Blaze of Winter: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance (43 page)

“In fact, Mother wants to know if she can get a copy of the photo,” Sam continued. “She thought it might be
a nice keepsake for Deana, something to remember her grandfather by. I’ll pay you.” He reached for his wallet.

Callie bristled. “I’ll be happy to send you a print, but payment isn’t necessary.”

“In that case, how about dinner?”

Callie’s breath caught in her throat until Sam added, “Mother’s doing up a pot roast Thursday night, and she said she’d love to have you.”

Callie slowly released her breath. She should have known better than to think, even for an instant, that Sam would ask her out on a date. “I don’t want to impose so soon after—”

“She wants you to come. She’s been cooking ever since … that day, even though the fridge is full of food the neighbors and friends have brought. She says cooking keeps her mind off things.”

And a table full of family and guests probably disguised the fact that a certain chair was empty, Callie couldn’t help thinking. She had fond memories of all those dinners she’d eaten at the Sangers’ house. Johnny had always sat to Sam’s immediate right during meals at the small kitchen table. And Sam had always complained—good-naturedly—because his father’s elbow was in Sam’s face as they ate. It was a standing joke.

Her heart suddenly filled with emotion at the bleak look on Sam’s face. He really was grieving, as Millicent had said. Sam had never been one to show his feelings, but in this instant, no matter how hard he tried to keep his sadness hidden, it flowed out of him.

She couldn’t seem to say no to him. She had no idea why Beverly Sanger would insist that Callie come to dinner, but she didn’t think it had been Sam’s idea.
“Will it bother you if I come?” she asked. “If you’d rather I stay away—”

“I’d like you to come. It’s the least I can do to make up for the things I said yesterday.”

“Then I’ll come. Can I bring anything besides the picture?”

He shook his head. “Mother’s always been real fond of you. I’m sure just having you around will be like a tonic for her.”

Sam’s pie arrived. He took a couple of bites without comment. Then, despite the fact that the Pie Pantry served the best homemade desserts in the county, he pushed his plate aside and scooted out of the booth.

“See you Thursday, around seven.” He donned his beige felt Stetson, pulled some money out of his jeans pocket, laid it on the table, and left without further comment.

Callie watched him go, admiring the fit of worn denim on his backside despite herself. He’d filled out some since she’d last seen him, exchanging his thin, wiry build for one that was still lean but well muscled.

“Lean and mean,” she murmured, knowing the phrase wasn’t accurate. Sam wasn’t the least bit mean, but he did know what he wanted out of life and he usually got it.

She could only hope he never decided he wanted her again. As teenagers they’d done their share of kissing and caressing, sometimes with their clothes more off than on. But Callie had been afraid to consummate their mutual desire. She’d thought they were too young, their future too uncertain. She’d worried about everything from her “reputation” to unplanned pregnancies. Sam,
though he’d been burning to make love to her, had respected her wishes.

But she’d always wondered.

As an adult woman, she wasn’t sure she would have the same qualms she’d had eight years ago. That was one temptation she hoped she never had to face.

Read on for an excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s

About Last Night

Chapter One

The Pigeon Man was usually here by now. Tuning out her companion’s self-serving story for a moment, Cath double-checked the LED display suspended over the station platform. Ten minutes until the train. In this woman’s company, it would feel like a lifetime.

Resigned to her fate, Cath crossed her legs and relaxed back against the bench. At least she could enjoy the unseasonably cool morning—the first break all week from the miserable July weather that had been tormenting London.

“…  and they told me it was the most brilliant way to add a tactile element to protest action they’d ever heard of. I happened to mention you wanted to put the piece in your exhibit, but they didn’t know who you are,” Amanda said, her prep-school English accent turning the statement into an accusation.

Cath perked up. “I’m with the V and A. They know the V and A, right?” She was a small cog, but she worked for a big machine. Surely even Amanda’s hard-core activist cronies had heard of the Victoria and Albert Museum’s world-renowned collection, even if they hadn’t heard of the upcoming exhibit on the history of hand knitting that Cath had been hired to assist with.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Amanda said dismissively, and Cath spotted the sun gleaming off the bald pate of the Pigeon Man as he made his way up the steps. He took his place in front of the map kiosk and fixed his eyes on the ground. Calm today, then. When he didn’t talk, the Pigeon Man could pass for normal. It was when he launched into agitated conversation with a stranger that he began thrusting his head forward in a bird-like manner and his beady eyes and beaky nose took on greater prominence.

He pulled a candy bar out of his pocket, and she remembered it was Friday. He was often late on Fridays, no doubt because he stopped at the newsstand to buy himself some end-of-the-week chocolate.

The thought caught her up short. Shit, did she really know the habits of the train station regulars that well? She did a quick survey of the sparsely populated platform. Emo Boy was wearing his favorite pair of skinny jeans this morning, and Princess had gotten her roots touched up.

Sadly, yes, she did.

“The next person who comes up the steps will be an older lady carrying a purse the size of a bus and a bakery bag with a croissant in it,” Cath said.

“What?”

“It’s a prediction.”

“You’re clairvoyant now?” Amanda asked, her pert nose in the air.

“Sure.” Cath was beginning to see how her pathetic store of knowledge might come in handy. “I know who’s coming up the stairs next, and I know you’re going to do the right thing and give me that straitjacket for the exhibit.”

Thinking of the exhibit reminded her that she and her boss, Judith, would be pawing through sweaters from storage this morning. Cath rummaged through her bag for her antihistamines, freed two from their hermetic blisters, and swallowed them with a sip of water. Curatorial work could be sneezy. She’d learned to arrive prepared.

As she slipped her water bottle back into her bag, Bus Purse came into view, right on schedule.

Amanda frowned and straightened up, trying to get a better view of the steps. “You can see down to the high street. That’s how you knew she was coming.”

“You’re closer than I am. Can you see down there?”

The frown deepened. “Well, you must be using a mirror or something. It’s not as if you’re capable of magic.”

“Wanna bet?” Cath answered, warming to the challenge.

Magic had never been her specialty, but she wanted that straitjacket. It had been featured in a widely covered protest demonstration Amanda and her buddies had staged outside the prime
minister’s residence a few years ago, and it would look fabulous on display, the perfect visual complement to the story the museum’s exhibit would tell.

Unfortunately, Amanda had a stranglehold on the thing, and Cath had known her long enough to understand she got a kick out of stringing people along.

On the other hand, she was also competitive and narcissistic, which made her the sort of woman who rarely turned down a bet.

“How about this?” Cath asked. “If I correctly predict the next two people up those steps, you give me the jacket.” It was possible. Just. Greenwich was way out in Zone Four on the London transport map, far enough from the city center to avoid being a true commuter suburb. The station platform never got too crowded, even during rush hour. Most of the regulars for this particular train had already arrived. The question was, Who was missing?

Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “What do I get if you’re wrong?”

“I’ll stop bugging you about the straitjacket.”

This was a lie, but no lapsed Catholic from Chicago’s South Side was above lying for a good cause, and Cath considered her career a good cause.

Amanda leaned forward, all excitement now, and said, “Make it three and you’re on.”

The first one was easy. Cath heard the musical clang of the ticket machine dispensing change down at street level and knew it had to be the dog guy from the park, because he always took the 7:09 from Greenwich to Bank on Fridays, and he bought his single ticket from the vending machine with cash.

“Old guy in a fedora,” she said.

He came up the steps and made his way to the empty bench next to them.

Amanda inclined her head, acknowledging one down.

Next up was tricky. Normally, it would be the girl with the two-tone hair, but it was late summer, and people took vacations. The girl had been missing all week. Cath imagined her on a beach in Spain, soaking up the sun in a red bikini. What if she was back, though?

The booming laugh of Bill at the ticket window carried up the stairs. The Merry Widow,
then. Bill was a friendly guy, but he pulled out all the stops for the Widow.

“Redhead with three inches of cleavage,” Cath said.

The Merry Widow rose into view, proud bosom bobbing.

Amanda gave a low whistle of appreciation.

Cath glanced at the station’s clock and repressed a smile. She only needed one more to complete the hat trick, and you could set your watch by the next guy.

“Tall blond man in an expensive suit,
Financial Times
under his arm,” she said, then added, “Possibly a cyborg.”

Thirty seconds ticked by, and City rose into view, punctual as ever and way too good looking to be human.

Cath had a soft spot for City. From the moment she’d spotted him waiting for the train to Bank last winter, he’d intrigued her. She’d given him the nickname as a nod to his profession, because everything about him announced he worked in the City of London, the square-mile financial district at the center of the metropolis: the dignified wool overcoat and scarf he’d worn all winter, the shined shoes, the ever-present newspaper. Aristocratically remote, he was Prince Charming in a suit.

Amanda applauded, whether for her or for City, Cath couldn’t tell. She suppressed a triumphant grin and allowed herself a moment to watch him pass. He gave her his usual stiff nod, the greeting they’d long since settled on for their semi-regular encounters.

She’d never heard City talk or seen him crack a smile. He didn’t even fidget, just stood stoically in place until the train pulled up, then stared straight ahead once seated in the car. Cool as a cucumber and veddy, veddy English. At least, that’s how she imagined him when she wrote about him in her journal. She’d bet her next paltry paycheck he had a posh accent, an expensive education, and a boring job moving piles of money around. He was her polar opposite.

Still, she always kept an eye out for him. She saw City two or three mornings a week, either here or at Greenwich Park, where both of them liked to run. In motion, he was a beautiful thing, a Scandinavian god with flushed cheeks. She loved that flash of pink on his face—such an
endearing crack in his cool perfection. It made her want to muss his hair and tie his shoelaces together when he wasn’t looking, just to see what would happen.

And now he’d helped her win access to the piece she so badly wanted for the exhibit. You really had to love him.

“When can I pick that jacket up?” she asked Amanda, turning back to face her.

“Hmm?” Amanda was still staring at City. “Oh, right.” Her mouth tightened, her eyes growing cagey. “That was a good trick. How long have you been practicing?”

“First time,” she answered honestly. Far from impressive, her ability to predict who’d arrive next on the train platform was evidence of how sad her life had become. She was a people-watcher by nature, and now that she’d cleaned up her act, she had nothing better to do than make up stories about the strangers who shared her morning commute.

The saddest part was, she didn’t always take this train. If she’d run into Amanda while waiting for the 6:43 or the 7:43 instead of the 7:09, Cath still would have stood a good chance of pulling off the trick, predicting the arrival of an entirely different set of familiar strangers.

She didn’t have to tell Amanda that, though.

“You really want that jacket,” Amanda said. “It’s important to you.”

Cath stared at City’s broad shoulders beneath his suit coat and shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel.

Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever is
.

“We’re friends, right?” Amanda asked, throwing an arm across the back of the bench.

They weren’t friends. They’d had a handful of mutual acquaintances a few years ago. These days, Cath pantomimed familiarity when they ran into each other around Greenwich so that she could legitimately harass Amanda for the straitjacket.

Cath didn’t have any friends. She had a roommate who didn’t like her, a socially awkward boss who did, and an empty life that revolved around her job.

“Sure,” she said, because it was what she was supposed to say.

“And you need a favor.”

Just smile and nod, Talarico
.

She tamped down her temper, refrained from pointing out that she’d just won her favor fair and square, and did as her good sense instructed.

“We’ll do a trade.” Amanda grinned, a smile that announced,
This is the best idea anyone’s ever had
. “Eric and I are going to a concert tonight at a club with his cousin. He’s in town from Newcastle for the weekend. We could really use a fourth.”

A garbled announcement of the train’s approach came over the loudspeaker, and Cath kept her expression neutral as she stood and shouldered her bag.

Christ on a crutch. She’d walked into a blind date.

For any normal woman, this wouldn’t be a problem. No one wanted to be set up with some random warm body from Newcastle, of course, but spending an evening being hit on, ignored, or bored out of her skull ought to have been a fair exchange for getting her way.