Rescued by Mr Right

“Come here,” Noah said, reaching out to her. “Take my hand. We’ll go back to the car together. I promise I won’t leave you again.”

She hesitated, then placed her palm in his. Heat infused his skin, racing up his arm. Noah knew, as he pulled Victoria toward him, that leaving this city, this woman, wasn’t going to be simple. No, this tie was becoming more and more tangled by the minute.

“Thank you,” she said again after they’d made their way to a quieter section of the street. “I got a little swamped by the crowds.”

A little swamped? He didn’t say it, but to his eyes she looked as if she’d been caught in a storm. He held tight to her hand, keeping her close as they made their way back to where her car was parked.

The woman beside him was a reality that Noah hadn’t counted on. His best-laid plans had just been disrupted—by his own heart.

Dear Reader,

This book was probably one of my most challenging to write, and certainly an experience I will never forget. Because, in the middle of writing about Victoria’s loss, I lost my own mother.

I think, just as Victoria says, that losing someone so close to you changes you forever. I know it has impacted the way I look at the world, how tightly I hug my children, and also how and what I write.

Although there were many days after my mother died that I couldn’t write, ultimately I realized that putting my words on paper and bringing my books to readers was the best testament I could give her. She was always so proud of me, and would brag about her “daughter the author” to everyone from the UPS driver to her hairdresser. She would have wanted me to press on, to finish this book and then write another. And another.

I hope that you, dear reader, will persevere in whatever is important to you. That you, too, will treasure each day and the gifts that come with every sunrise. And always remember to make each moment count and hold dear those around you.

Shirley

Rescued by Mr. Right

Shirley Jump

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHIRLEY JUMP

Bookseller’s Best Award-winner Shirley Jump didn’t have the willpower to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery-store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before “The End” and no one is calling anyone a doodoo head. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and it helps feed her shoe-shopping habit. To learn more, visit her Web site at www.shirleyjump.com

To my mother, who wasn’t just “Momma,”

she was one of my best friends, too. I will miss

your voice, your hugs and most of all, you.

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE next time he ran away from his life, Noah McCarty vowed to make a better plan—or at least give it more forethought than a six-year-old staging a walkout over the lima beans.

Normally he wasn’t a man given to impetuous acts. Anyone who knew him would agree—spontaneity definitely wasn’t his strong suit. It wasn’t even a shirt in his closet.

Through the mud-spotted windshield, steam rose from the radiator in an angry, sputtering cloud. The pickup he’d never had time to bring into the shop had finally quit on him. He cursed several times, feeling his annoyance build with every vapor cloud.

This was the last straw in an already small haystack.

He couldn’t blame the truck. For the better part of the morning, they’d been battling Friday morning stop-and-go traffic on I-93. Finally, in frustration, Noah had gotten off on one of the exits, figuring the scenic route would be better than crawling along at a caterpillar’s pace.

Noah had gotten lost, ending up journeying along Quincy Shore Drive, heading nowhere. With no one waiting for his arrival, no one even knowing where he’d gone, he had the luxury of dawdling. As he drove into Hough’s Neck, the roads narrowed, the area becoming less city-stepchild and more remote further down the peninsula.

Until the truck had shuddered to a halt, refusing to go another inch further.

In front of him, the radiator continued to spit and hiss, disturbing the quiet of the beachside street. Noah got out of the Silverado, stretching his arms over his head, releasing the kinks in his back. It didn’t work. The kinks had become a permanent part of him, like an extra benefit for his job.

Aches, pains and heartbreak—all part of the joys of working in the juvenile justice system. Those were the bonuses he received to offset the awful pay, even worse hours and—

He wasn’t going to think about that. When he got to Maine, he was going to hole up in Mike’s cabin for a few days and have a damned fine pity party.

Because Noah McCarty had failed. In a very big way.

The only thing he could do was retreat, lick his wounds and then come up with a career that involved absolutely no contact with human beings. Mountain climber. Sewer unplugger. Professional hermit. Yeah, his career options were limitless.

Either way, when he returned to Providence, he was done being the patron of lost causes.

From his place inside the cab, Charlie, his mother’s well-indulged pocket pet, stopped shredding the Chevy’s dash and let out a woof. Well, what passed for a woof coming from a voice box the size of a dime. Noah turned, then saw what had attracted the Chihuahua’s canine instincts.

A woman.

Not just a woman, but a beautiful woman. She stood on the porch of a small white Dutch Colonial, the breeze toying with her dark brown hair and tangling it around a heart-shaped face with eyes so blue they seemed to be part of the ocean behind the property. The scenery around the woman could have been an ad in a travel magazine. Parts of the oceanfront land were still untamed, with sea grass growing in wild spurts among the sand and driftwood. It was a warm September day, picturesque and perfect.

She was watching him, a sign in her hands, a question on her lips. The sign was turned to the side, but he could still read the hand-lettered words.

Room for Rent.

The ocean breeze skipped across the beach and up the walk, whispering its salty breath beneath Noah’s nose. He inhaled, and when he did, he brought into his chest the scent of the open water. Of freedom.

Of exactly what he’d been looking for.

“Room for Rent,” he read again. Perhaps he didn’t need to travel all the way to Maine for his personal misery party.

But just as quickly as he had the thought, he dismissed it. Mike’s cabin was isolated, uninhabited. The perfect escape for a man who had every intention of becoming a grumpy recluse for a while.

“Can I help you?” she asked, taking a step forward, shading her eyes with a palm.

“My truck broke down.” He thumbed in the direction of the Chevy. “Could I use your phone? I’d call a tow truck myself but my cell battery is dead, too.” Irony, in its finest form. All at the same time, his career, his reputation, his vehicle and most of his major electronic gadgets had imploded.

His mother, who believed anything coming out of a fortune cookie was gospel, would say it was a sign. A sign of what, he didn’t know.

“Where were you going?”

“Maine.”

A slight smile crossed her face. “Maine. I’ve never been there.”

“That’s something we have in common.” He took a few steps forward, bringing his waist into contact with the short white slats of the gate. A white picket fence, he mused. The stereotype of home.

A stereotype that didn’t exist, something Noah knew too damned well.

“Noah McCarty,” he said, thrusting out a hand. This wasn’t involvement. It was being polite.

She hesitated, still clutching the sign to her chest, then after a second, took a step forward, as hesitant as a baby bird. When her hand met his, warmth infused his palm, skating up his veins.

“Victoria Blackstone,” she said, her voice as quiet as the light, teasing wind. She released his palm, then unlatched the gate to let him in. But as he slid through the two-foot opening, he noticed a wariness in her eyes, an uncertainty in her movements, and realized how he must look, stepping out of his beat-up truck.

That morning, he’d left his apartment in a hurry, without shaving or taking the time to don anything more complicated than a pair of old, paint-stained jeans and a raggedy T-shirt he’d gotten free at some festival.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, to show her that his mother had raised him with a few manners.

“Come on in. You’re welcome to use my phone.”

“I appreciate it.”

As they started up the walk, she glanced down at his boots, caked with mud from a foray into the woods two days ago. A trip that had been unsuccessful, resulting in Noah knee-deep in the soggy earth and his nephew, Justin, gone, as if he’d disappeared into the ether. “Do you mind wiping your feet? I have this thing about dirt on the floor.”

A woman with rules. He hadn’t met one of those since he’d left home at fifteen. “Will do. And I promise not to sneeze on the receiver or belch aloud or do anything else that might be even remotely disgusting or male.”

A smile spread across her face. It wasn’t an ordinary smile, the kind you saw on strangers passing you on the street. Or the kind people gave when they were handed a fruitcake at Christmas. It was a smile that had legs, one that softened into her cheeks and raised them into bright apple shapes.

The kind of genuine smile Noah hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

A slight blush whispered over her features. She turned away and continued up her walkway. Behind him, Noah heard a familiar patter of itty-bitty paws.

Oh, no. The dog.

Before Noah could grab him, Charlie hurried past, tossing a growl at Noah as he did. Then he did a Jekyll and Hyde, shifting his demeanor to friendly. Cute, even. He darted up, thrust his nose against the bare leg beneath Victoria’s capris, and introduced himself. Victoria gasped, then stopped, gaping at Charlie. “Oh my goodness. What a cute dog! Is he yours?”

If she only knew the personality lurking beneath that pixie canine face, the wolverine in Disney packaging. “Meet Charlie,” Noah said, gesturing toward the pedigreed pup, who had wisely withdrawn his nose and planted his butt on the concrete beside Noah, whip-thin tail swishing loose stone dust from side to side. Looking for all the world like he might actually be a nice dog.

Ha.

“Well, hello, Charlie.” When her soft gaze connected with Noah’s, he thought a man could fall into those eyes as easily as a down bed. “He seems attached to you.”

“Not really. He knows which side his bread is buttered on and who’s got the butter.” Then he recovered his manners, thought of her. “Are you allergic to dogs? If you are, I can make him wait in the truck. He snuck out because he thinks everyone loves him.”

Victoria’s laughter was rich and melodic, a one-person vocal orchestra. “Maybe he’s never met anyone who disagrees.”

“Considering the way my mother’s brought him up, you might be right. She dropped him off at my house with only one instruction—indulge his every whim.”

Victoria considered Charlie, the sign once again clutched to her chest. “I’ve never had a dog. Or a cat.” She spoke so quietly, he wondered if she was including him in the conversation. “Or come to think of it, a goldfish.”

“I’ve always had a pet, usually one I found somewhere. Before my mother left Charlie with me, it was a cat. I had Bowser for five years and before him, it was Max and Matilda, a couple of dogs who thought playing fetch was for sissies,” Noah said. “I seem to be the type that attracts strays.”

The words left a sharp pain in their wake. He’d done far too much of that rescuing the unrescuable thing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to ask you,” she said. “Would you like a glass of lemonade? Iced tea?”

It was simple hospitality, but for some reason, it hit Noah hard. Maybe it was the beautiful woman. The ocean air. The fact that he hadn’t dated anyone in a long, long time. Either way, he felt something begin to stir within him, as if his old self were being resurrected.

That was crazy. He’d been out in the heat too long. Inhaled some of the radiator fumes.

“Lemonade would be great, thanks.” Beside him, Charlie let out a high-pitched bark.

Victoria laughed again. “And some water for you, Charlie.”

She left the sign on the porch, facing the words inward. As he scraped the soles of his boots against the welcome mat and then entered the house, he realized he’d never seen a home this tidy. She was clearly one of those women who took a scrub brush to everything in her life.

The tidiness he could understand, but the decor stopped him cold. He might as well have stepped onto the set of Happy Days. From the chrome kitchen set down the hall to the boxy floral sofa in the living room to his right, he could practically see the Cunninghams in every detail. Though he didn’t know her well, he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the delicate, caprisclad Victoria Blackstone and these outdated rooms. “Behave yourself,” he whispered to Charlie. “No peeing on her favorite chair. Or eating her shoes. Or gnawing escape hatches in the walls.”

Charlie lifted his nose in the air and jaunted forward, as if he’d never consider such a thing and as if he hadn’t just done all three things to Noah’s apartment last night.

“The phone’s over there,” she said, pointing at a white wall phone in the kitchen.

“Thanks.” He entered the room, noting the checkerboard pattern on the linoleum and the porcelain sink that was nearly as big as a bathtub. Something simmered in a Crock-Pot on the counter, filling the room with the scent of beef. He picked up the receiver, turned it to use the underside, then paused, noticing the coiled cord and ring of numbers. “Is this an antique?”

“Antique?” She glanced at the phone, laughed, then turned back to the avocado-colored refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of lemonade. Slices of lemon danced in the pale liquid. No doubt fresh squeezed. “Probably. We’ve had it in the house forever. My parents were a little wary of the whole touch-tone revolution.”

Wary of touch-tone phones? What century was this house living in? For a minute, Noah felt as if he’d stepped back in time, transported to the world he’d inhabited when he was a little boy. When his father had been around and dinners had been on the table every night, waiting for them to create a family at the circular table. The phone would ring, and his mother would let it go, because dinner was a sacred time. Anyone who dared interrupt it better have a damned good excuse.

When he’d been thirteen and waiting to hear from Stevie Klein if Margaret O’Neil really did like him, the whole phone thing had been an annoyance. But now, in the shadows of history, he saw it as his mother trying to preserve family togetherness.

In the end, she hadn’t been able to preserve a damned thing.

Once again, Noah shook off the memories. He needed a mechanic, not a stroll down Reminiscence Lane. “Do you have a phone book? I need to call a tow truck and find a motel nearby. I’ll probably need a place to stay until my truck is ready.”

“Sure. Give me a second.” Victoria handed him a glass of lemonade then returned to the sink to fill a plastic bowl with water for Charlie. After she turned it off, the faucet continued to drip, slow and steady. Plop. Plop. Plop.

She gave the water to Charlie, who exuded gratitude with a yip and a frantic wag of his tail. Clearly the dog preferred female caretakers.

Hell, looking at Victoria, Noah couldn’t say he blamed Charlie. She leaned comfortably against the counter, her delicate features and bemused smile an odd juxtaposition to the linoleum flooring and avocado green appliances, and watched the dog take delicate, single laps from the bowl. If there was one thing Charlie despised, it was getting wet.

Behind her, he could still hear the sink drip. “You know, I can fix that for you.” He gestured toward the sink, wondering what on earth had possessed him to make that offer. His plan was to tow and run, not pause for a rerun of This Old House. “Probably needs a new washer.”

“It does. I just haven’t had a chance to pick one up at the store.”

He arched a brow, impressed. “A woman who knows some plumbing?”

She laughed. “I’ve been taking care of things around here for years. Even have my own set of tools.”

“With pink handles?” He remembered seeing a set like that once in a hardware store.

“Of course.” A grin spread across her face. “Wouldn’t want some man coming along and thinking that hammer was his.”

“You get many of them? Men trying to take your hammer?” The question, and the hint of innuendo, tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Clearly he’d been working in an all-male office too long.

“Not many.” She wagged a finger at him. “So don’t get any ideas about my tools.”

There was another innuendo in those words, something that Noah chose to ignore. He was here to use the phone, get his truck fixed…

And nothing more.

Nevertheless, “ideas” flowed through his brain without an invitation. He was, after all, a man with a pulse. Just add water and a gorgeous woman and watch those ideas grow.

“Your, ah, tool kit is safe from me,” he said. “The only thing I need is my radiator fixed. Any chance your talents extend to that?”

She threw up her hands in surrender. “Nope. But I sure can call triple-A Larry.”

He laughed, the sound bursting from his throat such a surprise he almost choked it back. How long had it been since he’d laughed like that? The fact that he couldn’t remember told him it had been too damned long. “Well, you’re in good company. I can fix a leaky faucet, even hang some Sheetrock, but I’m engine illiterate.”

For a long second, she didn’t say anything, her blue eyes sweeping over him, studying him as intently as a prosecutor. “So, Noah McCarty, what are you running away from?”

Bam. Just like that, she’d nailed him. He let out a startled chuckle. “Am I that transparent?”

She smiled, this time a softer, shyer version. “Not really. I just put a few pieces together. The truck. The filled duffel bag in the back. The Rhode Island plates and you mentioning Maine. And…”

“And?”

“Well…you seem like a guy who’s trying to get away from something.” Her cheeks filled with crimson. “I could be totally wrong, too. I’m not exactly a social butterfly, so my person-to-person skills are a bit rusty.”

“You’re fine.” Then he scowled, mad at himself for admitting that. He’d been drawn in, even taken a half-step closer to her, to try to discover what it was about this stranger that had his heart beating faster and his brain forgetting the plan.

“I’m sorry. I tend to be blunt.”

“That’s okay. Really.” He clutched the phone tighter, the hard plastic a stab of reality. Get back to the point, McCarty. No lingering. No wondering who this woman is and why she’s living in a time warp. “Phone book? Or should I call information? Or…” He paused. He shouldn’t say it. Should simply get on his way again as fast as possible.

“What?”

He had never seen eyes quite that color before. Big and rich, filled with a hue of blue that varied as much as an ocean wave. He stopped himself, though, just before he ended his “or” with the words “room for rent.” “Uh…nothing. Just thinking about what to do with the truck.”

She pushed off from the counter and moved to straighten one of the chrome chairs, putting it back into perfect alignment with the silvery table legs. “There are plenty of auto repair shops around here, but if you want a recommendation, I’d say Larry. I’ve dealt with the same mechanic for years and I trust him. He’ll come and get your truck, fix it for a reasonable price and not put in parts you don’t need. It’s the end of the day, though, so I bet he can’t get to it until tomorrow. As for a motel—” she paused for a fraction of time “—if you want to stay here, I have that empty room.”

Room for Rent.

How easy it would be to take Victoria up on her offer. To stay here, to let the beckoning ocean outside her window wash through his exhausted muscles. But staying here meant staying with someone. Noah’s entire reason for going to Maine was to eliminate all human contact from his life.

“Thanks, but I really can’t stay.” He cocked a hip against the wall, the phone still in his hand. “I need to get up to—”

“I understand,” she cut in suddenly. “Let me get you that phone book so you can call a motel.” She headed quickly out of the room.

Charlie strolled over, plopped down beside Noah’s feet and let out a sharp bark. “I take it you like her?” he asked.

The dog only looked up at him in response, his ears perking like two equilateral triangles.

“I thought you were supposed to be so picky. Evian and Iams only.”

Charlie let out another of his wannabee barks, then laid down and started gnawing on the hem of Noah’s jeans, content as a monkey with a banana.

“We should leave,” Noah told him, raising his foot, shaking off the dog.

Undaunted, Charlie’s tiny, razor sharp teeth got back to wreaking havoc. He was, after all, a dog very used to getting his own way. Not to mention a silk-lined doggy bed—which Noah had refused to take with him. If Noah was roughing it, Charlie could damned well do the same.

The idea of roughing it didn’t seem quite so appealing now, though. Mike’s cabin was mainly used for hunting trips and weekend stays in the summer. It didn’t have electricity or running water, just a fireplace and a stack of canned goods.

Nevertheless, the cabin was ideal hermit material. The sooner Noah got there, the better. He needed some time to come up with a better plan and figure out exactly what to do about Justin.

The seconds ticked by on the black plastic cat-shaped wall clock. The faucet kept up its steady tempo. But Victoria didn’t return. She couldn’t get lost in her own house and the chances of her not knowing where the phone book was in such a tidy place were slim.

He told himself to remain exactly where he was, not to go look for her, because doing that would start the whole snowball of involvement.

Charlie paused in his denim snack and raised his head. “No,” Noah said.

The dog let out a little bark, then tugged at Noah’s pant leg. When Noah didn’t move, Charlie heaved a sigh and dropped his head onto Noah’s foot. It had all the weight of a crew sock.

“Oh, all right,” Noah muttered. “I’ll make sure she’s okay. But that doesn’t mean we’re staying.”

He disengaged himself from the stubborn Chihuahua and headed into the opposite room. Victoria could have fallen, broken a bone, hit her head. He may be keeping his distance from humans, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be relied upon for the occasional 9-1-1 event.