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Irresistible Attraction: Scenes of Passion / Midnight Seduction / Beyond Control
Justine Davis
Suzanne Brockmann
Bronwyn Jameson
Scenes of Passion by Suzanne BrockmannSafe, steady…and unsatisfying – that summed up Maggie Stanton’s life. Until gorgeous Matthew Stone made her take a risk on passion… For a while, Maggie believed that their whirlwind wedding was the union of soul mates, but there was much more to her husband than met the eye…Midnight Seduction by Justine Davis Millionaire treasure hunter Harlan McClaren allowed male interest to overrule his good sense when an innocently seductive young woman stepped aboard his sailboat and asked his help in solving a deadly mystery…Beyond Control by Bronwyn JamesonThe moment Kree O’Sullivan’s and Sebastian Sinclair’s fortunes crossed, she knew the man had power. He could destroy her business. But, every time he looked at her, she saw the want burning in his eyes. And, though she knew to play with Sebastian was to play with fire, she couldn’t resist…
IRRESISTIBLE
ATTRACTION
Scenes of Passion
SUZANNE BROCKMANN
Midnight Seduction
JUSTINE DAVIS
Beyond Control
BRONWYN JAMESON
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Scenes of Passion
SUZANNE BROCKMANN
SUZANNE BROCKMANN
lives just west of Boston in a house always filled with her friends – actors and musicians and storytellers and artists and teachers. When not writing award-winning romances about US Navy SEALs, among others, she sings in an a cappella group called Serious Fun, manages the professional acting careers of her two children, volunteers at the Appalachian Benefit Coffeehouse and always answers letters from readers. Send her a SAE with return postage along with your letter to PO Box 5092, Wayland, MA 01778, USA.
For Melanie and Jason.
One
Traffic on Route 95 was in a snarl again.
Maggie Stanton sat in her car, too tired even to flip radio stations to find a song that annoyed her less than the one that was playing. She was too tired to do much of anything besides breathe.
Or maybe tired wasn’t the right word. Maybe discouraged was more accurate. Or downtrodden.
No, downtrodden implied a certain resistance to being trod upon.
Maggie was just plain pathetic. She was a doormat. A wimp without a life of her own.
She was twenty-nine years old and she was living at home. Yes, she’d moved back in with her parents because of the fire in her apartment.
But that was three years ago.
First her mother had asked her to stay to help with Vanessa’s wedding.
When 9/11 happened, her father had asked her to keep living at home a little longer, and somehow another year had passed.
Then right after Maggie had found a terrific new place in the city, her grandmother had died, and she couldn’t leave while her mother was feeling so blue.
It was now way past time to leave—a quarter past ridiculous— and her mother was making noise about how silly it would be for Maggie to get a place of her own when she was on the verge of getting married.
Uh, Mom? Don’t get the invitations engraved just yet. The bride kind of needs to be in love with the groom before that happens, doesn’t she?
Although, like most of the major decisions in Maggie’s life, it was possible that this one would be made by her parents, too. And she would just stand there, the way she always did, and nod and smile.
God, she was such a loser.
Maggie’s cell phone rang, saving her from the additional tedium of self-loathing. “Hello?”
“Hey, pumpkin.”
Someone kill her now. She was dating a man who called her pumpkin. No, she wasn’t just dating him, she was—as her mother called it—preengaged.
Yes, Brock “Hey, Pumpkin” Donovan had actually asked her to marry him. Maggie had managed to stall for the past few weeks—which turned out to be an enormous mistake. She should have said no immediately, right before she ran screaming from the room. Instead, because she was a wimp and rarely screamed about anything, she’d put it off. Her wimp thinking was that she’d find the right time and place to let him down without hurting his feelings. Instead, he’d gone and told Maggie’s older sister Vanessa, who was married to Brock’s former college roommate, that he’d popped the question. And Van had told their parents, and…
Segue to Mom buying Bride magazine and starting negotiations with the Hammonassett Inn.
Maggie’s parents had been so excited, they’d wanted to throw a preengagement party, for crying out loud. Fortunately, the only date Mom had had available was this Saturday— the day that Eastfield Community Theater was holding auditions for their summer show.
And they knew not to schedule something on that day.
Maggie’s involvement in theater was the only thing she had ever put her foot down about. Her parents had wanted her to go to Yale, so she’d gone to Yale instead of Emerson’s performing arts school. Yale had a terrific drama department, but her parents had made so much noise about starving artists needing a career to fall back on, she’d majored instead in business. After college, the noise had continued, so she’d gone to law school instead of moving to New York City and auditioning for a part on a soap opera. Her father had wanted her to work for his lawyer buddies at Andersen and Brenden here in New Haven, and here she was.
Stuck in traffic after putting in a twenty-seven-hour day at A&B. Preengaged, heaven help her, to a man who called her pumpkin.
Living her life vicariously through the roles she played on stage at ECT.
Because God forbid she ever say no and disappoint anyone.
Wimp.
“I’m still at work,” Brock told her now, over the phone. “It’s crazy here. I’m going to have to cancel, sweetheart. You don’t mind, do you?”
Maggie had actually taken her gym bag with her to work despite the fact that she and Brock were supposed to have dinner. More often than not, Brock canceled or arrived at the restaurant very late.
Of course, tonight was the night she’d planned to let him down. Gently, with no screaming and relatively little pain.
And yes, that was relief flooding through her, chicken that she was. There was also annoyance, she realized. This man allegedly loved her. He said he wanted to marry her, for crying out loud.
And yet his idea of wooing her was to repeatedly break dinner dates at the last minute.
She could imagine their wedding day—Brock calling her as she sat dressed in her wedding gown in a sleek white limo being driven to the church.
“Pumpkin!” he’d boom over the cell phone’s little speaker. “Something’s come up. Compu-dime’s systems have gone haywire! They need me in Dallas, pronto. We’re going to have to reschedule—you don’t mind, do you?”
And there it was—one of the reasons Brock wanted to marry her. She was so completely, idiotically compliant.
Of course she didn’t mind. She never minded. She always did what was asked or expected of her, with a smile on her idiotic face.
She was such a loser.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Brock said now. “I’ve got to run.”
And he was gone before she could say anything at all.
With his curly hair and Hollywood-star cleft in his chin, Brock was a good-looking man. And, as Maggie’s mother kept pointing out, he got six weeks of vacation each year.
Yeah, there was a reason to get married—for a man’s extensive vacation time.
Be careful, Angie had said the last time they’d talked on the phone. Maggie’s best friend from high school was convinced that if Mags didn’t stay alert, she’d wake up one morning married to the Brockster. Kind of the same way she’d woken up one morning with a law degree, a job at A&B and living at home again at age twenty-nine.
But Angie was Angie. Her goal in life was to make waves. She’d just gotten married herself to a man from England, and was living now in London, working as a stage manager in the theater district. She had a dream job and a dream husband. Freddy Chambers, a seemingly straitlaced Brit, was the perfect match for Angie Caratelli’s rather violently passionate nature.
Kind of for the same reasons quiet Maggie had gotten along so well with Angie.
It had been more than ten years, but Maggie still missed high school. She and Angie and Angie’s boyfriend, Matt Stone—all part of the theater crowd—had been inseparable and life had been one endless, laughter-filled party. Well, except when Angie and Matt were fighting. Which was every other day, because Matt had been as volatile as Angie.
Life had been jammed with anticipation and excitement and possibilities. There was always a new show to put on, a new dance to learn, a new song to sing. The future hung before them, glowing and bright.
Matt would have been as horrified as Angie if he knew Maggie was a corporate lawyer now, and that her office didn’t even have a window. But he’d disappeared over ten years ago, after graduation. His and Angie’s friendship hadn’t survived that one last devastating breakup, and when he’d left town, he hadn’t come back.
Not even a few years ago, when his father had died.
No, Maggie was the only one of them still living here in town. Wimp that she was, she liked living in the town she’d lived in most of her life. She just wished she weren’t living at home.
“Help,” she said to the woman in the car in the next lane over who looked nearly as tired as Maggie felt. But with the windows up and the air-conditioning running, they might as well have been in different rockets in outer space.
Angie repeatedly suggested that Maggie quit her job, dump Brock and run off to live in a recreational vehicle with that really gorgeous, long-haired, muscular Tarzan lookalike Maggie had caught glimpses of while at the health club. The jungle man, she and Angie had taken to calling him since he first appeared a week or so ago. She’d first noticed him hanging from his knees from the chin-up bar, doing midair sit-ups.
He had long, straight, honey-brown hair, and as he effortlessly pulled himself up again and again, it came free from the rubberband and whipped in a shimmering curtain around him.
Maggie had never gotten a clear look at his face, but the glimpses she’d seen were filled with angles and cheekbones and a clean-shaven and very strong chin.
She could picture him now, walking toward her, across the tops of the cars that were practically parked on Route 95.
He would move in slow motion—men who looked like that always did, at least in the movies. Muscles rippling, T-shirt hugging his chest, blue jeans tight across his thighs, hair down around his shoulders, a small smile playing about his sensuous mouth, a dangerous light in his golden-green eyes.
Well, Maggie hadn’t gotten close enough to him to see the color of his eyes, but she’d always had a special weakness for eyes that were that exotic, jungle cat color.
Oh, yeah.
He’d effortlessly swing himself down from the hood of her car, and open the driver’s side door.
“I’ll drive,” he’d say in a smoky, husky, sexy half whisper.
Maggie would scramble over the parking brake. No. No scrambling allowed in this fantasy. She’d gracefully and somewhat magically find her way into the passenger’s side as she surrendered the steering wheel to the jungle man.
“Where are we going?”
He’d shoot her another of those smiles. “Does it matter?”
She wouldn’t hesitate. “No.”
Heat and satisfaction would flare in his beautiful eyes, and she’d know he was going to take her someplace she’d never been before. “Good.”
The car behind her hit its horn.
Whoopsie. The traffic was finally moving.
Maggie stepped on the gas, signaling to move right, heading for the exit that would take her to the health club.
Maybe, if she were really lucky, she’d get another glimpse of the jungle man and her evening wouldn’t be a total waste.
God, she was such a loser.
Two
Matt Stone needed help.
He’d been back in Eastfield—he wasn’t quite ready to call it “home”—for less than two weeks, and he could no longer pretend that he was capable of pulling this off on his own.
His father had been determined to continue messing with Matt’s head even after he was dead. He’d left Matt a fortune —and the fate of two hundred and twenty employees of the Yankee Potato Chip Company—provided he was willing to jump through all the right hoops.
As far as Matt was concerned, his father could take his money straight to hell with him.
But for two hundred and twenty good people to lose their jobs in this economy…?
For that, Matt would learn to jump.
Still, he needed a lawyer who was on his side. He needed someone with a head for business. And he needed that person to be someone he trusted.
He needed Maggie Stanton.
He’d seen her a time or two at the health club. But she was always in a hurry, rushing into the locker room. Rushing to an aerobic dance class. Rushing back home.
He’d seen her last night—checking him out. She was very subtle. Maggie would never leer or ogle, but she was definitely watching him in the mirrors as he did curls.
She didn’t recognize him. Matt didn’t know whether to be insulted or glad. God knows he had changed quite a bit.
She, however, looked exactly the same. Blue eyes, brown hair, sweet girl-next-door face with that slightly elfin pointy chin, freckles across her adorable nose…
