Love Letters, Inc. (20 page)

Before her brain hazed to a fog, a vision of love letters, Gardenia, and the "fun" to come merged in her mind. The man of her dreams was in her arms—forever. She sighed deeply, closed her eyes, and behind his broad, strong back did a thumbs up.
I owe you, Mae.

The End

Page forward for a note from EC Sheedy

followed by excerpts from her popular titles

Dear Reader,

Thank you for buying and reading this story. I loved re-writing and expanding Rosie and Kent's romance. I sincerely hope you enjoyed
Love Letters, Inc.
, and if you did, that you'll watch for my other titles

Now available:

One Tough Cookie
, a contemporary romance set on Spain's magical Costa del Sol and featuring Willow, a heroine resolutely determined to be financially, emotionally, and physically independent. She wants no man—until she meets Taylor Monroe.

Overkill
, a short romantic thriller, and the first in a series of novelettes featuring the covert Raven Force, a privately funded organization working internationally against the illegal arms/drug trade. Ravens cross borders to get the job done, when no one else can.

In
Overkill
Tanner Cross is called home from the Congo with orders to kill his boss. And as if those orders aren't insane enough, that boss is the father of the woman Tanner has loved—on the QT—for a dozen years.

Thanks for reading me! That you have taken the time to read my stories is appreciated more than I can say.

Happy Reading!

EC Sheedy

Website:
www.ecsheedy.com

Twitter:
@EC_Sheedy

email:
[email protected]

~

Page forward for an excerpt from EC Sheedy's

One Tough Cookie

Excerpt from

One Tough Cookie

by

EC Sheedy as Carole Dean

Chapter 1

Taylor looked at the number on the door for the third time. Eight. Right number.
Wrong key?
He sure as hell hoped not.

He tried again and the lock gave. He was in.

Dropping his luggage, he pocketed the key and groped blindly for a light switch. To the right? Wrong. To the left and not working.

"Figures," he muttered, before starting across the dark room—carefully. Unless Danny boy had changed his ways, the room was a minefield of sneakers, clothes, camera equipment, and pizza boxes.

"Damn!" The coffee table shin kicked him just as he found a small lamp.

He turned on the lamp and looked around. One quick scan told him he was in the right place. Clutter City. Only Daniel Monroe would live like this.

Distinctive, eclectic, he would say.

Taylor would say a bloody mess.

It had taken him two years to find and refurbish his own West Side apartment in New York. This run-down second-floor condo on Spain's Costa del Sol wasn't for him. No way.

He coughed, then swallowed to ease his dry, scratchy throat. He needed a drink. On route to the tiny kitchen, he sidestepped a broken tripod and switched on another lamp. The fridge yielded beer, bottled water, some suspicious-looking milk, and something labeled
jugo de naranja.
The words meant nothing to him, but the color said orange juice. He took a swallow and gasped.

The damn stuff burned like a lye cocktail. Massaging his throat with his free hand, he traded the juice for water. Water in hand he headed for the scruffy sofa. He sat down heavily, loosened his tie, and took a good look around the room.

What a dump!

Even if you could ignore its inglorious state of disrepair, the place wasn't big enough to swing a kitten. But that hadn't deterred Dan from filling every inch of it with—Taylor tried to think of a description—stuff. He knew most of it, miscellaneous jugs, bottles, tiles, and—he picked up a piece of fabric resting on the littered coffee table—black lace would be represented in the dozens of unframed photographs on the wall. He shook his head at the chaos. That Danny traded a potential partnership in a successful business for this was a mystery to him.

Well, Dan, it's adios, Espana for you. You're coming home if I have to drag you. You're too much like dear old Dad for your own good.

Their father… dreamer, occasional cab driver, and general all-round do-little, maker of big plans and even bigger disappointments. Following his star, he called it. Trouble was the damn star was always over the next hill, in the next town. And while he chased it, their mother supported two sons by pushing a laundry wagon down an endless labyrinth of hospital corridors. Taylor loathed the idea his younger brother had inherited their father's instability—his wanderlust.

His gaze fell on the photographs covering the walls. Dan's photographs. They were damn good, sure, but a thousand of them wouldn't buy a hamburger let alone pay the rent. It was responsibility time and past time for Dan to come home. He was twenty-five years old. There was a position open for him in the company, and he was going to take it if Taylor had to haul him back in chains.

He glanced at his watch. Almost one a.m.

Letting his head fall back against the sofa, he closed his eyes. His damned throat felt like an acupuncture test site. Just your luck, Monroe, your first trip to sunny Spain, and you bring a New York cold. Not that it mattered. This wasn't exactly a vacation. As soon as he got Dan right side up, he'd be on the next flight stateside.

He stood up, rotated his cramped shoulders, and stretched. The weariness in his bones held fast. He was beat and, for the first time, glad Dan hadn't been there to meet him.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to hear his impractical, romanticized arguments. Right now he needed sleep, long, deep, dreamless, and uninterrupted. That would do it.

* * *

Willy pulled the hat further down her scowling brow and turned the key. Again.

"Come on you rusty, corroded excuse for a lock." But her muttering and cajoling had no effect.

Damn Dan Monroe anyway. Why didn't he get the lock fixed? Willy was dirty, tired and frustrated. Leaving the car on the other side of Marbella and hitchhiking the last few miles to Puerto Banus in the rain hadn't been in the plan. Bloody car. But buying a new one wasn't in the plan either, not unless this arrangement with Dan worked out.

When the lock finally gave, Willy shoved open the door with a strong shoulder and stepped in. The room was as dark as the bowels of a coal mine. She left her baseball cap on, dropped her backpack to the floor with a grateful sigh, then flexed her tired muscles.

No stranger to Dan's apartment, she headed directly for the sofa without turning on the light, kicking off her shoes and dropping her jacket along the way.

When she stubbed her big toe on the leg of the coffee table, her throaty, creative Spanish curse nearly illuminated the room. She hopped and grimaced the next few steps to the sofa.

She rubbed her injured toe for a minute before closing her eyes and resting her head on the sofa back.

I'll just relax here a minute, then hit the bed.
A moment later she slid down to stretch out on the sofa. The moment after that she was dead gone, face down on a hard beaded pillow.

* * *

Taylor woke coughing and sat up in bed. Massaging the back of his neck—it felt as if it had a poker in it—he glanced at the digital bedside clock: 4:11.

Disoriented, he squinted at the smaller letters. A.M. He groaned, rolled his head, and coughed again, tried to ease his tight throat. He felt like shit. Whatever this bug was, it was no common cold. His body was one giant ache. He was burning up and felt as if he'd swallowed a golf ball, along with a dozen tees.

He swung around and put his feet on the cold floor.

Aspirin, he needed aspirin. Ignoring his nakedness, he stood up. Struck by a wave of dizziness, he stumbled toward the bathroom. Once there, he turned on the light and rifled through the medicine cabinet over the sink. Shaving gear, condoms, and vitamins. Not an aspirin in sight.

Seized by a sudden chill, he grabbed the robe hanging on the back of the door. It was worn thin and too small for his large frame, but he put it on anyway. The kitchen. Maybe Dan kept the aspirin in the kitchen.

One step out of the bathroom, he stopped.

Someone was stretched out on the sofa, a long, lean someone wearing a baseball cap. And by the look of things, he'd made himself damn comfortable. Taylor cursed. Probably one of Danny's down-on-his-luck, squatter friends. There'd been a stream of them while Dan was living with him in New York. He'd tolerated it then, he didn't intend to now. He was in no mood for company. Period.

He shook the intruder's shoulder—none too gently.

He expected a sleepy grumble.