Thirteen-year-old Veronique Whitcomb
gazed at the sparkly stars in the clear North Carolina sky and let out a
frustrated sigh. Sitting cross-legged in front of the campfire, she swallowed
against the lump in her throat and tried to smile. It was the last night she’d
spend with her two best friends at sleep away camp and she wished it would
never end. Tonight she’d enjoy their company…tomorrow she’d have to face the
disaster called home.
“I hate that we’re leaving tomorrow,”
Veronique said, grabbing each girl’s hand. “I’m gonna miss you guys.” They’d
first started coming to camp as little girls and none of them had sisters. Tash
and Teddy would always be her Heart Sisters.
“I bet you’ll miss Nick even more.”
Natasha White’s blue eyes danced as she tossed her long strawberry blond hair.
“You’ve been trying to get his attention all summer.”
“I have not, Tash,” Veronique
retorted. God, had she been that obvious? The first time her eyes had
connected with the deep blue eyes of the cutest counselor at Camp Merry
Cascades, her heart had done a cartwheel and was never the same.
Theodora Behr clutched her heart
dramatically. “Nick is sooo hot. I can’t stop dreaming about him.” She grinned
and nudged Natasha.
“You can’t have him, Teddy. I want
him too.” Natasha pretended to swoon. “Admit you like him, Ronnie. We all do.”
“Cut it out, guys.” Veronique’s chest
hitched at the thought of not seeing Nick again, but she rolled her eyes to
hide her feelings.
Natasha smiled. “Hey, you don’t have
to get so defensive.”
“Yeah,
we’re just messing with you. We won’t mention him again. No more Nick—I
promise,” Theodora said, lifting her right hand in a pledge. “I’m gonna miss
you too.”
“We
have to stay in touch after we leave,” Natasha said earnestly.
“Pinky
swear.” Veronique raised her pinky with the bitten-down nail and ragged
cuticle.
“I’m
in.” Theodora linked her suntanned pinky with Veronique’s. “I plan to travel
the world and marry a hot prince in a foreign land, but I’ll always stay in
touch.”
“Me
too.” Natasha looped her bejeweled, manicured pinky with theirs. “I’m going to
be a famous Broadway actress,” she said dreamily. “Of course…if Nick proposed
to any of us today, we’d say yes.”
“You
promised not to mention him again,” Veronique reminded her. “Anyway, I’m gonna
be too busy reporting important stuff to think about marriage. I probably won’t
marry anyone,” she added with a touch of cynicism to throw them off.
“Unless
it’s Nick!” Theodora and Natasha added in unison and collapsed into giggles.
Fifteen years later…
Chapter One
Veronique
squelched a sharp intake of breath at the dangerous looking man whose wide
shoulders filled the doorway. She hadn’t expected to find him looking so
untamed and ominous on this steamy August morning on Starfish Island, a barrier
island off the Gulf Coast of Florida. He looked annoyed too. She couldn't blame
him really—she'd stood there ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door until
he finally answered.
Nick
Cameron’s cobalt blue eyes locked on hers, flashing with impatience.
Veronique’s stomach fluttered nervously as she lifted her chin and stared back,
her lips unsteady with the effort to smile. The foreboding glint in Nick’s eyes
made her knees knock, yet she was not the knee-knocking type—not by a long
shot. Veronique Whitcomb, intrepid reporter for Ace News, was not easily
frightened. Still…Nick’s sheer size and intimidating air gave her pause. She
held onto the wooden balustrade and gaped at him. Dark stubble shaded his
chiseled jaw. The angles of his face were sharper than she remembered, his
cheekbones and jaw taut, his nose a hawkish blade. He was almost
unrecognizable, save for the brilliant blue eyes pinning her with an intensity
that made her smile falter.
“Ronnie?”
Nick’s searing gaze raked over her. “What are you doing here?”
Her
heart lifted. Nick remembered her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.
Maybe the large, scowling man would revert back to the childhood heartthrob she
remembered. She’d flown into Miami two days ago from New York and driven across
to the west coast of Florida in a rental car, stopping to do some interviews in
Fort Myers before crossing over the causeway to Starfish Island. She would have
driven anywhere to seek him out.
“Never
mind. I know why you’re here,” he said caustically. “You’re not getting an
interview.” He looked behind her, peering from left to right.
“Relax,
I came alone,” she said, guessing that he was checking to see if there was a
camera crew waiting to ambush him.
“You’re
leaving. Now.” His hand on the door, he began to close it in her face.
“Wait
a minute!” She stepped up to the door ledge and he took a step backward. “How
did you recognize me?”
He
looked at her tousled, layered shag with narrowed eyes. “I’ve seen you on TV a
few times—reporting. Your hair’s still reddish brown, but you haven’t changed
much from the thirteen-year-old brat with long pigtails and freckles who raised
havoc wherever she went.”
“Gee
thanks.” Why was Nick making her feel like a gauche tomboy when she’d gotten
all dolled up in a floral sundress and pretty sandals? She had even put on
make-up, for God’s sake. She did not look like the ragtag, wild Ronnie he
remembered from Camp Merry Cascades years ago.
She drew herself up to her full
five foot, five inches. “I have changed a lot in fifteen years and you
know it.”
Nick’s
steely gaze flickered over her flushed face. “Fifteen years or not, I’d
recognize your freckles in a heartbeat, especially when you’re blushing.”
She wished her fair skin didn’t
turn bright pink under duress. It was one of those things a reporter could do
without. Not even the self-tanner she’d applied before coming down from New
York could hide her vivid blush.
“Fine
welcome after all those years. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No.”
Nick towered above her with tanned, muscular arms folded across his chest and
solid legs braced apart. His thick black hair was longer and shaggier than any
businessman would ever have. She stared at his well-developed arms and the
imposing chest straining his cotton T-shirt. His uncivilized appearance wasn’t
exactly what you’d expect of a billionaire corporate raider. He looked more
like a muscle-rippling wrestler ready to take down his opponent. There wasn’t
an ounce of fat or flab on him.
Her
pulse quickened as she took in every detail. Nick, at twenty when she’d last
seen him, had been lean and lanky, but he’d put on at least fifty pounds of
roped muscle since. He’d grown a few inches too.
“How
did you find me? Nobody knows where I live and I plan to keep it that way,” he
warned, his voice low and tough.
Veronique
lifted her hair up and fanned her neck. “Please let me in and I’ll tell you.
It’s hot out here and these sandals are pinching my feet,” she said, shifting
from one foot to the other. Why had she even bothered to wear the strappy
sandals? Oh yeah, to impress the grouch blocking her entrance.
“Make
it brief and then skedaddle. Got it?” Nick opened the door and gestured for her
to enter his plantation-style mansion.
Veronique nodded, even though
she had no plan to skedaddle. Not when she’d managed to get inside his house.
Delighted to pass the threshold of his reclusive digs, she followed him past a
high-ceilinged portico and into his living room. As Nick ambled ahead, the play
of taut thighs and well-formed butt muscles contracting and relaxing in his
low-rise jeans snared her attention.
She
forced her gaze away from his jeans and studied her surroundings. A mahogany
staircase led to an upstairs loft and other rooms at the back of the house. The
living room and dining room were decorated in greige tones, a relaxing
combination of gray and beige. Other than basic, minimalist furniture and a few
abstract paintings, the house was sparsely decorated.
The living room had a plush,
square sectional surrounding an oversized travertine stone coffee table. The
dining room, with a long sleek table and six chairs, looked like it was never
used. A modern, diamond shaped crystal chandelier hung from a high beam ceiling
over the table.
“Aren’t
you happy to see an old friend?” Ha, she was being delusional. Nick looked
ready to throttle her.
His
brows knotted over irate eyes. “I wouldn’t exactly call you an old friend. More
like a little rebel without a cause. I’m surprised they didn’t send you home,
with all the havoc you raised,” he groused. “Especially the last summer you
spent there.”
Why
did he have to mention the worst summer of her life?
“You
forget I had famous, rich parents.” Damn, this wasn’t going as she’d
expected…and hoped. She’d wanted him to take notice of the new, grown-up
Veronique. “My thirteenth year wasn’t exactly a happy one. After Daddy’s death
and Maman’s nervous breakdown, I toughened up real quick.”
From
that low point in her young life, she had vowed never to feel so vulnerable
again. Her father, Brett Whitcomb, a renowned TV news anchorman, had died of a
lethal cocktail of drugs and alcohol the summer of her thirteenth year. Her
genteel French maman, Helene, had always been prone to depression and
bouts of paranoia. The more Brett had self-destructed, the worse it had become.
She had worshiped her dashing celebrity husband and refused to acknowledge he
was an alcoholic and drug addict. When reality finally set in after his death
and Helene found out Brett had lost their family fortune in a Ponzi scheme, she
spiraled down into a nervous breakdown, leaving behind her frightened,
rebellious daughter to cope with the press.
“That
was a rough time for you,” Nick conceded in a quiet tone. He knew all about her
childhood traumas, he’d witnessed them first hand—especially Helene’s penchant
for high drama and histrionics.
Her
thirteenth year was the last time she’d seen Nick—until today. She’d kept tabs
on him, rejoicing in his triumphs and success over the years. She met a lot of
men in her line of work on a daily basis, but no one had held her interest long
enough to build a relationship. Maybe she was “commitment phobic” as Maman
often proclaimed gloomily…or maybe no one measured up to Nick. He’d been her
hero then and still was, albeit a fallen one. Now that she’d found him, she
wasn’t about to let things rest until they were set back to right.
Veronique
expelled a heavy sigh. “There’s no use dredging up bad memories. Mind if I sit
down?” she asked, eyeing the living room couch.
“Matter
of fact, I do mind.”
She
paused, gathering courage before he booted her out of there. “I have a
proposition for you.”
Nick
didn’t respond. His gaze was so direct, she had to break eye contact and gather
her wits. As the seconds ticked by, she realized he wasn’t interested.
“Don’t
you want to know what it is?” She held her breath and waited. He continued to
stare at her with a mixture of distrust and skepticism.
“No,”
he finally said. “But I have a feeling you won’t leave until I listen to you. I
already told you I’m not giving you an interview. What harebrained scheme are
you cooking up now?” he demanded.
She
thrust her chin high and narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m no longer a kid and
prone to what you rudely refer to as ‘harebrained’ schemes. I’m all grown up
now, if you hadn’t noticed,” she stated, throwing her shoulders back and
puffing out her chest.
Nick’s
gaze lowered to her breasts and then back to her face. “I noticed.” He shook
his head as if to clear it. “Once a hellion, always a hellion.”
“I
don’t remember you being so gruff. You were always nice to me.” The Nick she
remembered as camp counselor had been on the serious side, but kind and fair.
His
upper lip curled. Damn, how long was he going to make her stand there before
him like a delinquent? With his brawny hands braced on his lean hips and
his wide-legged stance he looked like a tough detective interrogating a
suspect.
Nick
was being so patronizing, she felt like filling him in on the past years of her
adult life, the ones filled with awards for investigative journalism and
documentaries. But more than likely, he knew all about her recent public shame
and how she’d been demoted from foreign correspondent to reporting fluff. She
had once been renowned for her daredevil journalism, but given Nick’s aversion
to the media, it wouldn’t be wise to bring it up now. Especially since he too
had been publicly shamed in the media, but for vastly different reasons.
Given
the way he was glowering at her, she wasn’t about to tell him the reason she’d
landed on his doorstep was to present Ace News with a prized story. An
exclusive interview with Nick Cameron, the notorious, sought-after recluse
whose fall from grace had landed on every tabloid would do wonders to revive
her flagging career after the fiasco of her last assignment.
But
that was only part of it; the real reason was to alert him to what she’d found
while investigating his recent divorce from tobacco heiress, Elizabeth
Remington.
“You
still living in London?” he asked abruptly.
His
question surprised her. “Nope, I live in New York now.”
“Reporting
for Ace News?”
She
paused. “Yes. I’ve been reassigned to human interest stories.” Her stomach
contracted as she said it. The reminder of her recent demotion and near firing
still smarted and she’d rather not get into details with him.
Nick
cocked his head and quirked a dark brow, the gesture so arrogantly male, it
reminded her of Sean Connery when he’d make a sardonic remark in old James Bond
movies.
He was
making her feel as welcome as a bloodthirsty mosquito. Veronique locked her
determined gaze with his as they faced off standing rigidly apart, throwing
sparks off each other. Neither spoke until she finally strolled over and
plopped down on a duck white canvas sofa.
“Okay,
I give. What will it take for you to stop frowning at me?”
“How
about you march your little butt out of here?” he asked in a gravelly tone.
He was
definitely out to rile her. “How about we make nice instead?” she said with a
saucy grin.
Nick
lowered his strapping frame into the big armchair across from her, elbows
braced on widespread knees. He leaned in nose-to-nose, close enough for her to
notice the thick jet lashes framing narrowed blue eyes. Wariness sharpened the
hard edges of his jaw line as he watched her intently.
“Tell
me. What is so important that you would disrupt my privacy?” he asked, not
taking his eyes off her.
.jpg)
