MOONLIGHT SERENADE
ExcerptWind scuttled brittle leaves around Del's ankles. The October sun was golden bright, as if filtered through chunks of amber. She loved autumn, especially in the city. Others could rhapsodize about New England's riotous foliage, but she preferred Manhattan. Central Park offered the same dying leaves as the rest of the country. Her heart beat in natural syncopation with the vitality of her hometown.
She ran with the wind, her lungs and leg muscles burning. Her daily five miles were religious, a purging of her soul. Pounding the pavement took the harsher edges off the restlessness that sometimes threatened to consume her.
Remembering the drawling cowboy, she shuddered. He probably ambled. Well, he wouldn't want her and her endless reserves of energy around for long. Most men didn't.
Why had he been so insistent on a legal marriage?
She increased her pace as she rounded a curve.
In less than three hours, she would be getting married, and for the first time since her father's death, she was glad he wasn't alive to witness her cowardice.
Martin wouldn't have hesitated to do whatever possible to go after the story. Of course, he also had no qualms about how he used his body, either. He would have cheerfully committed bigamy with a federal agent and enjoyed all the side benefits that came with marriage. Whether or not the union was legal or moral wouldn't have mattered a bit. When it came to a story, Martin would have bartered his soul.
She stopped in the middle of the trail. Her breath rasped in and out of her lungs. Tears stung her eyes.
She was pathetic.
A runner dashed by, nearly knocking her to the ground.
What was wrong with her? She should have been more gracious to the federal agent, even when he'd made his outrageous demand. Martin had charmed his way in and out of scores of sticky situations. She'd inherited some of his charisma. Now was the time to dig it out and use it.
Except the cowboy - Toke Lobo - frightened her. Well, not him. Her attraction to him. Unlike most of her friends, who'd settled for Mister-Right-Now, Del was waiting for Mr. Right. She didn't know how to handle her physical reaction to the golden giant in the Stetson.
Bending at the waist, she grabbed her knees and concentrated on regulating her breathing.
If dealing with the cowboy became too difficult, she could drop the pretense of writing a story. She didn't have to go through with anything.
All she wanted was to find out what had happened to Daniel.
If she hadn't urged him to pick up the pieces of their father's final story, he'd still be in his SoHo loft with James. She owed her brother-in-law the truth. If Daniel was dead, they both needed to mourn him. Limbo was no way to live.
Maybe Graham's betrayal wasn't so bad.
Except it meant marrying some hick singer.
On the bright side, if she went undercover with a new name, the threats might stop.
A pair of joggers growled as they trotted around her. Still, she didn't step to the grass.
"Are you all right?"
Recognizing that drawl, she jerked upright. "Don't sneak up on me," she said. How had he found her? "Did you follow me?"
So much for her resolve to be nicer to him.
If Toke hadn't spoken, she wouldn't have recognized him. Gone were the cowboy hat, fringed shirt and worn jeans. Sunlight glinted in his oak-colored curls, as if they were sprinkled with gold dust. Dressed in gray running shorts and a tee shirt that clung like a second skin, he could have posed for the Chippendale's calendar. Mr. October.
Her body betrayed her by remembering the shock of heat when she'd pushed her finger into his chest, the surge of pure sexual energy when he'd taken her hand.
"You shouldn't run alone," he said.
"I run alone all the time," she said, upset that he'd interrupted her thoughts. "You're the first person to ever accost me, and if you think I'm afraid of a cowboy -"
"You should be."
The deep rumble of his voice reverberated in her chest, as if they were somehow connected.
She tilted her face to meet his gaze. To spit in his eye, if necessary. "You don't scare me."
But he did, because of the lust zinging between them. She did not want to marry this man, did not want to share close quarters with him. She didn't know how to charm him without sending the wrong message.
A guy who looked like him would have no problems finding willing women, even in 'God's country'. So why her? Why marriage?
"Good," he said after a moment. His topaz gaze slid from her face. "I don't want a frightened bride."
Her cheeks heated as she realized her jogging bra did nothing to hide certain details of her anatomy.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready for your wedding?" she asked, crossing her arms over her breasts.
"Just taking a run to clear the cobwebs. How about you? Shouldn't you be buying a white gown or something?"
His smile was slow and lazy, like his speech.
Sexy.
"In your dreams," she retorted.
She planned to throw on a pantsuit - maybe the black pinstripe - to show him the arrangement was strictly business.
"In my dreams, you're wearing nothing at all."
His audacity stole her words. She'd never in her life had a problem with a sarcastic comeback, but this Roy Rogers wannabe stumped her. All she could do was sputter.
"It seems to me an engagement ought to be sealed with more than a handshake," he continued, amber eyes glinting.
Her nipples tightened into aching points.
"Let's get something clear right now," she said, furious that her voice trembled like one of the brown leaves clinging to the overhead branches. "This is a marriage in name only. If you keep on making not-so-subtle innuendos, I'm going to -"
"You're going to what?" The sexy smile disappeared, leaving something ruthless, almost feral in its place. "Start minding your own business and leave federal business to the feds?"
She got it. He was trying to frighten her off the story.
"I'm doing my job, like you're doing yours. Just don't expect me to -"
"I expect you to play the part with enthusiasm, darlin'." He planted his hand on the small of her back and guided her off the path. "I expect you not to embarrass either one of us by refusing to kiss me in front of the preacher."
"Justice of the peace," she muttered, battling a new flare of irritation and a tingle of alarm.
"Now you listen up real good here," he said in a voice so low she had to strain the make out the words. "Maybe you didn't understand what went on back in Jasper's office. My cover is an up-and-coming singer. Your cover is my wife. Now, that means a lot of people are going to see us. Together. There's going to be a lot of speculation. You do know what that ten-dollar word means, don't you? Now, if you aren't up to acting like a woman in love, maybe undercover investigative reporting isn't your thing."
Be nice, she admonished herself. You need him.
"I'll even keep your groupies at bay," she promised.
The hard line of anger left his mouth, replaced by his resolve-destroying smile. He probably practiced it in a mirror.
"Jealous?" he asked.
"I'm not a voyeur."
"Whoa! A fifty-dollar word. Want to explain what it means?" Mischief twinkled in his eyes.
He was all bluff, and she'd fallen for it.
Well, two could play at that game.
She reached up and patted his cheek. "It means I don't put out, and I don't like watching other people do the dirty."
He captured her hand, holding it against his face. "Shucks. I guess I'd better cancel those x-rated movies I ordered for our honeymoon."
Del struggled not to wince. "Is porn legal in God's country?" she asked.
"I figure in your case, we could call them educational."
Ouch.
For a moment, she'd enjoyed exchanging barbs with him.
She should have realized the government wouldn't hire a dimwit. And the drawl that so grated on her nerves seemed to come and go.
It was an act. His cover.
Well, she was as smart as he was. If he could play the good ole boy with aplomb, she could play at being smitten.
Except a quick glance below his waist hinted that the man might not be all bluff. Ample evidence that he might not want a paper-only marriage rearranged the front of his shorts.
She swallowed hard and averted her gaze.
He was as attracted to her as she was to him, and that was bad. He could use this lust thing against her. Distract her. Prove her father's allegation that she didn't have what it took to be a serious journalist.
He released her hand and reached for her hair. His fingers tangled in the tight curls.
"A leaf," he murmured, showing her the crunchy brown offender before dropping it to the ground.
He stood too close, his height and bulk dwarfing her. The heat emanating from him threatened to overwhelm her, not to mention what she'd observed straining against his shorts.
She stepped away from him. "What should I pack?"
He scowled. "You're not packed yet?"
"It won't take me long," Del said.
"Warm clothes. It's already snowing in the mountains. One bag. Small. There's not a lot of room on the bus."
She nodded. "When are we going to compare story notes?"
"Investigation," he corrected. "Later. After the wedding."
She glanced around. "There's no one here. Why not now?"
"Your cover isn't in place." He smiled again, as if he could see right through her. "I'm not risking my investigation, not even for you, darlin'."
"But I'll have my exclusive," she pressed.
"Why do you think we're getting married?"
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