriend—an icy brunette beauty—had actually thrown those very words in his face as she'd walked out the door for the final time, along with the words
rigid,
stiff,
and
work-obsessed.

He hadn't been particularly broken up about her leaving. Quite honestly, his heart hadn't truly been in their relationship in the first place.

In point of fact, his heart hadn't been in much of anything lately, except work.

He shoved away those memories and glanced at his watch again. “I should go. I've got an afternoon appointment I can't miss.”

“So go,” she said, pushing her sunglasses back up her nose. “I'll be fine.”

So she was back to
that
again. Either she truly didn't want help or…wait a second…was she smiling? She was! A secret smile she thought he didn't see.

She was playing some sort of game with him, but he wasn't about to let her manipulate him. And she clearly didn't know it, but when he chose to play, he played to win.

“What if your friends don't come back?” he said slyly.

“They're coming back.”

“Even if they do,” he reasoned, “you've admitted they may not be able to get you out of here, and you clearly need medical assistance.” He paused, playing on a hunch. “If you don't want my help, I'll just call 911.” He pulled out his cellphone and poised his finger over the screen.

“No!” This, said with the utmost vehemence.

Got you.

“I see that option is not appealing,” he said coolly, tucking his phone back in his pocket. There was no service this deep in the woods, but she didn't need to know that. “Then since I'm on a schedule, I suggest we do the most expeditious thing and have me carry you out of here and take you directly to Norwalk Hospital.”

She sighed deeply and he knew he'd won. “Fine,” she said, “but I need to leave my friends a note.” She scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper in her sketchbook, then ripped it out and stuck it underneath her thermos. “There.” She jammed her shoes and her sketchbook into her satchel, held it out, and immediately snatched it back when she laid eyes on him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my tie so you don't accidently choke me when I pick you up,” he said calmly, sliding the silk off his neck, carefully folding it and placing it in his jacket pocket. “We've already established that I'm safe.”

“
You've
established that you're safe,” she muttered.

“And you've established that you're stuck here,” he said, holding out his hand. “The bag, please.”

“Oh, all right.” She relinquished it with another heavy sigh, and as Marcus slipped the satchel over his shoulder, he realized he'd negotiated billion-dollar real estate deals that were less complicated than getting this woman out of these woods.