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Unforgettable
Molly Rice
She Was Seduced By Her Past…Stacy Millman's search was supposed to lead to her family's secrets–not to a romantic fantasy! But there was no avoiding the rugged and oh-so-seductive Derek Chancelor. His small-town charm quickly captured her big-city heart. But how would the sexy sheriff react when he learned the real reason she'd come to town?He Was Seduced By Her Presence…First the red-haired siren lured him under her spell. Then she unveiled her hidden agenda–and Derek found himself caught between love and the law. There was no way he could help Stacy uncover her family's secret…without exposing one of his own.
Unforgettable
Molly Rice
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to the babies: Myranda Sequoia Adams, Matthew Eugene Goepfert and Ashleigh Morgan Edwards—last, but not least—with my love.
And to Debra Matteucci, Bonnie Crisalli and Barbara White-Rayczek, the kind of editors who help a writer keep the faith. Thank you.
And to my very first official fan, Cindi Loudermilk.
Contents
Chapter One (#ua9bba9f8-37c6-5f86-8d67-0a96907bcb9a)
Chapter Two (#u67b5e3e9-01ce-5644-a05a-ea7555c7ebc3)
Chapter Three (#ud4247342-4c66-5b1a-a81f-0a49696b298f)
Chapter Four (#u291400f8-c7ab-5981-9b28-3a41649ca129)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The scene shimmered and blurred and then came into focus. There was a road that seemed to go on forever and along the side, a sign.
She tried to read the sign but found her vision too blurred to make sense of the letters. She looked around.
There was a twisted tree near the sign and its branches brushed the ground like fingers searching for hold. Stacy felt herself walking along the road, could feel the gravel crunching beneath her feet, smelled the goldenrod waving in the breeze. But when she looked down at herself, she couldn’t see her body, nor the feet that trod the road. She turned in a circle. Turned, turned, turned. Dizziness. She fell and in the falling...
* * *
STACY GRASPED the next rung of the ladder and laid her forehead against her hand. One, two, three... She lifted her head, forcing herself to focus. She was in her own studio, standing on a ladder, a long-handled, paint-laden brush in her hand, working on her latest painting, a huge, detailed landscape created from the watercolor studies she’d done on-site the previous summer. She slid down the ladder on rubbery legs and stuck the brush in a can of turpentine before she stumbled over to the old davenport across the room beneath the wall of windows. Warm sunlight caressed her hair, and she waited for it to obliterate the chill that seemed to form from within even as she wiped the dampness of perspiration from her face with the paint-stained rag she kept in her overalls pocket.
There was a phone on a wobbly three-legged table next to the sofa. When it rang, she jumped. She leaned to the side and grabbed the receiver, knocking the table over in the process.
She swore vehemently as she bent to retrieve the table and almost dropped the phone.
“A simple hello would do it for me,” her agent, Beth Harri, drawled.
“That’s how I’d feel about a simple goodbye,” Stacy retorted.
“Don’t hang up, Stacy,” Beth shouted as Stacy was about to do just that.
Sighing heavily, she put the receiver back to her ear. “You’ve got thirty seconds. Go!”
“I got you a show and they want to hang a dozen of your paintings and a couple of dozen studies and watercolors and you’re booked for the third of December and that means you’ll get the big holiday play in the press as well as the street traffic and—”
“Whoa!” Stacy interrupted. She sat back and stared at the receiver. Gingerly she returned it to her ear, a doubtful expression on her face. “Start over. Slow.”
Beth repeated her good news, slowly, happily enunciating every word.
“The third of December?” Stacy counted under her breath, using her fingers. “That’s nine months away.”
“Are you saying you can’t turn in a measly dozen paintings in nine months?”
Stacy frowned. “I have six finished and one on its way. I guess they’ll be dry by then.” She looked over at the unfinished seventh and shook her head. “I don’t know, Beth. Maybe if I did the last five in acrylic.”
“Do it. I’ve been telling you for years, acrylic is as compelling and expressive in its own way. You’re just addicted to the smell of turpentine.”
“I know. If I go without it for a couple of days, I start seeing things.” Another chill shook her as she recalled the strange vision she’d had. She had to force herself to concentrate on what Beth was saying.
“Hey, I’ve an idea. Why don’t you paint some of those things you see, we could offer them up as ‘fantasies of a turp-starved artist.’”
They shared laughter, Stacy’s a bit shaky.
“Hey, Stace, what’s the matter? You don’t sound as thrilled as I expected.”
It began to sink in. This was the big career push she’d worked so hard for, for so many years. And Beth had worked just as hard, always believing in Stacy’s talent.
Beth deserved a better reaction than she’d given her.
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Stacy put her legs up under her, tailor fashion, and leaned against the couch cushions. She curled a lock of her red hair around her finger.
“So, Harri, how about we do the big celebration number. You can buy since you’re going to be coming into this whopping commission in December.”
“When can we stop pretending that I’m rich and you’re broke?” Beth whined.
Stacy laughed, unremorseful. “C’mon, Beth, we both know you’re sleeping on a fortune. When are you going to get up off that mattress and take the stuff to the bank?”
“If I do that, then everyone will know what I’m actually worth,” Beth said slyly.
Stacy laughed. “I knew it. Wait till I tell the gang.”
“Okay,” Beth grumbled, “I’ll treat. And you, Stacy, you keep your mouth shut and try to show up in something besides overalls.”
They set a time and place. As she hung up, still chuckling, Stacy glanced again at the landscape on the opposite wall. The remnants of humor faded from her face and she stared, puzzled, at the painting. Something was out of synch. She unfolded her legs and got up to go to her easel. The studies she’d done were taped along the sides of the tall, studio-style wooden easel. She glanced from study to painting and back again.
All of a sudden she snapped her fingers. “There it is!” She tore the study from the easel and carried it up the ladder. There was no doubt about it, the painting on the wall was slowly changing, no longer a copy of the watercolor sketch. She’d remained true to the colors but added things that weren’t there. Like a gnarled tree alongside the road, and from the highest branch...
“What is that?” She leaned forward, touching thick wet paint. “A rope?” She slid down the ladder, still clutching the watercolor, and bounded across the room to get perspective on the oil painting.
It was a rope! It dangled from the limb, but she had a sense that it was about to be knotted into a noose. And she had put it there.
“Why?” She frowned. “And when?” Her words, spoken aloud, seemed to echo in the quiet studio.
A tremor of fear swept over her skin and she staggered back to the couch.
Had someone come into her studio and played a practical joke? Was she losing her mind? She rubbed her arms and stared at the painting. It had to be one or the other, because she couldn’t remember making those changes.
Suddenly she snatched up the phone and tapped out a number.
“Kelly here,” a male voice answered.
“Millman here, and I don’t think you’re very funny, Jack! I would have thought even you would be too mature to stoop to messing with another artist’s work.”
“Whoa! What’s this all about? Someone’s done something to your work?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“Wait a minute, Stacy. I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Stacy’s breath went out of her like a balloon deflating, and she realized that she’d actually been praying this was all part of a prank played by one of her friends. Given Jack Kelly’s propensity for practical jokes, he’d been the likeliest suspect.
“You really don’t know, do you?” Her voice had lost its fervor.
“You wanna tell me what’s happened, Stacy?”
She thought about telling him, and realized that it was going to make her sound like she was losing it. She tried forming the words in her mind. Someone or something has been making changes in my painting and I have no memory of doing it myself.
She’d just as soon tell him about the strange dreams she’d been having of late.
“Forget it, Jack, it’s nothing. Really.”
“Come on, Stacy, you didn’t call me up ready to hang me from the nearest tree for nothing.”
Stacy gasped. Had his choice of words been deliberate?
“What does that mean?” she snapped.
“Look, we’re not on the same wavelength today. Maybe you want to hang up and call me back and start over.” His injured tone sounded sincere.
“No, thanks. Sorry I bothered you, Jack.”
She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, taking long, even breaths. When she opened them, the rope and the gnarled tree would be gone and she’d be able to attribute the whole scary thing to exhaustion.
But when she opened her eyes, the changes in the painting were still there. If anything, they seemed brighter, more dominating than before.
She jumped to her feet and snatched up her brush. “I’ll paint them out!” She climbed to the scaffolding, muttering affirmations as she went.
“It’s just one of those things that happen in such a large painting. However they got here, this is my painting. I’m in control, and they’ve got to go.”
She worked feverishly for hours, continuously reminding herself of the goal at the end of the year. Her own show, a chance to move her work and her name into the mainstream. Her pictures hanging in the homes of well-known art collectors and distinguished museums, feature articles on her work in the leading artists magazines.
The sun was just dawning through the windows on the east side of her studio when she stumbled down the ladder and, unable to summon up the strength to go to her bedroom, toppled onto the couch where she fell instantly asleep.
* * *
BETH HARRI made a last check in her compact mirror, tucking a stray blond wisp behind her ear and removing a tinge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth with her little finger. She was just replacing the compact in her Gucci bag when she spied Stacy getting out of a taxi at the curb in front of the garden café.
“It’s about time,” she called over the hedge that lined the sidewalk, “you’re only twenty minutes la...” Her sentence trailed away in a gasp of horror as Stacy turned full face toward her.
Clenching her fists in her lap, she waited until Stacy had seated herself at the table before leaning forward to whisper urgently, “What the hell has happened to you?”
Beth rested one fist on the tabletop, and Stacy placed her hand over it, pleading for Beth to calm down. Stacy’s hand was cold as ice.
“It’s nothing, Beth. I’ve just been working too hard.”
Beth stared at her friend, speechless for a moment. When she found her voice it was hoarse with anxiety.
“You’ve got almost nine months till the show, Stacy. Why would you be pushing yourself to the point of looking like a...”
Stacy’s laugh was a short bark of self-derision. “Like a ghost?”
“Or like you’ve seen one. Have you been sleeping? Eating? You look as though you’ve lost twenty pounds.”
“Eight. No big deal. And yes, I’ve been sleeping. Only...”
“Yes? Only?” When Beth leaned forward she could smell turpentine on Stacy, though for once her friend and client was wearing regular street clothes rather than her usual paint-stained overalls. Her nose twitched at the smell.
She might have commented at the odor but then Stacy’s composure gave way. Her mouth twisted wryly and her eyes widened as if she were seeing some horrific vision. Tears slid from them as though they’d been bottled up just behind the lids and waiting for this very moment to pour forth.
