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Everything She's Ever Wanted
Mary J. Forbes
MEMO TO SELF: SECOND CHANCES ARE FOR THOSE BRAVE ENOUGH TO SEIZE THEM.Since the betrayal that had upended her life, Breena Quinlan hid. Hid her feelings in the pages of a journal. Hid her body beneath baggy clothes. Hid in an out-of-the-way Oregon town. But Seth Tucker found the woman within. His every look, his merest touch told her that he wanted her. Everything about him, especially the way he tried so desperately to be a good dad to his daughter, screamed that he could be trusted. So Breena took the plunge and shared his address, then shared his bed.That had been easy.Sharing her secret required a leap of faith.
“I won’t be charmed by a man again. Nor am I seeking the quick bed bounce.”
“Who said that’s what I’m after?”
“Why wouldn’t you want sex?”
He hadn’t moved. “Two reasons. One, both of us have to agree and, two, we both have to feel it’s right.”
“It won’t be for me. It was difficult enough in my marriage.”
“You married the wrong man.”
He stood with his back to the living room window. Against the backdrop of the wet day, his big shoulders appeared tougher than usual, potent.
A surge of yearning shot through her.
She wanted him to see her as a woman.
She wanted him to care. To make love to her, with her.
Most of all, she wanted to be wanted.
Dear Reader,
Well, as promised, the dog days of summer have set in, which means one last chance at the beach reading that’s an integral part of this season (even if you do most of it on the subway, like I do!). We begin with The Beauty Queen’s Makeover by Teresa Southwick, next up in our MOST LIKELY TO…miniseries. She was the girl “most likely to” way back when, and he was the awkward geek. Now they’ve all but switched places, and the fireworks are about to begin….
In From Here to Texas, Stella Bagwell’s next MEN OF THE WEST book, a Navajo man and the girl who walked out on him years ago have to decide if they believe in second chances. And speaking of second chances (or first ones, anyway), picture this: a teenaged girl obsessed with a gorgeous college boy writes down some of her impure thoughts in her diary, and buries said diary in the walls of an old house in town. Flash forward ten-ish years, and the boy, now a man, is back in town—and about to dismantle the old house, brick by brick. Can she find her diary before he does? Find out in Christine Flynn’s finale to her GOING HOME miniseries, Confessions of a Small-Town Girl. In Everything She’s Ever Wanted by Mary J. Forbes, a traumatized woman is finally convinced to come out of hiding, thanks to the one man she can trust. In Nicole Foster’s Sawyer’s Special Delivery, a man who’s played knight-in-shining armor gets to do it again—to a woman (cum newborn baby) desperate for his help, even if she hates to admit it. And in The Last Time I Saw Venice by Vivienne Wallington, a couple traumatized by the loss of their child hopes that the beautiful city that brought them together can work its magic—one more time.
So have your fun. And next month it’s time to get serious—about reading, that is….
Enjoy!
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor
Everything She’s
Ever Wanted
Mary J. Forbes
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Elaine, for sharing Kinderhook Lane and other things…
MARY J. FORBES
grew up on a farm in Alberta amidst horses, cattle, crisp hay and broad blue skies. As a child, she drew and wrote about her surroundings, and in sixth grade composed her first story about a lame little pony. Years later, she was an accountant and worked as a reporter/photographer for a small-town newspaper and attained an honors degree in education. She also wrote and published short fiction.
Today, Mary—a teacher by profession—lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two children. A romantic by nature, she loves walking along the ocean shoreline, sitting by the fire on snowy or rainy evenings and two-stepping around the dance floor to a good country song—all with her own real-life hero, of course. Mary loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at www.maryjforbes.com.
Dear Reader,
The idea for Seth’s story came to me a number of years ago when my husband and I purchased a home in a residential area under construction. The site was atop a small mountain forested with pine trees. A couple times a week, dynamite blasted away boulders and bedrock, and eventually houses rose along those winding carved-out streets.
Since we were the first family to move into the area, we were surrounded by machinery, hard-hatted guys and dust. Dawn till dusk. Still, I walked our German shepherd every day. Up and down and around that mountain. Gravel trucks would pass by with loads of dirt or rock. One friendly driver took a liking to my dog. Each time he saw us walking along the newly cemented sidewalk, he would slow his monstrous Peterbilt, lean out the window and ask questions about her—or croon some doggie nonsense. Sometimes, if he was in a hurry, he’d simply wave and call, “How’s the pup?”
Well, how could I not ponder questions of my own on those walks? Like… What if a man driving a Paul Bunyan truck carried a secret fear? What if he lost his child to a custody battle? What if that child was unsure of his love…?
Since I also taught school and have, over the years, encountered hundreds of kids, it didn’t take long for my imagination to meld a child’s face into that nameless trucker’s life. But then, I went on to writing other stories, and my “Seth” faded into obscurity. Until now. Until he walked through the mist of my memories and demanded his story be the next of my Tucker brothers’ trilogy, in Everything She’s Ever Wanted.
So here he is—builder-man to the rescue. Happy reading!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Memo To Self:
A woman alone on a deserted residential street at nine o’clock at night might expect trouble. One on the town outskirts, hiking along a highway, stands out like a lure in clear water.
Breena Quinlan timed the words with each step. Wind bit her cheeks, paralyzed her fingers. She clutched the single brown bag of groceries against her thin fleece jacket. Fleece, when autumn bent toward winter, for goodness sake!
A rig, from its sound, crested the hill behind her. Headlights flashed through the brittle night air, etching her against the blacktop.
Think gloves, scarf, Aunt Paige, shop. Don’t think of the truck slowing. Slowing.
She ducked her head against another swat of October wind.
Air brakes hissed. The truck shuddered, stopped.
Keep walking.
“That your Blazer back there, ma’am?” a male voice inquired.
Breena picked up her pace. Why hadn’t she brought her cell phone?
Brakes squawked; the massive vehicle—a gravel truck—jerked gently forward.
“Ma’am, I know what you’re thinking.” Lit by dash lights, the driver laid a flannel-sleeved arm along the ledge of his rolled-down window. “I’m not that kind of guy. Name’s Seth Tucker. I own Tucker Contracting Limited here in Misty River.” He patted the door. “If you don’t believe me, read the logo.”
Breena shot a look toward the dark panel. Across twenty feet of night, the words were indistinguishable. Didn’t mean a thing. He might be a hired driver.
“Look,” he said, scanning the road ahead. “I’m on my way back to the job site to get my pickup. Let me call a tow truck from my cell. Then you can head back to your vehicle and wait out of the wind.”
“I’m all right,” she managed through stiff lips.
“You’re frozen,” he countered. “What the hell good will that do you if a real creep comes along?”
Touché. Her hands, face, legs were iced wood; it was a wonder she set one foot in front of the other.
“Fine,” the driver said. “You walk. I’ll drive alongside till we get to where you’re going.”
She stopped. He jammed the brakes. The truck ground to a halt, tire chains swinging, clinking below its undercarriage.
Five long seconds, the engine grumbled between them while she contemplated the situation and he contemplated her.
Should she take the offer? Get out of the cold wind? Stranger danger isn’t only for kids, Breena.
Scented of dead grass and diesel, the wind licked her face, stabbed through her frayed jeans; the bag rustled in her arms. She worked numbed lips. “Earth’s Goodness, do you know it?”
“Yep.” Again he studied the road. “Half mile off.” His scrutiny fastened on her. “Doesn’t it close at five?”
“I’m staying in a back room.” Far too much information.
But I’m frozen.
And a fool.
“Ah. You must be Paige Quinlan’s relative.”
So. He knew her. Benefits of small-town grapevines. “She’s my great-aunt.” Enough said. Her family wasn’t his business.
Shivers trilled her spine. Before she could think it through, she asked, “Your truck warm?”
“Like morning coffee.”
She clamped her rattling teeth. What she wouldn’t give for a Starbucks “tall with room.” Still, she debated.
The trucker rubbed a knuckle down his cheek. “Would it make a difference if I told you my brother’s the police chief here? You might’ve seen him around. Big, black-haired giant?”
“Jon Tucker?”
“That’s him.”
“He’s your brother?”
“All six-five of ’im.”
His dry tone had her frozen lips hooking a smile. The manager of the Sleep Inn Motel, where she’d first stayed after arriving in Misty River, cited Chief Tucker as the “biggest bugger you ever saw,” a titan who’d swept the town clean of its small-time pot growers last fall with what Breena thought must have been a Paul Bunyan-sized broom. She shifted the weighty bag. Could she go wrong with the sibling of such an icon?
People hailed John Wayne Gacy a pillar of the community. A construction man.
“Ma’am?” the trucker queried. “Call him on my cell, if you want. Or call your aunt—she knows me.”
“No, that’s fine.” Right or wrong she trusted this Tucker fellow’s words. Besides, what psychopath would ask a victim to call a cop? She crossed the pavement.
The driver’s door opened; he swung down.
He was tall. Maybe not as tall as his brother, but close—with shoulders that matched the powerful truck he drove. For three seconds, the interior lights marked dark, shaggy hair and a face sharpened by nature. Then he stepped out of the shadow of the massive vehicle toward her.
“Seth Tucker the trucker, ma’am.”
Ma’am. She fancied him saluting an eyebrow in chivalry: a shy Wyoming cowboy. Instead, he smiled, slow, crooked, nabbing her air. Extending a hand, he engulfed hers with blessed warmth.
“Breena Quinlan.” Never again Breena De Laurent.
He gave a polite little clip of his head. “Best get inside, Miss Quinlan, before you turn into an Alaskan icicle.”
“Breena,” she told him, slipping her hand away. The loss of warmth hurt.
He took the bag from her stiff, aching arms without hesitation and led her around the enormous, grinding motor to the passenger side. Gravel gnashed under his boots as he opened the door, set her groceries on the floorboard.
“Grab hold of the hand rail here,” he advised. “Careful, there are two stairs.”
She stepped onto the first of two-foot-high running boards, curved stiff fingers around the rung; a second later, he cupped her elbow, boosting her up into wonderful warmth. Behind her, the door slammed. The cab resembled the cockpit of a small plane. Dials and gizmos illuminated the dash; the steering wheel was the size of a car tire. Overhead, a pair of digital speakers offered soft oldies. Words to match her mood.
