Dear Diary (33 page)

She was in the act of putting the car in gear, when she recognized the man on the porch. Tanner. He lived here still, or better yet, again? That, she hadn’t expected.

The Pathfinder revved in the summer stillness and Maggie drew a breath, shaking off the past. But for reasons unknown even to herself she didn’t pull away. Instead she cut the engine, pocketed the keys and stepped out into the deepening shadows.

Time ran backward. With strange expectancy she waited by the side of her car, feeling years slide away as Tanner looked up, saw her and began moving toward her with familiar, assured strides, the early moonlight flickering silver through his dark blond hair.

There was nowhere to run to now. She’d set this up, so she waited in frozen silence as he crossed the narrow street and stopped a few feet in front of her.

“Maggie?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Hello, Tanner,” she said in a conversational tone while her heart began beating a slow, painful cadence.

Following is an excerpt from the opening pages of IMAGINARY LOVER, the second book in the SUMMER LOVIN’ series duet.

Lake Chinook’s water rippled green and black beneath the rocky ledge. Candace McCall stared down at it and drew a long breath. What she wouldn’t give to dive into its murky depths and forget about her father’s party.

But that was wishful thinking. She glanced behind her at the island mansion, at the mullioned windows glowing mistily in the hot summer night. Music swelled around her, echoing across the lake, but all Candace could think was that she wanted to break down and cry.

She glanced at the paper held tightly in her right fist. Moonlight made it glow ghostly white. What bitter irony that she should receive both dreaded letters in the mail today. Closing her eyes, she tried to forget the words of this particular missive, but they were burned into her brain.

She moved sharply, her silver dress sparkling, her teardrop diamond earrings quivering. Glancing again at the paper in her hand, she was overwhelmed with sorrow.

I can’t go back,
she thought unhappily, then looked again at the restless water.

Connor Holt stopped short at the edge of the narrow torch-lit bridge and exhaled on a sound of disgust. Disgust at himself. He felt as if he’d stepped back fifteen years to a time in his life he’d rather forget. Chest tight, he jerked impatiently on his tie. Why did it seem he was always standing on one side, staring at the other?

And what in God’s name was he doing at Forsythe Island?

Suddenly he laughed aloud. He was out of his mind to even think about coming here tonight. The last thing he wanted to do was hobnob with lake people.

With a grimace he stepped onto the bridge, walking across in a half a dozen ground-devouring strides. The island itself was no more than three acres – a jagged rock thrusting through jade-colored water, capped by pruned hedges and riotous flowers. Toward the west end stood the Forsythe home, a bluestone mansion that sprawled over the rocky hillside. He could see Christmas lights blinking on and off behind the arched windowpanes.

Christmas lights. Only this wasn’t Christmas. It was the twenty-third of July, and the outside temperature was hovering in the eighties.

Shedding his jacket, Con tossed it over his shoulder. He wasn’t comfortable with lake people. He never had been. Yet he’d had to compete with them all his life.

His jaw hardened as he thought back. He’d grown up in a cottage on the outskirts of Lake Chinook. Run-down, with a sagging porch and a backyard that had gone to seed long before he’d been born, his home had been a far cry from the immaculate mansions that graced the lake. As a kid he’d wondered what it would be like to live in one of those homes, to have fancy cars and status and loads of money. Those fantasies had nearly become reality, and it had taken him a fast-lane career as a Los Angeles lawyer and a failed marriage to make him realize he wanted nothing to do with that kind of life. He was happy being plain old Connor Holt.

Hot and sweating, he stopped halfway up the hill. From an open window he could hear the strains of “Silver Bells” hanging in the night air. He shook his head. Christmas in July. Weren’t there enough holidays already without tacking on another one?

Determined to make the best of it, Con gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to go to the party, nor did he want to meet the man who was such an icon of the Portland social scene. Yet an invitation to one of Forsythe’s parties was not to be taken lightly; the other attorneys in his office had looked as though they would have given up a limb to be in his shoes.

Con moved purposely forward. What the hell. It was only for a few hours.

He chose a long way toward the house – up a row of carved stone steps that wrapped around one end of the island. He was on the farthest curve when he saw a flash of something bright and silver.

Con squinted. Sparkles of light glanced off a woman’s dress. She was standing at the edge of a rocky point above the water, one hand clutched tightly around a sheaf of papers. His breath caught. She was so still she could have been a statue.

Distantly he heard the lapping waves of the lake. The woman was staring fixedly down at the water. “My God,” he whispered in disbelief. She was going to jump. “
Hey!
Hey, you!” He was running toward her before he even realized he was moving.

Hearing him, she stiffened, savagely tearing up the papers she held in her hand, tossing them into the water. Before Con could reach her, she’d melted back into the shadows.

“Wait!” Con stopped short, his gaze searching the grounds for her. All he saw were the glittering bangles on her dress as she disappeared toward the back of the house.

He blinked. Felt off balance. Maybe she hadn’t intended to jump, after all.

Feeling foolish, Con shoved his hands in his pockets and continued on his trek to the house, his thoughts on the mysterious woman. There’d been something about her, some desperate quality that had made it seem as if she’d given up. Or was that just his imagination?

When the butler answered his knock, Con was enveloped in a cloud of music and song. He showed the gold-embossed invitation to the dark-suited man, who then nodded silently and beckoned him inside.
Good God,
Con thought, staring after him.
This is too much.

The air was heavy with exotic perfumes, and the women’s dresses floated before him like a moving rainbow, each more elegant than the last. Con felt as awkward as he had when, at seventeen, Tricia Wellesley had made fun of him in front of her spoiled, debutante friends.

Fleetingly he thought about putting on his coat and readjusting his tie, then decided he didn’t care enough to try to impress Joshua Forsythe. Instead he lifted a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray, saluted the waiter, tossed his jacket over a rose-colored divan and sauntered into the main room.

The Christmas tree was dazzling. A good twenty feet high, it took up one corner of the room and was covered with sparkling ornaments that shot prisms of colors around the room. Beneath it were stacks of lavishly wrapped gifts. He should have been impressed, he supposed, but all he could think about was that he was sweating.

He saw Joshua Forsythe standing at the bar, pouring drinks for the guests. He, too, had shed his coat, but instead of a plain white shirt like the one Con wore, his chest was decorated with red suspenders, one of which said Merry, the other, Christmas.

As if telepathic, Forsythe looked up and saw him at that instant. “Connor!” he boomed, beckoning him over.

Con saw heads swivel his way. They probably wondered what he was doing here as much as he did. Curiosity might’ve brought him to the Forsythe door, but nothing was going to convince him to stay. He would give his regards to Joshua Forsythe, then hightail it to some cool, secluded bistro in downtown Lake Chinook.

Forsythe signaled to the bartender to take over for him, then pushed his way toward Con and extended his hand. The man’s handshake was enough to break all the bones in Con’s hand, but Forsythe’s smile was warm. “Glad you could make it. It’s an annual event, y’know.”

“The party?”

“You bet. Comes around once a year.”

“Like Christmas?”

Forsythe laughed. “Well, Forsythe and Company has gained a reputation for its Christmas-in-July party. I’ve got an image to maintain.” He shrugged. “Need a drink?”

Con lifted his champagne glass to let him know he’d already taken care of that, then looked beyond him to stare at the steaming mug of hot buttered rum sitting on the bar.

“Not too many takers for those,” Forsythe admitted wryly, following his gaze. “Too hot. Come on. Let’s go find a quiet place to talk.”

“Here?” Con’s brows lifted.

“There’s always my den.”

His white-haired host held the door to the hall open, and Con was led away from the merrymakers. The air was slightly cooler here, and Con gratefully swept in a deep breath. Unlocking the room at the end, Forsythe motioned Con inside.

Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the entire south wall, and a massive desk reigned in the center of an enormous white and gray Aubusson carpet.

Only the best.

“You probably wondered why I sent you an invitation,” Forsythe began, perching on the edge of the desk and folding his arms over his chest.

“It had crossed my mind.”

Forsythe eyed him critically from head to toe. Con could just imagine what the man was thinking about his wrinkled shirt and loose tie. But then the man waved him toward a chair, and Con gingerly lowered himself into it.

Forsythe cleared his throat. “You work for Pozzer, Strikeberg and Carmen. A fine firm.”

“That’s right.”

“I was wondering if you would like to come work for me.”

Con had figured his invitation must have something to do with a job offer. What other interest could the man have in him? But Forsythe’s reasoning escaped him. “I’m not much of a corporate lawyer. I tend to go for more personal cases.”

“I know that. That’s precisely why I want you. Forsythe and Company has gotten too removed from the personal. We need someone with your talents on the staff.”

“Well, I’m pretty happy where I am.”

“Small potatoes for a man like you. Where’s your ambition? I don’t have to tell you what a move like this could do for your career.”

Conner eyed him steadily. He couldn’t decide whether he should be insulted or flattered. What Forsythe didn’t know was that Con had taken a good hard look at his own ambitions a while back and hadn’t liked what he’d seen. He’d made mistakes – too many to count – and he’d be damned if he would make the same ones again. He was fully satisfied being small potatoes.

A knock on the door prevented his answer. With a scowl, Forsythe demanded, “Who is it?”

The door opened a crack, and a man’s head appeared. “Ben Morrison, sir. Er… I think you should come out here. It’s your daughter.”

“She can take care of herself.”

“She’s been, uh, asking for you.”

The deference in the younger man’s tone made Con uncomfortable. Had he been like that once? Intimidated by the boss? Not in the same manner, he supposed, but there had been a time when he’d made certain the boss liked him. And then, of course, there had been Linda, the boss’s daughter, Con’s own ex-wife…

“Damn it all to hell. What’s she done now?” He waved the man away, then called after him, “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”

The man nodded deferentially as he left. Forsythe turned back to Con and said, “Morrison’s a good attorney, but he hasn’t got the element we’re talking about. You have.”

“I’m still not interested.”

“I’m not through persuading you yet. Stick around until I get back.”

“I’ll try.”

“No, never mind.” He changed his mind with a curt shake of his head. “We’ll meet for lunch on Monday. This party’s a damn fool place to conduct business. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you then.”

With that, he climbed decisively to his feet and left the room. Almost against his will, Con smiled. The old tyrant hadn’t even waited for a reply.

Standing, Con stretched and walked to the window. It was a relief to know he didn’t feel that pressure anymore – that need to fight his way to the top. As far as he was concerned, the Joshua Forsythes of the world overrated their importance.